The family chant
Forgive me if I may be serious, but our only meaningful family ritual pays tribute to a gentleman who means an awful lot to me.

My family have produced a glittering array of male relatives whom I find mildly embarrassing or annoying (and I have no doubt they feel the same way about me). However, every March 1st we all gather together to recite:

"Come quaff off your Sherry, and let us be merry
All you that look to be saved
Then toss of your bowls, and be merry souls
For this is the day of St. David.

This is a good week, when we wear a Leek
And carouse in Bacchus' fountains
We had better be here, thou in pour small beer,
Or in our Country Mountains."

For a long time we thought that Ode To The Welsh Leek was a slightly crazy invention of my grandfather, but as time went by we discovered it has a rich history (see www.povertystudies.org/Links/Rhwymbooks/Ode/Ode-TitleStory.htm) and the family genealogists believe we might well stem back to the battlefield origins of this noble poem.

In any case, this annual recitation is a sincere and heartfelt tribute to my grandfather, Ken...

Ken was a man of few words but incredible courage. He served the Royal Navy during two wars and was the Service heavyweight boxing champion on two occasions. He returned in 1945 with barely a penny to his name, adopted a smallholding in his native Taff valley for a pittance of pay, and began raising sheep.

Over the 1950s, he and my grandmother became completely self-made and self-sufficient, raising two children and being able to scrimp enough money to buy the farmhouse and small patches of land thereabouts. Yet he remained infinitely modest, dry-witted and an inspiration for his sons, their sons' generation (including myself), and - through his inexhaustible fund of his anecdotes which have been passed down - the next generation today.

He was a wizard with his hands, always ready to make wooden toys for children, and right up to his 80th (and final birthday), a firm devotee of his Welsh heritage, Christianity and real ale. He was - in short - the perfect grandfather.

'Ode To A Welsh Leek' was his personal signature tune, from lord-knows-where. He used to usher us all into the front room to raise glasses of homemade mead and recite this ancient poem. His face remained solemn, and often a trickle of a tear would course down his cheek as we chanted away. It was odd as kids, but we grew used to it, year upon year, and it was finally how we knew him best.

It was finally adopted as our family memory of him in a freezing cold late-winter in about 1996. Grandad was well over seventy at the time, but he still kept a small flock and several hives, and tended them with the same love as he would his own family.

March 1st rolled around, we had a smashing roast dinner and congregated with our glasses to chant our paean to St David. No sooner had we finished, then a white-faced farmhand appeared at the patio doors. Several of us were scared out of our merry little skulls by this flat-capped apparition, but Grandpa calmly strolled across the room and a muttered conversation ensued. Before too long, Grandad gasped in shock, quaffed his mead and dashed out; nine other family members all followed with concerned yet helpless looks on our faces: we were no sheep-farmers.

One of the flock was having terrible difficulties giving birth. She was thrashing around on the barn floor, in grave danger of killing her lamb. The vet was on call, but we'd all sensed it was just too late.

What Grandad did then seemed nothing short of miraculous...

The adults, expecting a grisly birth, had protectively shielded the children, but Grandad - with terrifying strength - wrestled the sheep to stillness, and then take the terrified head, lay it in his lap, and mutter gently in Welsh. For twenty...thirty...forty minutes, we stood there dumbfounded, watching a septugenarian man on his knees in a freezing cold barn, treating a pregnant ewe with as much love and tenderness as he would a member of his own family. The sheep lay terrifyingly still: we could have sworn it was dead.

Eventually, the miraculous happened. A slight twitch, and a bloody ball of skin and bones was deposited onto the cold concrete floor. Matter-of-factly, Grandad hauled himself to his knees, slapped the lamb on the rump, checked its breathing and watched the little mite meticulously until it began to suckle. We all exhaled for the first time in nearly an hour and a half.

Grandad was suddenly, uncharacteristically sharp: "Inside! Now!" he ordered. It was difficult to argue. We all trooped inside silently.

Inside, he recharged our glasses without a word, his eyes glazed over and he chanted again:

"Come quaff off your Sherry, and let us be merry
All you that look to be saved..."

Falteringly, but with increasing strength, we joined in with this charming, strong and granite-muscled pinwheel of our family. It was a wonderful, touching moment, albeit a primitive one, and something I am sure that no-one who was present that day will ever forget. The song had always been once, and once only. To repeat it, in honour of a member of Grandad's flock was something quite unique.

Since then, every March 1st, this poem has been our own, as we remember that great day. The day that we heard...


Farmer leek odes sandwich ewe ills.


(Ah, sod it. I've already been to Hull...)
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 21:40, 11 replies)

A winner so early into the week....
... how dare you.

*Clicks*
(The_Mighty_Spleen, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:25, closed)

You fucker!
I was actually crying reading this, thinking, "Oh, I love shit like this; many clickies and woo!" and didn't twig til the fucking last line!

Damme you, sirrah! shakes fist
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 22:40, closed)

What he said ^^
And, bastard!!

*but clicks multiple times*
(grandmaswhiskers, Thu 20 Nov 2008, 23:30, closed)

Pssst
I'm a girlie.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 8:48, closed)

Bastard
bastard
(Lukekull Fuck, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 3:03, closed)

Shuddering Jesus shitting out a tricycle
you swine. Fab stuff *click*
(Super Oaf Petit filous?, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 9:04, closed)

Hook, line & sinker
Damn you to hull sir, but go with a click.
(arnold sideways, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 9:32, closed)

You arse!
I too was getting a bit emotional, thinking "that's great" and preparing my click. Till the last line. When you nevertheless wrenched the "I like this!" click from my not-yet-believing-they'd-been-misled mouse fingers.

Curse you. But well done.
( sanityclause is waiting until, Fri 21 Nov 2008, 13:23, closed)

Ris?
I don't get the punchline, but you had me tearing up a bit at the denouement, only to go "Ah, you bastard". Click.
(Morgan is a damn dirty hippie, Sat 22 Nov 2008, 23:05, closed)

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
Nevertheless you have my approval, and my click
(whiskas loved by 8 out of 10 cats, Sun 23 Nov 2008, 20:34, closed)

Win....
...and yet also in a curious way, bastard.

Great story, very well told - I also didn't twig until the very last. Genius.

*clicky*
(Nogin the Nog is the good one! Beware Nogbad the Bad!, Tue 25 Nov 2008, 14:54, closed)