The moment for me will live on in infamy, it was the first time I ever heard of Punxsutawney Phil. Let me paint the picture…

It was a winter morning like any other winter morning in North Eastern Ohio. I just completed walking the eight long blocks through the crunchy snow-packed sidewalks of Bay Village to St. Raphael’s elementary school. I was wearing a puffy green and blue winter coat, with a tasseled Notre Dame hat warming my head. And to make my arctic ensemble complete I had on black galoshes covering my blue converse all-star shoes. Remember those black galoshes? They were paper thin and had black buckles on the side which seemed to always snap off when I wore them. And I am not sure if they ever kept my feet warm?

Before walking into my third-grade classroom, Sister Nancy made sure all of us students took off our boots and galoshes and brought them back to our locker without trailing mud or snow. It took a good five minutes to shed layer after layer of winter gear: first you had to peel off the mittens, then the hat, unzip the coat, unwind the scarf that was chocking your windpipe (I think my mom had other ideas than keeping me warm when she put on my scarf), and finally I got to take off the extra large scratchy wool sweater. I felt 20 pounds lighter!

After sitting down at my assigned seat, I was always in the back of the class because my last name starts with “W”, I would then open the top of the desk, put my brown bag lunch inside, take out my plastic pencil and marker holder, and a notebook. I was ready for class.

I liked having a class with Sister Nancy, she was a sweet pretty nun that played an acoustic guitar, she reminded me of Joan Baez, “If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning…I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land…” After a few songs, it was right to schoolwork. But not on this day, Sister Nancy sat down and with a deadly serious face, gave us the bad news, “Well boys and girls, I was listening to the radio this morning and Punxsutawney Phil, the prophetic groundhog, saw his shadow. That means we will have six more weeks of winter.”

I thought to myself, “Six more weeks of winter? How does a stupid groundhog know? It must be true because Sister Nancy looks sad. I hate winter. I hate wearing that scratchy sweater and having my mom dress me each morning like an Eskimo. Why did Phil have to see his shadow?”

I was crushed.

For a boy living right across the street from an always frozen Lake Erie, I grew to despise that groundhog. Now that I am 51 years old, February 2nd has become a constant thorn in my side reminding me of winter’s persistent spewing of doom and gloom. It is just like that irritating movie with Bill Murray when he keeps reliving Groundhog’s Day waking up to that stupid Sonny and Cher song, “I’ve got you Babe!” I would rather listen to Sister Nancy sing “Puff the Magic Dragon” by Peter, Paul and Mary. 

This morning I woke up and turned on the weather forecast like I always do. I wasn’t even thinking it was February 2nd. So of course, I was rudely awakened when the front page article on the weather report was about Groundhog’s Day. Every time I think about that rotten buck-toothed varmint, I can feel that scratchy wool sweater on my neck and I have nightmares concerning the buckles on those black galoshes. Come to think of it, I am not sure I can ever remember a time when Phil didn’t see his shadow? So depressing. 

My eyes began to scan down to read about this day, and they stumbled across these two lines, “Legend has it if a furry rodent casts a shadow on Groundhog Day, Feb. 2, expect six more weeks of winter-like weather. If not, expect spring-like temperatures. In reality, Phil’s prediction is decided ahead of time by the group on Gobbler’s Knob, a tiny hill just outside of Punxsutawney. That’s about 65 miles northeast of Pittsburgh.” Wait, stop, hold the phone! Did you catch that last statement? “Phil’s prediction is decided ahead of time…” What????

How can a prediction be decided ahead of time? Then it is no prediction at all. And if it is no prediction at all, I have been miserable these last 40 years for no good reason? Phil, the fat fuzzy groundhog, is nothing but an innocent pawn that has been put into service by some great evil machine. Somewhere, behind the curtains, someone is pulling the strings that make little boys like me miserable. I am outraged!

I wanted to see the workings firsthand, so I turned on the live stream on my iPad straight from Punxsutawney to see for myself how the machine is playing all of us for fools. A giant stump with a groundhog hole is up on a stage where people are singing and dancing and smoke machines are revving up the early morning crowd that came to see Phil. It was packed, at least 10,000 spectators were there all dressed up in their arctic gear as well.

And then it was time for the great reveal, “Will he see his shadow?” But wait, he doesn’t even look for his shadow, he merely sniffs at a scroll on top of the stump that reveals the outcome, another lie! And then a long train of old white men, with gray beards in black top hats and black overcoats come parading up to the stage. Now it all makes sense…I should have known it…behind the lie of Punxsutawney Phil are a group of men, an evil patriarchy of puppet-masters playing with the minds of innocent children who would rather listen to “Puff the Magic Dragon” than being sucked into some mind destroying lie about a cute groundhog that makes prognostications.

In that moment, not only did my childhood naivete go up in smoke, but I then realized who put Donald Trump in office, I now knew who determines the interest rates at the Federal Reserve, and who starts each and every war to make the World Bank rich. We are all being led like a groundhog to the slaughter by these old white men in black top hats.

Now I know why February 2nd is always so gloomy and black. Groundhog’s Day is another cog in the iron wheel to control the world. Will anyone join me for a march next year down the streets of Punxsutawney, P.A? We need to do something, we need to tell the truth, “Phil is a fraud!” I will bet Phil isn’t even the poor groundhog’s name?

Man, I can still feel that scratchy sweater….can you?