It was a plastic bucket that had contained some kind of construction material like paint or premixed wall-board compound or something. It was basically white with blue and red lettering on the outside extolling the virtues of the content and giving instructions on its use. Whatever the content was, it was sticky, because much of it had been sloshed on the outside of the bucket, obscuring much of the verbiage. Remember, no one paid any attention to this bucket. I’m giving you my interpolated impression of it. No one ever looked to see what had been in it. Like I said, it sat inverted in the dirt in the unfinished portion of the basement of an empty house. I don’t think anyone ever turned it over or even moved it. It was on the largish side for such a container. I imagine its capacity was either fifteen or twenty gallons. It was far larger than a one gallon paint can and larger than a five gallon nursery shrub container. I guess about eighteen inches high and fourteen inches in diameter at the closed end, maybe eighteen in diameter at the open end. I repeat: I am guessing from some very old memories. It was of particularly stout construction for such a throw-away container. The sides were thick and the bottom had radial and annular ribs moulded in. If whatever it held was about the weight of water, the contents of a new bucket might have weighed over a hundred pounds. So, though disposable, it was substantial. And having said all of the above, I must restate my opinion that there was never anything magic about the bucket; it was the place—that particular spot—that made whatever magic there was.