My forefathers are known for having a real problem with cleaning up after themselves. Which is funny, as I am obsessed with organization and carefully storing away things. I guess it figures that I work in an art museum now. But nonetheless, my father, the renters' son Sam and I had to clean up Naffziger
Brownfield Site #1, a collapsing shed, this Saturday, and many hands make quick work.
Thankfully, most of the mortar buckets were empty, but several were filled with an unknown liquid. My dad ingeniously poured it out on top of the mound of hay that Sam and I scooped out of the piles of hay stuck to the floor. Logically, the liquid will help the hay burn on the "burn pile" that all farmers have if it was not simply water. I remarked to my father that it was a good thing the EPA was not around. I also found a bag of purple stuff that fell out of a rotten bag. My father, a chemist, could not identify it, which rarely happens.
Weirdly, buried under a pile of straw were some jugs, with those Japanese beatles clinging to it like some sort of underground cult worship center. I got them all over me.
My forefathers are known for having a real problem with cleaning up after themselves. Which is funny, as I am obsessed with organization and carefully storing away things. I guess it figures that I work in an art museum now. But nonetheless, my father, the renters' son Sam and I had to clean up Naffziger Brownfield Site #1, a collapsing shed, this Saturday, and many hands make quick work.
Thankfully, most of the mortar buckets were empty, but several were filled with an unknown liquid. My dad ingeniously poured it out on top of the mound of hay that Sam and I scooped out of the piles of hay stuck to the floor. Logically, the liquid will help the hay burn on the "burn pile" that all farmers have if it was not simply water. I remarked to my father that it was a good thing the EPA was not around. I also found a bag of purple stuff that fell out of a rotten bag. My father, a chemist, could not identify it, which rarely happens.
Weirdly, buried under a pile of straw were some jugs, with those Japanese beatles clinging to it like some sort of underground cult worship center. I got them all over me.
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