The Hidden History of Groundhog Day
The hidden history of the famous rodent this side of a mouse named "MICKEY", have the predicted the weather. HAPPY GROUNDHOG DAY
Early
Wednesday morning, way out there in the small town of Punxsutawney, a portly
aging man in top hat and tails unceremoniously yanked a grumpy groundhog from
his winter den and presented it to a roaring crowd numbering in the tens of
thousands. The man then whispered to the groundhog in a secret, shared
language, what he calls “Groundhogese”…
And,
for the 136th year since 1886, Punxsutawney Phil, the most famous rodent this
side of a mouse named Mickey, will have predicted the weather. Happy Groundhog
Day. And while I write this on Friday, you’ll read it long after his
prediction– and while I don’t yet know what he said, but I’m gonna go out on a
limb and say Phil tells the guy he sees his shadow (even if it is overcast) and
we get six more weeks of winter. In this snowy, icy, bitter cold winter, he’d
completely lose his credibility otherwise (like the groundhog has any, but you
know…).
Though
Phil’s batting average isn’t high—the National Climatic Data Center says his
accuracy is only 39%, worse than a coin flip—his forecast of six more weeks of
winter is the safe one. In 136 tries, that’s been his call more than 100 times.
As
a naturalist, however, I love a holiday named for an animal, and I’m tickled
that the national media just might have made room among the top stories, like
Russia on the cusp of invading the Ukraine and President Biden on the cusp of
nominating a Black woman for the Supreme Court.
And
I love that it’s based in some natural history.
Groundhogs—also called woodchucks—are in fact hibernators, sleeping the
entire winter away in underground burrows, their heart rate plummeting from
summer’s 80 beats per minute to winter’s five.
Five beats per minute! In February, males arouse themselves from this slumber
to scout their territory, searching for the dens of potential mates. Finished
scouting, they go back to sleep for another month or so.
Pennsylvania
Dutch farmers settling in the New World brought their German tradition of
seeking out a hibernating animal—for them it was badgers, while Brits used
hedgehogs—on February 2 for weather prognostications. Coming here and seeing groundhogs roaming in
February likely began the tradition of Groundhog Day.
But
the choice of February 2 is no accident. Those same German settlers also
commemorated the Christian Candlemas, the day when clergy blessed and
distributed candles to combat the dark of winter, and lighted candles were
placed in windows. Candlemas comes at the exact midpoint between winter
solstice and spring equinox, and superstition held that if the weather was fair
this day, the second half of winter would be cold and stormy. “If Candlemas be
fair and bright,” said the superstition, “winter has another flight. If
Candlemas brings clouds and rain, winter will not come again.”
Candlemas
itself has an origin in the pagan celebration of Imbolc, one of four
cross-quarter days, the halfway marks of seasons. Echoes of ancient
cross-quarter holidays have stayed with us through the ages in May Day,
Halloween, and Groundhog Day.
Today,
we are halfway through winter, as farmers used to remind themselves by
repeating the adage, “Groundhog Day, half your hay.” Pace yourself; make sure
you’ve got enough for winter’s second half.
Seems
there was a long-ago tug of war over which calendar would mark the seasons, one
where cross-quarter days begin them, the other where solstices and equinoxes
do. Midsummer’s Eve, another pre-Christian holiday captured so wonderfully by
Shakespeare, occurs on the summer solstice, now the beginning of summer. But way back when, the solstice was the
midway point of the season.
Portions
of that ancient calendar have stayed with us, embedded in our cultural DNA.
When that top-hatted gentleman pulled Phil out of his burrow up there on
Gobbler’s Knob, he reminded us of olden days when a completely different
calendar ruled– and Wednesday was suddenly Imbolc, the very first day of
Spring.
No
matter what Phil called this week, let’s be honest: he’s got better chances of
getting his prediction right than the Flyers have of winning the Stanley Cup.
Paws down, sadly.
p.s.
The name Punxsutawney is so evocative. I knew it had to be a Native American
name, but only just last week checked into it. Turns out it’s a Lenape phrase
meaning “town of mosquitoes.” Ssh, don’t tell the Chamber of Commerce– not
quite the image they’d want to invoke.
Thank
you for stopping by to read this article.
