Groundhog Day, again

By MICHAEL MASTOIANNI The Pitt News

published: Tue, 3 Feb, 2004

Punxsutawney, a small community 80 miles northeast of Pittsburgh, is a town that is connected to the world through one day: Feb. 2, Groundhog Day.

Apparently, the second half of winter is decided by a furry marmot in the middle of rural Pennsylvania.

Why a groundhog, anyway?

It goes back to the times of the Roman Empire, and the Christian celebration of Candlemas, the day of ritual purification for 40 days after the birth of Jesus Christ. The coming of spring was predicted by the emergence of hibernating animals. Bears, badgers and hedgehogs held the lucrative position of forecaster, but as the tradition made its way into America, groundhogs were chosen as the honored mammal.

A story in the Feb. 2, 1886 edition of "The Punxsutawney Spirit" by the editor Clymer Freas, announcing that "at the time of this printing, the groundhog had not seen his shadow," began one of the most intense and successful public interest campaigns in history, bringing national fame to the unknown Pennsylvania hamlet, designating Phil the groundhog as the official forecaster. Since then, Phil has lobbied for an end to prohibition in the 1930s, visited the White House and predicted the results of baseball seasons. The 1993 film "Groundhog Day," starring Bill Murray, brought even more interest. More than 10,000 people attended the ceremony last year, the 117th celebration of Phil's emergence.

A 118-year-old groundhog?

"At least that old," according to William Deeley, Phil's handler of 14 years. "We don't know what his profession was before prognosticating."

Claiming that Phil is as native to Punxsutawney as anyone else, Deeley said, "[The town] didn't inherit Phil; Phil inherited us."

At four in the morning, no one could guess the ensuing celebration from the sight of Punxsutawney itself. The borough was just as quiet and dark as any other. Soon, the lights of state police cruisers appeared before me, reminding me more of a highway accident than a town holiday.

At Gobbler's Knob, Phil's hangout just south of the town limit, journalists from across the country had already picked spots for their cameras and microphones. The frozen breath of thousands of people standing in a 17-degree chill became a vaporous haze over the stadium lights and television vans. After a couple hours of bad karaoke from the stage where Phil's burrow stood, a grand display of fireworks lit up the sky above the wilderness to John Williams' scores to "Star Wars" and "Superman."

As the time got closer to 7:25 a.m., the media and the audience began to converge on the stage, pushing to get closer to the spot where Phil apparently slept through the racket. Bill Cooper, president of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club, knocked on the door with his cane. Deeley then reached in, emerging triumphantly with Phil, the victim of a rude awakening, in his outstretched hand.

The audience cheered and chanted Phil's name as Cooper chatted with the groundhog and finally announced that Phil had seen his shadow and six more weeks of winter would follow. The audience groaned but kept their bright demeanor as they lined up to be photographed with the star of the show.

Nearly all small towns have an event that defines them, setting them apart from the hundreds of thousands of others that seem all alike: the swallows' return to San Juan Capistrano, Calif.; a festival for the cherry in Traverse City, Mich.; or the moon bow in Cumberland Falls, Ky. Whether asking a groundhog about the weather seems silly or not, it is the life of Punxsutawney year round, and they are happy to share it with the world on this day.

Bundle up, Pittsburgh. More winter is coming.