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Day of the Ground’s Hog
written 5 Feb 2009 over a light lunch
February 2nd. The middle of winter. And a deepest, coldest, long winter it has been for those trapped in the great state of Pennsylvania. Perhaps a short history lesson to fire off the electrochemicals in your brain and perhaps provide a bit of heat. Sip on a cup of hot soup and let the fire crackle.
February 2nd finds itself nestled precisely at the midpoint between the Winter Solstice, when Fall bid it’s adieu and the nights came before 5pm, and the Vernal Equinox, when Spring will break open it’s self, flowered and raining, officially for the year. This day boasts a full 10 hours, 13 minutes and 17 precious seconds of daylight, and they’ll only continue to get longer from here, straight through until our 9pms are burning brightly with the setting of Summer.
Celts of old, mine and likely your pagan ancestors, my grandmother’s direct forefathers, called the day Imbolc and worshiped their goddess of poetry, who’s name meant fiery arrow and she was called Brigid. Those ancient dancing druids would watch to see if snakes and badgers and other such undergroundlings would come out of their holes, and predict the end or extension of winter depending on the outcome.
Later the Christians, with their cloddy boots and disdain for all things traditionally wonderful, would transform the celebration into Candlemas, a lovely name indeed, and the saying purported…
If Candlemas Day is clear and bright,
winter will have another bite.
If Candlemas Day brings cloud and rain,
winter is gone and will not come again.
Eventually my grandfather’s people, the Pennsylvanian Germans, mixed the history of the celebrations together, switching a groundhog here for a badger there, trading the cloudcover of ol’ with a shadow of today. And so, regardless of bitter chills, temperatures sent from the countings of young children with only one hand, they go to Punxsutawny to watch dear Phil, that grandest of gerbilkin, to come up and gander for his shadow.
Alas, this year he failed to see it, and so, if their is any truth to those Celts, those Roman Christian soldiers, those German immigrants, then you in your north will be under snow for another six weeks. Fortunately, statistics — that great killer of wonderment and magick — have proven that Dearest Phil is wrong nearly 2/3rds of the time. So break out the shorts and switch the toboggan for the inner tube, Spring is, perhaps, on it’s way.
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