Mixed messages

Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog who lives at Gobblers Knob in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, saw his shadow when he left his burrow this morning, which means Pennsylvania will have six more weeks of winter and the folk there will not enjoy an early spring.

On the other hand, General Beauregard Lee, the groundhog who lives at The Yellow River Game Ranch in Lilburn, Georgia, just outside of Atlanta, did not see his shadow when he left his burrow this morning, which means that Georgia will not have six more weeks of winter and the folk here will enjoy an early spring.

There is just one thing wrong with this annual prognosticative nonsense, meteorologically speaking.

It is much too late in Georgia to have an early spring.

I remember a year when the forsythia bushes and jonquils burst forth in golden splendor (Brit., splendour) in early January. If you would kindly check your calendar before proceeeding, you will discover that it is now February.

Talk about locking the barn door after the horse is gone.

Bubbles burst While-U-Wait

Groundhog Day, February 2nd, has come and gone. This year any illusions I might have retained from days gone by about the accuracy of meteorologic prognostications by certain oversized rodents came crashing down yesterday morning.

I was in my car around 9:00 a.m. and the sun, which had been up for over an hour and a half, was shining brightly, as it had been doing all morning. I turned my radio on to catch the news.

Prominently featured among the stories was the fact that the world’s most famous groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil of Gobbler’s Knob, Pennsylvania (I don’t know why he isn’t in Punxsutawney and frankly, I don’t care), had seen his shadow and had scampered back into his burrow, thus assuring that six more weeks of winter was in the offing. It was then reported that Atlanta’s local equivalent of Punxsutawney Phil, General Beauregard Lee of Yellow River Game Ranch in Lilburn, Georgia (never mind that heretofore his reporting has been from Stone Mountain), had not seen his shadow and thus we would be enjoying an early spring.

I nearly drove off the road.

Make that I nearly drove off the road, blinded by the sunshine.

We have already been enjoying an early spring. This winter has been much milder than last year’s, and splashes of purple phlox and yellow forsythia and a few jonquils are already showing up here and there. The temperature has even made it into the seventies a time or two. That wasn’t what made me nearly drive off the road.

What made me nearly drive off the road was trying to figure out how General Beauregard Lee could have avoided seeing his shadow when there was nary (all us old Southerners say nary) a cloud in the sky and I was reaching for my sunglasses.

This put me to thinking that perhaps General Beauregard Lee is nothing more than a mute mammal and it is his human handlers and publicists, in cahoots with the weather departments at the local television stations, who decide what the breathlessly-awaited annual announcement will be.

Yes, Virginia, there may be a Santa Claus, but there is not, alas,
a reliable groundhog in these parts.

Punxsutawney Phil has spoken...

and there will be six more weeks of winter.

The other guy is probably Punxsutawney Gordon or Punxsutawney Marvin or Punxsutawney Sam. No one cares what he thinks.

Here is everything you could ever possibly want to know about Punxasutawney Phil.

In Atlanta we have our own groundhog, General Lee, who lives at Stone Mountain. We don’t care what Punxsutawney Phil thinks.

Chuck from where?

Most of us know about Punxsutawney Phil, the nation's official groundhog, the annual harbinger of spring or announcer of six more weeks of winter every Groundhog Day. (Aside: I have met three people from Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Back in the sixties, Dave and Connie M. attended the same church we did in Bellevue, Nebraska, and during the eighties and part of the nineties the guy in the cubicle next to mine in the big, bad, corporate world was Tom S., who also hailed from Punxsutawney.)

When we moved to the Atlanta area in 1975, we learned of General Beauregard Lee, Georgia's version of Punxsutawney Phil. General Lee lives at Stone Mountain and is trotted out every February 2nd, regular as clockwork, to predict seasonal change in the deep South. Because, I guess, you just can't put stock in the meteorological prognostications of Yankee groundhogs. This morning, thanks to an offhand comment on the Regis and Kelly television program, I became aware of a third weather-forecasting groundhog, Chuck of Staten Island. What I would like to know is this: how many more four-footed weather forecasters are lurking out there in various parts of this great country of ours? If you know of any others, please send me their names and locations! I eagerly await your responses.