Colonial clock

When the water pipes started to freeze no one was the wiser. It started first down by the potato bin, where all eyes were on the achy shaping of liquid into solid, which turned the outside of the pipe from dirty metal to blue to blue grey, until it looked like the dusty uniform of a captured Union soldier in the Civil War. They had left their house in such a hurry, no one thought to leave a faucet on slow drip. No one knew that winter would come so early or that they would be stranded in Barbados for weeks. By the time they returned, the goldenrod ranch house they had inherited, with Aunt Pat’s colonial clock above the stove coated with hamburger grease like it had been for sixty years, was nothing but a mouth-watering fantastic candy-coated slick-sharded sinking sugarpop write-off…Superman in quicksand.quicksand

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