Eccentric Uncle Ernie brought back the stone pagoda on a Steamboat from his travels in Asia, in the thirties. It was heavy, and it took four men to lift it onto the cart and two strong horses to carry it all the way to the house.
Ernie was proud to offer it to the family and insisted it took a prominent place as a centrepiece in the garden.
Mum and Dad didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t quite what they wanted and just mumbled thank you every time he mentioned it, which was often.
Uncle Ernie died, choking on a fishbone, in 1955 and the pagoda has remained, a little forgotten and neglected ever since.
When I was a kid I used to run round the garden and every time I passed it by I would tap it with the palm of my hand for luck.
When Dad passed away many years later, Mum and I took a walk in the garden and she asked me if I wanted it.
As we passed it by, I patted it with my hand, and said, “No thanks.”
I didn’t want my luck to turn after all, did I.
This is my entry to this weeks Sunday Photo Fiction, written under difficult circumstances in a hotel room in Dijon after a long drive down from the ferry in Zeebrugge.
I’m sorry I don’t have sufficient wifi to read all the stories this week. I’ll have to catch up when I get back home.