The Hidden History of Groundhog Day

At 7:25 a.m. Friday morning, way out there in the small town of Punxsutawney, a portly aging man in top hat and tails will unceremoniously yank a grumpy, groggy groundhog from his winter den and present it to a roaring crowd numbering in the tens of thousands. The man will then whisper to the groundhog in a secret, shared language, what he calls “Groundhogese”…

…and, for the 137th year since 1887, Punxsutawney Phil, the most famous rodent this side of a mouse named Mickey, will have predicted the weather. And while I write this ahead of the day, I’ll gamely go out on a limb and-- given the generally mild winter we’re in the middle of-- offer that Phil DOESN’T see his shadow. Spring, he will say, comes early. 

Though Phil’s batting average isn’t high-- the National Climatic Data Center says his accuracy is only 39%, worse than a coin toss-- and even though his forecast of six more weeks of winter has been called more than 100 times in 137 years, I’m sticking with early spring. We’ll see.

As a naturalist, however, I love a holiday named for an animal, and I’m tickled that the national media just might make room among the top stories for this moment, so a groundhog-- even momentarily-- nudges aside politics and war. 

And I love that it’s based in some natural history. Groundhogs-- also called woodchucks, same animal-- are in fact hibernators, sleeping the entire winter away in underground burrows, their heart rate plummeting from summer’s 80 beats per minute to winter’s paltry five. Five beats per minute! In early February, males arouse themselves from this slumber to scout their territory, searching for the dens of potential mates. And after this reconnaissance mission, they go back to sleep for another month or so.

Pennsylvania Dutch farmers settling in the New World brought their German tradition of seeking out a hibernating animal-- for them it was badgers, while Brits used hedgehogs-- on February 2 for weather prognostications. Coming here and seeing groundhogs roaming in February likely began the tradition of Groundhog Day.

But the choice of February 2 is no accident either. Those same German settlers also commemorated the Christian Candlemas, the day when clergy blessed and distributed candles to combat the dark of winter, and lighted candles were placed in windows. Candlemas comes at the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, and superstition held that if the weather was fair on this day, the second half of winter would be cold and stormy. “If Candlemas be fair and bright,” said the superstition, “winter has another flight. If Candlemas brings clouds and rain, winter will not come again.” 

Candlemas itself has its origin in the pagan celebration of Imbolc, one of four cross-quarter days that mark the halfway points of seasons. Echoes of ancient cross-quarter holidays have stayed with us through the ages, especially in Halloween and even May Day.

That's the good news of the day: we’re halfway through winter. Back in the day, farmers would remind themselves of this by repeating the adage, “Groundhog Day, half your hay.” Pace yourself; make sure you’ve got enough for winter’s second half.

In the distant past, there was a tug of war over which calendar would mark the seasons, one where cross-quarter days begin them, the other where solstices and equinoxes do. The latter won out. So Midsummer’s Eve, another pre-Christian holiday captured so wonderfully by Shakespeare, occurs on the summer solstice. While that's now the beginning of summer, back then the solstice was the midway point of the season, hence the summer solstice marked the “midsummer” of a season that began on May 1.

Portions of that ancient calendar have stayed with us, embedded in our cultural DNA. When that top-hatted gentleman pulls Phil out of his burrow up there on Gobbler’s Knob, he reminds us of olden days when a completely different calendar ruled-- and Friday is suddenly Imbolc, the first day of Spring.

p.s. The name Punxsutawney is so evocative and completely impossible to spell. It’s a Lenape phrase that translates to “town of mosquitoes.” Ssh, don't tell Punxsutawney’s Chamber of Commerce, as this is not quite the image they’d want to invoke when 35,000 people gather this weekend on Gobbler’s Knob.

So stream the Bill Murray movie and check out Phil’s forecast. Happy Groundhog Day.

Writer-naturalist Mike Weilbacher travels the region lecturing and offering walks on nature and the environment. His website is www.mikeweilbacher.com and he can be reached at mike@mikeweilbacher.com.