February 1, 2023
There were many times, in
years past, when this family treated the event that occurs tomorrow—Groundhog Day—as
a quasi-religious holiday. Of course, that’s to be expected when two of the
five of us worked out of doors year-round.
Our first-born son got his first
full time job at the same quarry where his father worked. As one might expect,
going from school boy to working man wrought several changes in our son. The
most notable of which was his attitude toward appropriate clothing for the
winter months.
Prior to joining the
work-a-day world, he’d leave the house headed to high school looking good but
definitely not as protected against the elements as one might wish. His
response to my concern at the time? “Fashion is discomfort.” And that’s a
direct quote.
Of course, the first winter of
his working life saw him leaving the same house wearing enough clothes to dress
two or three men in warmer climes. I didn’t even have to say a word. He noticed
me noticing him and he said, “Screw fashion. I need to be warm.”
So Groundhog Day became
important because by the time February arrived, those here working outside year-round
were thoroughly sick and tired of the cold. And to be honest, the rest of us
were pretty well done with it, too.
The lead up to this particular
“holiday”, over the years, developed its own specific rituals. The most notable
of these, of course was what I like to think of as threat-fest. This ritual
began at some point in the last week of January, when full realization hit that
the day most anticipated was fast approaching. To participate in this tradition,
one had merely to voice a threat of dire consequence to the rodent at the center
of this entire business should he not predict an “early spring”.
While I didn’t particularly
participate in this unique version of “talking smack”, I did once write a poem
as a gift to my oldest son about this most cherished of days and possible dire
rodent consequences. My only regret is that somehow, I didn’t save a copy of
it.
We always got a few chuckles,
every Groundhog Day, as we searched to decide…um, that is, discover what
the true prognostication would be. This meant that I had to go online to several
sites to read what each of the area-specific groundhogs had come up with—something
that, by the way, I still do.
I once asked our oldest if he
would like to designate a Day-specific meal to round out his celebration. For Christmas,
we had turkey. For Easter, we had ham. What, I wondered, would he like to
designate for the great day of February 2?
His answer shouldn’t surprise
anyone as he rivals me in the smart-ass department. He said, “groundhog, if the
damn critter doesn’t give us an early spring.”
Ah, those were the days. I do sometimes
miss the years when we were a household of five. While our means were spare,
financially speaking, we did have fun. I especially miss those times with my
first-born when we’d trade quips back and forth and he would treat me his own
particular brand of smart-ass-isms.
One day long ago, sometime in
summer, we drove past a field where a group of people were fighting a fledgling
grass fire. They were using jackets and brooms to beat at the flames. In the distance
the scream of the sirens of the approaching fire trucks had me accelerating to
get us out of the way. My son, then about fourteen, had been studiously looking
at the activity and then turned to me. He said, “Clearly, they have no sense of
humus.”
Another time, when he was a
bit older, he walked into a conversation his father and I were having about
someone I had dubbed a moron. As Chris listened to our back and forth, I said
something about this person to David, who’d clearly not been paying complete
attention to our discussion. I said something like, “That moron just gets on my
nerves.” David looked up and asked, “which moron?” I, of course, replied, “well,
how many morons are there?” Meaning, of course, under discussion in this conversation.
Chris chimed in with his opinion. “Thousands. Mother, there are literally thousands
of morons out there—and they’re everywhere!”
The good old days, indeed. I
do my part, of course, to keep in touch with that spirit of smart-ass-ness past.
As I have every February 2nd since he moved out, I will tomorrow wish
him a Happy Groundhog Day. He’s still in the same industry as his father was,
but he’s in management now, and not so much out in the cold as once he was.
Still, some things never change.
And it truly, is the little
things in life that matter the most.
Love,
Morgan
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