An Old Soldier's Tale

Some Folk Collect Stamps....

I've nearly completed part two of my composition about 'How Life Began On Earth', and hopefully, barring a calamity of dynamic proportions, this post will emerge tomorrow unfettered. Therefore, as an interlude, I will regale my loyal readers with an anecdote concerning my dear departed paternal grandfather. This one is for you, Charles Percival, you nasty irascible dead bastard.

I was rummaging through a drawer the other day in my expansive 'Master Study' when I noted a faint cloying odour. I couldn't place it for a second, although it tugged vaguely at some deep-seated memory. I removed the drawer containing the evocative olfactory stimuli (steady Flaxen, ya starting to wax again) and tipped the contents onto the shag pile. I peered intently at the mound of detritus and shiny things...... And there it was coiled provocatively around an empty container of 'Tic Tacs'. A dishevelled/shrivelled collection on a brown string- twas Granddad's old ear collection, which he bequeathed to me in his will. As I recall, it was: item number 6. Not so much grisly as gristly. I hadn't seen them for a few years, but they hadn't changed much. Twenty-seven ears, all pierced dead centre and threaded onto old-fashioned brown waxed string. Time had not been kind to this assorted allotment of grizzled pinna. Over the years, they had folded upon themselves and taken on a distinct, dark amber hue, very reminiscent of a 'pork scratching'.   

When I was young, my father, bless him, when in his cups, would regale me with lurid tales about his father's wartime exploits during the Great War and would hint darkly about a mysterious relic which never left Granddad's waistcoat pocket. So I was aware of the 'Ear Story' but put it down to old soldier's tales. And so the years passed, and old Gramps finally passed away. His meagre collection of goods was distributed amongst the relatives. My cousin inherited my grandfather's gold fob watch on a silver chain, and I got item number 6 secreted inside an old cocoa tin. And who said the old cunt didn't have a sense of humour.

I never really knew my wicked old Granddad. I can't recall him ever speaking to me directly or taking the slightest interest in me. Which is just as well as he spoke an archaic form of the 'Black country' dialect, which seemed to use few actual English words. My most vivid memory of him was his eyes, which were piercing and bright china blue.

Of course, it is nothing new for soldiers to take souvenirs from the battlefield. My dad had a couple of cap badges and a bugle with a bullet hole taken during the Korean conflict. But old gramps had an ear collection and had passed them on to me as a dark joke. I have considered burying them, but I confess, the ears hold me in their macabre and ghastly thrall. A legacy is supposed to be something to cherish, and it is the only physical item I have to remind me of the nasty miserable old twat. I did notice that some of the ears were collecting a black speckled mould, which I cleaned off with 70% ethanol. So, after a quick spray with air freshener (mountain dew) and a quick rub down with a chamois cloth, back in the drawer, they went.

Uncannily enough, my own son resembles my Grandfather quite closely, even down to the same shade of blue eyes. Therefore, I thought it only fitting that once my span has run its course, I should pass on the family 'Heirloom' to Flaxen Junior. I will have to put an explanatory note in the old cocoa tin otherwise, he might just throw the ears away. Tis a Flaxen tradition, after all. 

My son has had a prior acquaintance with the lugs. Once when he was but a pup, he managed to find the ears in a cupboard. Foolishly I had forgotten to put them back in their 'coffin' after an inebriated fond fondle. Thus encumbered, my 18-month-old son promptly shoved them into his maw. He was enjoying a good chew and had made a good account of ear number three when his mother showed up. Oh, she did laugh. And that is why, to this very day, I sport a scar across my noble temple.