Frozen Water Pipes

Esther let her kitchen sink faucet drip during the winter. If her pipes were to freeze again she would sell the farm house and marry a rich man from Florida.

The summer was bad enough. Droughts were common on Stone Creek Ridge. And frozen pipes reminded her of the day her dead husband George almost burned down the farm house. The house was full of kids back then. Running water was a blessing. The family still used an outhouse, but a dripping faucet was a relief when a woman was raising a handful of kids in the country.

George came home late again the night the pipes froze in ‘49. He was out drinking with local farmers and stormed into the house shit faced and ready to beat down anyone who pissed him off. “George the pipes froze.” said Esther with a yawn and a sheep skin blanket wrapped over her legs.

“Fucking, God damned pipes! I'll fix the mother fucking pipes, Esther.” replied George coldly.

Berdetta, Betty, Bea and Barry were in the kitchen playing with a wooden spin top their daddy gave them while playing Santa one Christmas Eve.

The kitchen floor caught on fire. George was in the basement with his new blow torch defrosting the pipes. “Daddy, you're burning the floor!” cried one of the children.

“I hope the whole fucking place burns to the ground so the damn Indians can have their land back.”

Esther threw off the blanket from atop her legs, walked slowly in the kitchen and poured the last bucket of thawed water on the fire and her husband in the basement.