Uncles

While we're on the subject of uncles here's another lot not to be proud of. The piece was inspired by a poem which extolled the uncles, but I decided - what about the truth behind the facade? Anyone here you recognise? I must admit there's a dash of truth in some of this.

HEADS OR TAILS?

Boring old farts, my Uncles. Well, strictly speaking they are my Great Uncles, brothers to both my Grandmothers. It’s by reason of their great age that they are reverenced by the family However, that doesn’t alter the fact that they are tedious in the extreme, holding court at family occasions, reminiscing about the old days and their time in the workshop. Talking endlessly about camshafts and spindles. How they could mill a sprocket to ‘within a thou’ by eye alone. Experts all of them, still retaining a whiff of oil about them, oil engrained in their minds as well as their skin. Telling of serving their time before passing on the knowledge in their turn, competing with each other to recount the little tricks learned, knacks to make the job easier, faster, cheaper. Each in his own eyes more skilful, more artful, than the others. More heroic. Kings of the workshop. Basking in the perceived glow of admiration their words induce. What they don’t realise is that the awe struck look in the eyes of their audience is the glaze of boredom.
However, they never toss the coin and talk of their other selves. Oh, but that would make interesting listening.
We don’t hear about Great Aunts Doris and May, who both committed suicide rather than face the misery of life with Uncle Jack’s cruel tongue and heavy fists.
At least Uncle Tom’s wife only ran off with the insurance man when she’d had enough of drunken rape every Saturday night. Much maligned, that woman, leaving such a respected man on his own. She’s gone down in family history as flighty, but I do hope she found happiness with her new man.
Uncle George, on the other hand, was flighty. He led his poor wife a merry dance. Nothing in a skirt was safe from his attention - God knows how many by-blows he fathered, there could be dozens of family offshoots out there, but we’re never told about them, are we? Mind you, he’s probably forgotten about half of them himself. Never one to face up to responsibility, Great Uncle George.
Great Uncle Alec’s claim to fame is shooting himself in the foot in Italy, during the war. He got a quick trip home, a slight limp, and a safe billet until hostilities ended. Strange he never boasts about his ‘war wound’, isn’t it?
There are no wartime stories from Uncle Harry either. He appears to have joined none of the Forces but served his country on the home front. Did rather well for himself by all accounts. He still favours the trilby and pencil moustache he wore at the time and still ‘knows a man’ from whom he can get those little extras that make life bearable, cheap black market tobacco and booze from abroad. Oh, he’s a good old fellow is Uncle Harry.
Uncle Alf never married and a veil has been drawn over his past life. There are rumours and whispers but no one knows for sure what he got up to on his frequent visits to London. We’re left to draw our own conclusions, but all we know is he stopped his trips after staying away for over a year. Very different when he came back, tougher somehow, but sharp when questioned and would never talk about it.
Then there is poor old Uncle Jim. No dead wives, no unknown babies, no spivvery, nothing. Just a blameless life with Aunty Sheila and their two children, working stolidly at his job until retirement, never getting into trouble or causing any, yet only ever being referred to with the suffix ‘Poor Old’. No hidden stories about him, he is just - boring! Poor old Uncle Jim.
Well, those are my Great Uncles, and I can only thank God that I’m descended from the distaff side of the families.