Christmas morning.
Rattlin' is stretched out on the back of the couch, looking absolutely regal in the sunlight coming through the window. Mam's in the kitchen making a full fry-up. We'll go to mass at eleven, then back to hers for the dinner. It's the same routine we've done for years.
But there's something different this year.
Me niece — Cian's daughter, young Siobhan, she's about eight now — came into the room with her hot chocolate this morning. Mam asked me would I sing a bit of Christmas music for them. You know, put on some spirit.
But Siobhan looked at me and said, "Uncle Seamus, will you sing the bog song?"
The BOG SONG. That's what she calls it.
Cian — my younger brother, who I taught the Rattlin' Bog to back in 2003 when he was just a small lad — he taught his own DAUGHTER the song. And now she was asking me to sing it on Christmas morning.
So I did. I sang it for them, and it wasn't perfect, I was a bit rough around the edges, but it didn't matter. Because three generations now — me, Cian, and young Siobhan — we all know the Rattlin' Bog.
That's the real magic of a song like this, isn't it? It passes from person to person. It becomes part of your family. It becomes part of who you ARE.
When I finished, Siobhan clapped her hands and asked me to sing it again. And then again. Mam was crying in the kitchen, though she'd never admit it.
This is what I gave up for twenty-two years. This right here.
I'm not giving it up again.
Slan go foill,
BogLord2002