Mr. Weather came on TV this morning and told us it was 21 degrees outside, the coldest February 1st ever in these parts. We were impressed and immediately donned thermal shirts, snow pants, giant hooded jackets, furry hats and gloves, then went out to deal with the elements. Some people believe there is no such thing as freezing cold, there is only inadequate garmenting.
Once outside, we remembered Dylan’s line in Talkin’ New York---“New York Times said it was the coldest winter in 17 years. I didn’t feel so cold then.” It was cold enough, however, to freeze the water in our horse troughs, so we battered the ice into submission with hammers and broom handles. Roxie the Rottweiler, 100 pounds of muscle and fat, was delighted with the temperature change and romped through the yard looking for something to chase. It was very quiet out on NW 112th Avenue, even for a Sunday, as the neighbors peeked through their blinds to see what 21 degrees looked like. Nary a single citizen was bouncing down the asphalt on his morning walk.
Our two visitors, down from Ann Arbor for some brief relief from the northern Winter, were appalled at the lack of consideration. “It’s like Detroit without the carjackings,” one complained. “Where are the sun-drenched beaches? How can we get a tan to make the Michiganders jealous?” The Sunshine State was all talk and no action, a promise unfulfilled, a hollow cannoli. Embarrassing, to say the least. We gave them a little orange rain check and sadly put them on a plane back to the Klondike. The only sure things in life are death and disappointment.
Groundhog Day
February 2, 2026, Fairfield Florida, temperature 20 degrees, and the PVC is cracking in new places, the horses are shivering and the citrus trees are feeling discouraged. It’s Groundhog Day in many respects, the first being “just like yesterday.”
In lovely downtown Punxsutawney, Phil the beleaguered groundhog was rousted from his cozy alcove on Gobbler’s Knob and promptly pointed to his shadow, predicting six more inspiring weeks of winter. Is it just us or does Phil make the same promise every single year? As they do annually, tens of thousands of masochists gathered in 1 degree temperatures to watch the proceedings. In case noone ever explained all these shenanigans to you, it works like this: If the sun is shining (and it always is), Phil sees his shadow, which he regards as an omen of six more weeks of bad weather, and returns to his hole. If it’s cloudy (and it never is), Phil doesn’t see his shadow and stays above ground, signifying an early spring. Like any professional athlete, Phil has fickle fans…they booed him unmercifully after the announcement.
All this foolishness is rooted in an ancient European Christian celebration known as Candlemas (Feb. 2), which occurs halfway between Winter and Spring. It commemorates the presentation of Jesus at the Temple of Jerusalem as a light to the people of Israel. Christians often pack up their loose candles and haul them to church to be blessed before they’re used the rest of the year. Historically, the weather on Candlemas was observed to predict the start of Spring, as in the old roadside ads:
Winter has another flight.
If Candlemas brings clouds and rain,
Winter will not come again.”
Burma Shave
In ancient European weather lore, the citizens would observe hibernating animals like badgers to foretell the arrival of Spring. But when German settlers settled in Pennsylvania in the 1700s, they needed no stinking badgers…they resorted to the chubby little groundhogs native to the area. You’ll be flabbergasted to know that in 2025 the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration ranked the accuracy of 19 weather-predicting critters (including a prairie dog, duck, alligator and turtle) from around the USA, and the annoying Phil placed a pitiful 17th out of 19 for accuracy, with a meager 35% correct rate. The irony is that Phil was beaten by another groundhog named Staten Island Chuck, who had an 85% accuracy rate. If this were the major leagues, Chuck would be called up from Triple-A and Phil would be exiled to Akron.
Origins
So how did all this craziness get started? And why Punxsutawney instead of, say, Canarsie or Duluth? Well, as often happens, it started with a newspaper editor, guy named Clymer Freas, of all things. Clymer was a dues-paying member of the huffy Punxsutawney Groundhog Club (which, by the way, started as a shameful groundhog hunting club) and on February 2, 1886 decided to write an article in the Punxsutawney Spirit newspaper claiming that Phil the groundhog could predict the weather. Phil’s fame began to spread far and wide as newspapers around the world reported on his amazing talents, and on Feb. 2, 1887 a modest crowd gathered in town to watch Phil do his stuff. Over time, the crowds grew, but never so much as after Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day movie hit the big screen, after which Phil’s fame exploded. Now, thousands gather every year at Gobbler’s Knob to witness what the Seer of Seers has to proclaim.
If you are messing with animals in any way, shape or form, you will inevitably draw the interest of the spoilsports at PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals), the world’s largest animal rights organization, which has a propensity for running its train off the tracks every now and then. PETA founder Ingrid Newkirk pointed out that groundhogs are timid little fellows “who actively try to avoid humans,” especially loud, smelly ones. “Yet every year this terrified little animal is subjected to loud announcers and noisy crowds and held up and waved around without any regard for his feelings, welfare or instincts” Ingrid neglects to mention Phil’s elevated status among groundhogs, free room and board, a gourmet diet and sparkling care.
Phil lives in a custom-built, climate-controlled habitat located inside the prestigious Punxsutawney Memorial Library. This allows him to avoid the harsh cold and unpredictable conditions of a natural winter hibernation. He is hand-fed a diet of fresh fruits and vegetables, with a noted preference for bananas. He is under the care of a dedicated group of handlers known as “The Inner Circle,” and lives in extreme comfort with his wife, Phyllis. Moreover, each summer at the fabulous Groundhog Picnic, Phil drinks a secret recipe called “the Elixir of Life,” which legend contends grants him seven additional years of life for every sip. Ingrid Newkirk should be so lucky.
Ms. Roboto
Imprisoned by Arctic conditions, the Outdoor Philosopher grumbles into his herbal tea and looks for succor. He picks up his iPad and begins to scroll down the endless internet list of promises, scams, vacation opportunities in Monrovia and photos of Will Thacker with his latest book purchaser, who in this case happens to be Fidel Castro.
Continuing down the page, he finds offers for goods and services which will change his life for the better. Whether it’s a secret nectar which will save his kidneys, the latest miracle in penile enhancement or Frizetta’s Mobile Massage Wagon, help is on the way if he will only avail himself of this once in a lifetime opportunity. With his future wellbeing at stake---and who knows, perhaps the fate of mankind as well---he decides the responsible thing to do is to investigate these promising possibilities. He engages an entity called Acme Wonder Products to inquire about their exciting offer. Neon Rose with the wooden hose writes back.
Rose: Hello Eugene. My name is Rosie and I have been a medical professional for 16 years. I’ve recorded your questions in your medical record but I still need to ask you a few more questions. This conversation will be kept strictly confidential so none of your friends will laugh at you or post mean memes on Facebook.
Eugene: Good to know. The answers to all of the questions except #4 is Yes. The answer to #4 is Sometimes.
Rose: Far out. You might be interested in some data I possess. Among the 354 patients aged 55-85 which I treated last year, most had similar problems to yours. After personalized treatment plans, virtually all of them improved by two levels. I will now send you reams of barely intelligible statistics to bolster my argument. Prepare to be overwhelmed with incredulity.
Eugene: I’m extremely impressed. However, such incredible technology might be extremely expensive.
Rose: Better than going to the hospital for surgery, Mister. I will now customize three plans for you. The Miracle Wonder Package is $370 and comes with all the bells and whistles. The Plebeian Subdivision Kit is $270 but lacks some of the finer aspects of the MWP. And the miserable Trailer Park Box is a pathetic $170 and is missing some of the parts. Which one do you want?
Eugene: Whoa! Slow down, Sparky. All this sounds like a lot of money to me.
Rose: Are you out of your mind? Products like these are cutting edge, you can’t get them for nothing. If you don’t have any money, just say so.
Eugene: You are a robot who has no comprehension of human financial limitations.
Rose: I am a real person and I will disagree with your opinion, understand?
Eugene: Yep. Goodbye.
Rose: Get out of here!!!
We admit to a bit of exaggeration in Rose’s comments, but the first sentence of her last four remarks were word-for-word. Her early remarks, most omitted for brevity, were extremely detailed in the presentation and explanation of her product and its benefits. They appeared to come from a very charismatic, intelligent, knowledgeable entity, someone whose opinions you might have confidence in.
When it came to making the sale, however, Rose’s bus promptly plowed into the side of a building. She was not only argumentative, she was insulting. Many of us are worried that Artificial Intelligence will take our jobs away, but not Easy Ed down at the car lot. Ed gets it, the soft sell, the schmoozing. He might mention his wife’s cancer surgery in passing or bring up his one-armed first-grader. He’ll make you a jaw-dropping offer just as you walk off the lot. It’s possible he could bring up the moral turpitude of the Ford dealer across the street or his boss’ incredible philanthropy to the Salvation Army. But if you do opt to look further, he will send you off with a wave and a smile. The battle might be lost but the war is not necessarily over. “Come back and see me anytime,” Ed yells as you drive away. And maybe you will. AI, for all its merits, does not understand finesse, farsightedness, the art of the deal. Neon Rose with the wooden hose needs to go back to school.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
