The Gobbledeegoop from Gobbler's Knob

I don't know what it is about Groundhog Day that really depresses me.

Maybe it's the sight of the
snow-packed landscape of Punxsutawney
and that fat little beaver-like creature
being assaulted by flashing cameras
and crowds of craziness.

Maybe it's just the fact
that I know no matter what Phil says,
there will still be weeks of winter ahead
and they will seem to never, ever end.

I never understood that whole concept.
You would think if that pudgy woodchuck saw his shadow,
then that would mean there was sunshine present,
which would mean warmer air,
which would bring me to the
conclusion that winter was
on it's last legs.

Plump little Phil has seen his shadow
90 percent of the time.
I'd sure like to know in what years
that 10 percent occurred.
I don't remember ever feeling
like Spring had arrived early.

It always arrives too late
and leaves too early
as far as I'm concerned.

That old groundhog knows nothing
about the cold chill of a long winter.
For most of the year, Phil lives
in a climate-controlled home
at the Punxsutawney Library.
He is taken to Gobbler's Knob and
placed in a heated burrow underneath
a simulated tree stump on stage
before being pulled out at 7:25 am
on Groundhog Day, February 2, to make his prediction.

On this day, Gobbler's Knob hosts chili cook offs,
family games, trivia contests,
ice carving exhibitions, sleigh rides,
woodchuck whittling , scavenger hunts,
and all types of food and fun.

Are these people crazy?
Celebrating what is quite possibly
going to be the announcement
of more bad weather?!

Yes,
I'm depressed.

But the Old Farmer's Almanac
has given me hope.
They say that in the past 60 years,
Punxsutawney Phil has only
been correct 28 percent of the time.

Maybe there's hope.
Gonna brush off the flip-flops
...just in case.

Queen For A Day- Well, Almost...

I wrote the following story in my weekly column when I worked for the Register News.

***************

A few years back I was celebrating an anniversary- or birthday-(or something really special that I can't remember)- and my husband decided that he would be extra sweet and treat me to some good old-fashioned royal treatment.

He's like that sometimes-(way out of character).

He made me morning coffee, let me sleep late, and cooked me French toast like my mom used to make.
That afternoon as I relaxed in front of the TV on my recliner, he handed me a strange item.
"What's this?" I asked him, examining the black devise with lots of buttons.

"The remote." he answered.

"The remote to what?" I questioned.

"The TV, silly!"

"Really? You're kidding me! You mean we actually have a choice of programming?"

"Yeah, just push the channel buttons up or down or enter the number."

"But I thought we had the economy package- with just a handful of selections," I said mesmerized- watching the screen change to 150 different channels.

My husband seemed genuinely proud that he had introduced me to one of his most prized possessions. He instructed me on how to use the controls and watched me lovingly as I played with this new toy.

"This is amazing!" I said, "You're telling me we can actually watch channels besides Outdoor Life, History, and SciFi? We don't have to watch football, deer hunting, Civil War reenactments, or Pamela Anderson?"

"Ugh...er...it's a special today only...yeah, that's it- a one day special." he stuttered. "I ordered it especially for you. Tomorrow it goes back to the budget programming."

He left me with my new found joy while he loaded the dishwasher. So! This is what being a queen felt like! All snuggled up with my feet propped, served hot coffee or ice tea on demand- not having to worry about what to fix for supper or if the toilet needed scrubbed.

"Could you fix me a sandwich?" I asked, focusing on the Lifetime Network and pushing my special treatment to the very fragile edge.

What I really, really wanted to add was- "Plus some fresh cole slaw, fries, and some nice hot brownies for dessert."

(But I knew that was crossing the line. I may have been Queen For A Day, but not Dead and Gone to Heaven!)

He served me a nice sandwich, cranked back his recliner, and smiled over at me adoringly.
"What'er we watching?" he asked, getting in his comfort zone.

"Oh..." I said, selecting channels, "I thought from four o'clock till five o'clock we'd watch reruns of The Golden Girls. From five to six- a movie about childbirth. From seven till ten, I've got HGTV picked out, and from ten o'clock through 1 a.m. is a Happy Days marathon."

Even to this day, I don't know what happened! The only way to explain it is that I was instantly dethroned! I had to give the remote back- no!- it was actually snatched from my unsuspecting hands before I could blink an eye! The entire day of being pampered suddenly shriveled into a normal day. The clock must have struck midnight because I wasn't Cinderella anymore.

I dream sometimes now. About a day - a long time from now probably- when the years pass and his memory has faded- that maybe I'll get a chance to use that remote again. That I'll push buttons and change channels and feel the rush- the exhilaration- of having total control.

But for now, I'm sure there's a toilet somewhere that needs scrubbing.

Analyze This

My kids are always telling me
that I have a vivid imagination.
I think that's partly because I relate my
many dreams and nightmares to them-
usually getting a squinty-eyed response
that suggests they may presume
I have a screw (or two) loose.

Maybe they're right.

One dream I specifically remember
is the one where I trekked up a
big green mountain and picked
a dozen black roses.
Upon arriving back at home,
I placed them in a vase in the
center of my dining room table.
Within a matter of minutes,
they began to wilt,
the petals falling on the table top
and turning into soft mewing kittens.
Then I gathered all the felines
into a basket and carried them
back to the mountain top.

I am sure there's a book
(or a shrink) out there somewhere
who could analyze that for me.
Yet, I really prefer
just to enjoy the dream-
the sweet movie of imagination
that visits me in my sleep.

I've done some rather strange things
in my artistic experiments, too.
Once I tried to sculpt a face mask
using dryer lint and glue.
I've made butterflies and dragonflies
from leaves and sticks and seeds.

I've even tried my hand at an American Flag quilt.
It was a conglomeration of calico's
and florals and twenty shades of red, white and blue.
I used to have it pinned up on the wall in my kitchen.
Once my Cajun sister-in-law asked about it-
(it being rather strange and unusual)-
and I told her proudly that it was
my first attempt at quilting.

"Awww..." she said, with a coddling smile, "How old were you?"

"Forty-nine,"I said dryly.

Her smiled faded.

Contrary to my other fears in life,
my imagination knows no boundaries.
I tend to collect fabric and ribbon
and buttons and beads and seed pods
and feathers-
and any strange object that grabs my attention.
I'm just a magpie, I guess.

I dreamt once that lightning bugs
came in 64 brilliant colors
and each color had their own musical note.
That night I watched them
light up the sky like a rainbow-
twinkling like miniature Christmas lights-
playing a beautiful symphony
amid a warm summer breeze.

If that makes me crazy,
then don't tighten my loose screws.

Embracing my imagination
is the only thing
that makes me sane.