A word about groundhogs.
Since my very first moments of cognitive development, not
long after I learned that throwing my cornflakes on the floor in a petulant
frenzy could demand the attention of my parents, I followed the teaching of the
world’s most famous weather rodent, Punxatawny Phil. A truth seeker, Phil was
the John Lennon of weather rodents, a leader, and icon, a mentor. Admittedly, I’ve
never completely understood the science behind shadow watching, but like
religion, or politics, or reality television, it’s just one of those things
I’ve accepted. Just as slaughtering one’s fellow man demonstrates one’s
allegiance to G-d; lying, cheating, and stealing are the fundamental principles
of politics; so is it one of the somewhat incredible constants of the universe
that groundhogs can predict the advent of spring.
That said, not all groundhogs are created equal. There
are imposters out there in every community, groundhogs who claim to have the
secret powers bestowed upon the almighty Phil. Do not be fooled by the
“Nickelbacks” of the groundhog world. Wannabe weather rodents, lacking the
proper credentials or skills, abound. Shadow reading is a gift, and something
only one or two groundhogs in the world
may ever know. It’s rather like being born a Jedi warrior. All the other
groundhog posers are like all those Seattle grunge band clones that try to
imitate Nirvana or Pearl Jam.
We in Canada harbor many of these wannabe forecasters.
The most bizarre example is Lucy the Lobster in Nova Scotia and I’m sorry,
there is nothing more foolish than suggesting that a lobster can predict the weather. Many years ago, in the 90s when
I first moved up to Toronto, there was a huge controversy over the death of
local weather groundhog “Wiarton Willie”. Much was made over his suspicious
death. Because Willie was an albino groundhog, it was a little harder to make a
“seemless” transition to his successor. Hey, I have grudgingly accepted that
the current Phil is not over 100 years ago, even though his legendary prowess
dates back to the late 1800s. I mean, how many Lassies do you figure there were
over the span of that television program? Some of them probably weren’t even
females. It’s called suspension of disbelief, and I am OK with my denial. I
digress. Willie’s death was shrouded in mystery, and at the time, it was a big scandal.
Documents were shredded, lurid stories emerged about a spoiled life of
debauchery and excess. When the scandal broke, I interviewed several of Willie’s
family members, and the general
consensus was that Willie succumbed to drugs, alcohol, and sex addiction. Twas
Booty killed the beast. I thought all those celebrity groundhogs had handlers,
but I think Willie’s dropped the ball. It’s an old and familiar story: showbiz
ain’t pretty.
Be forewarned, there are a few PT Barnums out there in
the animal kingdom, cashing in on the celebrity of weather rodent forecasting. Let
Willie’s death serve as a reminder to all the Staten Island Chucks, Dunkirk
Daves, Potomac Phils (D.C.), Subenacadie Sams, Fred la Marmottes (Quebec), etc.
… You’ve got to be special to pull the sword out of the stone. Punxatawny Phil
is the real deal. The rest of you may talk the talk, but can you waddle the
waddle? I think not.
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2018 ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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