The other day, I wrote a note on Facebook about my morning shoveling snow and clearing my drive. It was an imaginative piece about the new fallen snow and the wind. The weather was still cold, the sky remained gray, ant the wind was still wearing its winter bluster, but as I looked around, something had changed. It seemed that something had softened. As I carried each shovelful of snow across the road, dumping it into an empty field, I was able to look around and I noticed the playfulness of the wind and snow. Scattered across my lawn were rolls of snow where the wind lifted some stray plop of snow and began to push it, gathering more snow as it rolled. There were about thirty of these bundles. The largest was almost fifteen inches in diameter. In my fanciful, creative mind, it was though the elements were gathering the material to build snow forts and a battalion of snowmen to wage war on Old Man Winter. It seemed to say, “Hold on. Spring is on its way.”
Then came February second and Phil, that pampered pet of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, was dragged from its snug, warm den to prophesy and forecast the next six weeks. I would be upset if my winter’s sleep was interrupted as was this plump purveyor of the future of weather. This chubby prognosticator of winter’s demise or whether winter will win a reprieve has spoken, responded accordingly and said, “I see my shadow. Now put me back to bed.”
The result of those “good” citizens of Punxsutawney is that we will have six more weeks of winter. I see that the prognostications of the weathermen are showing that there is a cold snap ahead and they confirm Phil’s portend. At times, I feel Phil’s projections are more accurate than the weathermen, but that’s another story.