Last month, America’s most famous rodent, Phil, emerged from his den, turned around, and went right back to bed. I think I know how he felt. I want to go back to bed, too. Not for a few weeks, mind you, but for the next three-plus years.
Phil lives up on Gobbler’s Knob, near Punxsutawney in Pennsylvania. Tradition has it that if Phil emerges from his den on February 2nd—his very own day!—and sees his shadow, somehow he concludes there will be six more weeks of winter and goes back to bed. That’s a surprisingly logical conclusion for a rodent. The whole show—which is organized by a shadowy group of tuxedoed and top-hatted men known as the “Inner Circle,”—is based on a light-hearted communal suspension of belief founded on the assumption that Phil knows what he’s talking about because he is the same groundhog who has been predicting the weather since 1887. That would make Phil 138 years old, and while I have no idea what the lifespan of a groundhog is, 138 seems a bit much to me. I guess I need to learn how to suspend my belief.
Phil has quite a cult following. His “Inner Circle” of friends ostensibly speak Phil’s language. They know what he’s saying and how to translate his mumble chuck which is called ‘Groundhogese’ into a coherent message the rest of us can comprehend. However, it is only the President of the Inner Circle who truly understands what Phil is saying because only he possesses the mystical cane made of acacia wood that translates Phil’s gobbledygook into words his press secretary can understand, enabling him (or her) to read the proper scroll that will inform the entire world about the duration of winter. The message is then dictated to all Phil’s ‘phaithphil phollowers’ around the world, especially the ones carefully listening in Russia who certainly know a thing or two about winter.
You’ll be glad to know that Phil is not a lonely phellow. He is married to Phyllis, a sultry female groundhog who was once an “actress” in adult philms. For most of the year, Phil and Phyllis live in a climate-controlled environment in the back of the Punxsutawney Public Library. (I’m not making this up!) But wait! Just last year, Phil stunned his Inner Circle by siring two babies, I assume with Phyllis. Before that time, the Inner Circle believed that groundhogs would not breed in captivity, but they must have underestimated Phil’s powers of persuasion. As a result of the babies’ birth, Phil and Phyllis will soon permanently move to a climate-controlled burrow up on Gobbler’s Knob. The Inner Circle has made it clear that neither of the two babies can ever inherit their father’s prognosticating position. Phil is Groundhog for Life and remember, he’s 138 years old and shows no signs of slowing down!
I know this all sounds like a lot of hooey, but nearly half of America believe in Phil and think they understand his strange Groundhogese. As for me, I’m done with this long, cold, lonely winter. Maybe now that we’ve sprung an hour ahead, things will begin to change. I’ve seen plenty of signs. In fact, just a few days ago, two 19th Century sailors were walking down the street in front of our house, toting the mast of Sultana, the town’s schooner, which was derigged back in November.
Take that, Phil.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.
