Ah sweet mystery of life, at last I found you. And all that tra-la-laaaing.
It’s probably taken me a while to get around to this topic, but I must confess I am completely and utterly stumped when it comes to Groundhog Day.
I don’t mean the movie. I thought that was a beaut. Bill Murray at his best. Funny film, t’riffic even.
No, I mean The Day itself. I just don’t get it and I doubt I ever will.
The TV news on Tuesday morning took us to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, yet again to see a guy, remarkably looking like Bill Murray, pulling a poor very sleepy, probably grumpy, groundhog out of a log to see if he sees his own shadow.
Now for a start, I pity every school child in that town, because my brain positively warped at trying to spell it. I thought I had it made when I could spell Mississippi – or, here’s one for you, a good Sydney suburb – Woolloomooloo. Boy, the Native Americans had a sense of humor. Apparently Mississippi means the “Father of the Waters” – which given its bearing could be forgiven. Woolloomooloo in Aboriginal didn’t fare quite so triumphantly as it means Burial Place, but Punxsutawney means Town of Sandflies, so I suppose if you’re from those parts, a smarty-pants rodent being dragged out of a snug bed by a costumed town father beats a bunch of sandflies if you’re trying to get your town on the map, now doesn’t it?
(Note to self: Do not visit Punxsutawney in summer. You will be carried off by gnats).
But still I don’t get it. If you look to the history of Groundhog Day, you discover it’s designated a “holiday.” Now I don’t know about you kids, but a holiday to me means a day off work. To go romp with ones’ groundhogs, or Valentines or Halloweeneers or even Easter or whatever is holidayically misnomered, in my mind, just doesn’t constitute a day off.
So, st-eee-rike one. A holiday it ain’t.
It all apparently dates back an apparent yonks-age where, depending on your search engine, Germans or Pagans thought it was all a bit of a hoot for this custom to be born.
I suspect it was a damned fine excuse to get stinking drunk and declare winter a bit of an interminable bore, and hell, let’s have a party, despite the sub zero temperatures, the snow and ice on the ground, the fact that the firewood as frozen solid and the fact that I’ve attained a level of cabin fever never before known to man.
Now that I can understand. Don’t get me wrong, I do love winter, but I would have to say that this particular winter has been, to quote my father, a “rumpty,” a.k.a. a rip snorter, a real beaut, a bottler. In other words, it’s been very very wintry. True to form, in record-breaking quantities.
But still I don’t get it. Possibly there is a little valve in my brain in the logic lobe which flaps itself shut when faced with this problem.
Now, work with me kids. To me, if I came out, crabby and sleepy out of a relatively cozy log to see my shadow, I would be whooping with joy. This to me means the sun was actually shining, thus causing the shadow phenomenon. If it were indeed cloudy at that specific point – and I ask you at 7:30 a.m. in Punxsu-hows-your-father-tawney in early February, why wouldn’t it be, even if the sun was dimly gleaming at that time – I would in fact not see my shadow.
So to extrapolate this further (my spell checker and my editor, I would like to point out have had simultaneous coronaries and have been rushed off to the hospital), if it’s cloudy and I can’t see my shadow, the weather is continuing on its hell-bent path to usher in more gloom, and therefore you will have six weeks’ more winter.
I mean, I could perch Sir out on the deck and he’d be a better Phil. Last weekend, he took a break from his daily dalliances, went for a bit of a stretch out on the deck in a positively tropical 35 degrees and came in declaring that the sunshine actually had a hint of warmth.
Well, well done Zorro, this is the warmest it’s been since Christmas, but I did see what he meant.
On further research, I discovered that Alaska has broken ranks and has declared Feb. 2 as Marmot Day, as there aren’t so many groundhogs on the ground, pardoning the pun up that way. Signed into law in 2009 by Sarah Palin, no less.
Enough said.
Similarly, in England July 15 is St. Swithun’s Day where it is said that if it rains that particular day, it’s going to belt down for another 40.
Oh spare me. I don’t need an excuse for a gin and tonic.
Set Sir up in a cozy log out the back, pour me a glass of wine, and I’ll predict Armageddon if you like.
Just give me that day off!
