This week’s great word selection: Polish Bark Laundry Magenta Saturate Camera Blink Valuable Stance Penalty Sensibility Texture
When my Uncle Boleslaw won the world championship in French Polishing he became the first man also of Polish extraction to gain this title.
In the blink of an eye he went from obscurity to fame, his name of the lips of the six people in Poland who knew what French Polishing actually was. Within our family Uncle Bole was a hero, a man who had taken our family name from the run of the mill Smith to Smith with added importance.
His beautiful magenta toned trophy sat proudly on the mantle above the fireplace. It was there that we would gather each year to hear once again the story of his success. The camera would be passed around and photos of Uncle Bole and each family member preserved for another year.
After ten years though the story had well and truly saturated our family. There was only so far and so long he would ride on the crest of his success.
Uncle Bole became depressed when family stopped coming round. His bark was becoming less than his bite and even his weekend laundry business was beginning to suffer, as clients grew sick of his constant whinging about not being taken serious any longer.
In a fit of overall depression he took a stance and threw the valuable trophy into his back yard. His good wife Aunt Bronislawa, Aunt Bron, took it upon herself to preserve Uncle Bole’s sensibilities by imposing no obvious penalty upon his rash action. It was true that my Uncle wore his heart upon his sleeve.
It was the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing that momentous day that brought about a change in our family. The fabric had the texture of a cold winters day, the sort of texture that made you shiver and wish you’d packed your beanie and gloves.
Uncle Bole had ripped the sleeve from his shirt. Cast it down and in a fit of rage jumped up and down on it cursing the day he ever took up French Polishing. His passionate Polish heritage came forth that day gushing from him in a torrent that could only be described.
My uncle downcast, his laundry business in tatters, his magenta trophy cast out, the bite well and truly gone from his bark, his days now saturated with dark thoughts blinked at his wife whose firm stance reassured him that with her his sensibilities were always to be understood.
That afternoon they walked to George Place, sat under the Oak tree on the Poets seat and contemplated life. The texture of their life had changed, and in a photo taken with Aunt Bron’s camera we saw Uncle Bole smiling for the first time in months, a look of determination on his face as he cradled his slightly chipped magenta toned trophy.