I once had four uncles. As October breezed in, the last and dearest of them - Uncle George - found he was going to die. All of a sudden. No prologue and not much time for a finale. We don't mess around, we North Wales Prices. He accomplished the task stoically, in good order and with all preparations made, before the month's end.
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Fittingly he had been born on April 25 - Shakespeare's birthday.(Some boring pedants hold out for the 23 but that's rubbish- it was 25th, trust me). Of all the word jugglers, language baiters and story-budders in the extensive Price family my Uncle George was most practised and best. His narratives, his contrary emotional postures and some of his
single lines I've hoarded all my life and ransacked often. Of course we never ever discussed my writing - though he was a great reader, Nicholas Monserrat was the man for him. And anyway I was family. That's a relationship that grows in the mulch of talk.
Uncle George would have been especially pleased to see a November now so mild there are still dandelions in bloom on the marsh fields down to the river- and on untended vegetable plots.
"How's the garden?" I remember asking him.
"Show quality, the dandelions are. A wonderful display. This year they're in every shade from palest lemon to a deep sunburst gold." Pause for effect. "But mine are the size of dahlias."
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