Acres of Gwlad

As I was heading for the door early in the morning, the Resident Fan Boy scuffled over in his slippers and night robe to give me a peck and wish me "Happy St David's Day", before launching into song:

"Clams! Cl-a-a-a-a-ams!"

I eyed him for a baffled moment.

"Do you mean 'Gwlad'?"

Here's the anthem, with the chorus he was attempting, in a more toned-down (and linguistically correct) version:

Going agley (or whatever the Welsh variation might be)

I had such plans for today.

It's St David's Day, of course, and the Resident Fan Boy picked up a generous bunch of daffodils yesterday. (Some years, they're scarce, but there's an abundance today.)

I headed into the cluster of shops near us and picked out two daffodil-bunches for Demeter: one opened and one nearly opened. "No bag," I told the cashier. "I'll just carry them to my mother like a kid heading home from school."

Demeter has whatever was laying me low a week ago, a nasty cluster of colly-wobbles and chills, seasoned with an afterglow of enervation.

When I got to her apartment, she'd become scary-sick, needing help to negotiate the trip to her ensuite bathroom, and refusing food, drink, and medication. That last item was particularly worrying, as she has the usual stack of medications required from a person her age. I stood over her and (gently, I swear!) persuaded her to take her morning pills, then controlled my panic as she nearly choked on them.

Spent the afternoon in her living room, staying within earshot, and ditching my plans to attend a St-David's-Day-themed cemetery tour. (Hey, you have your thrills; I have mine.)

Anthem is as anthem does

Another Saint David's Day, and as it's my first one with an iPod, I've uploaded a bunch of Welsh ditties, including Bryn Terfel blasting .

I can sing "Land of My Fathers" quite literally: my maternal grandfather came from a long line of Carmarthenshire blacksmiths; my maternal grandmother's grandfather was from Montgomeryshire, and various branches on my paternal side sprouted from Monmouthshire and Radnorshire. Way back when I was nine, our school choir used to warble a rarity: a patriotic Canadian song entitled "They All Call It Canada". It begins with a stirring intro: Side by side, and step by step, our fathers were marching along... It occurred to me, even at that young age, that this lyric didn't apply to me. I'm a first-generation Canadian and none of my fathers built a road to the future, with a spade and a smile and a song... Not in Canada, anyway.

This has the effect of making my patriotism for the land of my birth somewhat muted. I love Canada, but as King Lear's Cordelia put it, according to my bond. Up until these past two weeks, this hasn't made me an oddity; Canadian patriotism is traditionally an unaccustomed and rare beast, and we have tended to view the hand-over-heart stance of the Americans as being a wee bit histrionic. Until this past month.

The papers have been coated in photographs that seem to be entirely of red and white and gold. Even before Canada managed to haul in fourteen gold medals at the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, the ground-swell was building steadily.

Now, don't get me wrong. I think it's rather nifty that Canada did so well, ignoring the odium of "Owning the Podium" (which agency came up with that crap?). I was touched by the human triumphs and tragedies, but a bit put off by the purple prose which came close to the BBC's spouting at Diana's funeral for pure fulsomeness. And delightful as it is to see everyone united in pride and excitement, I am somewhat disturbed to see the story of an iceberg the size of Luxembourg breaking off Antarctica and the story of one of the biggest earthquakes in recorded history killing 700 Chileans (the last time I checked) being relegated to p. A12, even in The Globe and Mail.

Still, this morning CBC Radio ran the earthquake first and the Olympics second, so maybe our sense of proportion is returning. And lest you think I'm a total party-pooper, here's two rather endearing examples of Olympic-related patriotism, Canadian-style: The first is a flash-mob organized by imagine1day. Now, in the official video, you see the front rows of the flashmob, all very young, very pretty. But dammit, I love this amateur video which captures the crowd a few blocks back and features all shapes, sizes, ages, and coordinations.

The second needs some back-story. Not too long ago, I did a post about Canada's most notorious massacre. Alas, we've had some since then. One was at Dawson College in Montreal, about 3½ years ago. So I was particularly touched to see this:

So "yes" to pride, celebration, fun, healing. And compassion. Let's get back to it, shall we?

This is me getting defiant

Yep. I know that's a Welsh flag. And I know it's bloody St Patrick's Day. How do I know? I saw a woman strolling through the Canadian War Museum wrapped in a sparkly green boa (I actually think it was a Christmas tree garland). I watched people traipsing up the canal in Cat-in-the-Hat type bonnets, only with green stripes. I watched as people in green shirts and bright green Mardi Gras beads, for gawd's sake, got an early start to their drinking and drug-bingeing at the bus stop. At 7:15 pm.

Fine. Celebrate Ottawa's historic Irish heritage (due largely to thousands of Irish labourers dying off while digging the Rideau Canal) by getting as messily drunk as possible. However, I feel bound to point out that there is evidence that St Patrick was actually Welsh. And I never see anyone making a fuss over St David's Day. Come to think of it, that may be a blessing, though I imagine March 1st is just another excuse to get drunk in Cardiff...

Dydd Gwyl Dewi hapus!

It's March 1st, it's St David's Day, so the Resident Fan Boy brought me a lovely small bunch of mini-daffs to offset the piles of new snow outside, and it's time to crank up Bryn Terfel and haul out my favourite Welsh song parodies.

We start with Land of My Fathers, of course which you can sing phonetically with the aid of YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=modl5evfyb4&feature=related

Or you can always substitute the words by Swansea poet Nigel Jenkins which one can sing at rugby matches to make it look as though one knows the Welsh national anthem (stole this from the informative and entertaining blog Eine Kleine Nichtmusik) :

My hen laid a haddock, one hand oiled a flea,
Glad farts and centurions threw dogs in the sea,
I could stew a hare here and brandish Dan's flan,
Don's ruddy bog's blocked up with sand.
Dad! Dad! Why don't you oil Auntie Glad?
Can whores appear in beer bottle pies,
O butter the hens as they fly!

This probably only works if you're surrounded by people singing the right words....

Next the wistful song The Ash Grove...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3kAvEfp1Rak
....which you can cheer up with the following lyrics:

Welsh History 101
by Heather Rose Jones filk: The Ash Grove

If ever you wander out by the Welsh border, come stop by and see me and all of my kin.
I'm Morgan ap Dafydd ap Gwion ap Hywell ap Ifor ap Madoc ap Rhodri ap Gwyn.
We'll feast you on mutton and harp for your pleasure and give you a place to sleep out of the cold
Or maybe we'll meet you out on the dark roadway, and rob you of horses and weapons and gold.

My neighbour from England has come across raiding, slain six of my kinsmen and burned down my hall.
It cannot be borne, this offense, this injustice! I've only killed four of his, last I recall.
I'll send for my neighbors, Llewellyn and Owain; we'll cut him down as for the border he rides!
But yesterday Owain stole three of my cattle, so first I'll retake them and three more besides.

We need a strong prince to direct our resistance: heroic, impartial, of noble degree.
My brother's wife's fourth cousin's foster son Gruffydd is best for the job, as I'm sure you'll agree.
What matter that Rhys is the old prince's nephew? He's sailed off to Ireland and will not return.
I know this for every time boats he is building, I send my spies money to see that they burn.

Yes, we are just plain folk who mind our own business, honest and loyal and full of good cheer
If ever you wander out by the Welsh border, come stop by and see all the friendly folk here.

And finally Men of Harlech (to which my husband insists on singing "Men of Harlech smell like garlic"). Far wittier is the ancient and revered Woad Song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KK5-F9mLp4Y

What's the use of wearing braces, hats or spats or shoes with laces
Vest and pants you buy in places down on Brompton Road?
What's the use of shirts of cotton, studs that always get forgotten
These affairs are simply rotten, Better far is woad!

Woad's the stuff to show men; woad to scare your foemen!
Boil it to a brilliant blue and rub it on your legs and your abdomen!
Ancient Britons never hit on anything like woad to fit on
Necks or knees or where you sit on. Nothing's good as woad!

Romans came across the Channel, all dressed up in tin and flannel
Half a pint of woad per man'll clothe us more than these!
Saxons, you may save your stitches building beds for bugs in britches.
We have woad to clothe us which is not a nest for fleas.

Romans, keep your armors, Saxons, your pajamas!
Hairy coats were made for goats, gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas!
March on Snowdon with your woad on, even if you're rained or snowed on
Never need a button sewed on, when you're wearing woad!