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My Grandmother's cousin lived in Treorci, a town in the Rhondda valley, South Wales. I don't remember him much, although the older folk kept in touch. When I was 14 years old he died. I don't remember what from but when my father and my uncle planned to attend the funeral, I asked to go along. Not that I particularly wanted to go to a funeral, more because I had never been to the Rhondda before.

So the three of us went and, on the day of the funeral there was quite a crowd. It seems the old man had been very popular in the town and it felt like the whole of Treorci had come out to pay their last respects.

Unlike most of the family, he was a Catholic. We don't have many Catholics in the South Wales valleys but it didn't make a difference to his family and friends. He had wanted a Catholic service and he got one. The local Priest was sick so the Parish sent word to Cardiff, Wales's capital city, and a Monsignor was sent to do the honors.

This guy was big. He was the largest man I had ever seen up to that time. There were some side remarks about taking out one of the windows to get him in and out of the house and if he stood outside we could get half the village inside. All exaggeration of course but a little levity can be welcome on these occasions.

The service was held in the house and then we all went to the cemetery for the interment. It was raining hard that day and had been for the last few days. Unfortunately our man stood a little too close to the edge of the grave. The ground crumbled and the portly prelate slid in to join the deceased. I heard such words as "Damn" and "Bloody Hell" and they didn't all come from the congregation.

The ground was so slippery and he was so large our best efforts couldn't get him out, and the water was rising. Some of the more uncharitable felt that the best plan would be to leave him there until we have enough rain to allow him to float to the top. Some of the more scientific among us began to discuss things like size ratio and water displacement. Eventually the cemetery caretaker got out a block and tackle and we hoisted him out of there.

He still had to finish his job though I'm sure the words "Jesus Christ" were not placed in the correct context. While shivering visibly he made some muttered remarks about Heaven and seemed to be doing more signs of the cross than necessary. I suppose he had to keep warm somehow. In a short space of time it was over and he headed home still shivering and still making, I think, Holy gestures and calling on "Jesus Christ"

While the wet and muddy Father was being escorted from the graveside I heard my uncle ask the caretaker;

"Does this happen often?"

To which the caretaker pointed out that he had been to many a funeral but this was his first resurrection.

Learn more about this author, Peter Freeman.
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