I’m pretty sure the groundhog lied to us.
Whether it is truth or lie, the story goes like this. We have a secret agent who tells us the late winter weather forecast each year. His name is Punxsutawney Phil, and he’s a groundhog. Our groundhog weather prognosticator lives somewhere in the not-quite-wilds of Pennsylvania and in early February he risks coming out of his den. (Hut? Doghouse? Palace of domestic groundhog luxury where his little groundhog paws receive a pedicure once a month so he will look good on camera once a year?)
Once he comes out, our groundhog seer looks around and determines how much longer winter will last based on the state of his shadow. Whether that forecast turns out to be truth or lie doesn’t matter to our pampered groundhog one whit, because he goes right back to sleep winter off, no matter its length, in his snug little den. (Presidential suite? Air Force One? Is Punxsutawney Phil secretly our president, using Trump as a front so he can get sufficient groundhog beauty rest?)
This year, supposedly, our groundhog did not see his shadow, so we would not receive an extra six weeks of winter.
There was a big cheer from everyone in the northern half of the United States. Our fat brown friend waddled off to sleep some more. And then the winter weather patterns proceeded to wallop us with a series of snowstorms and windstorms. One day we even had thunder-snow, which is a lovely sign that the weather can’t make up its mind what it wants to do.
Today we had big fat snowflakes, which made it look as though we were living inside of a snow globe. Beautiful, someone might think. My first thought? I’m pretty sure that groundhog lied to us. Which might be despicable, but isn’t a crime. And after all, he probably was only saying what he knew we wanted to hear. Sometimes, we’d rather hear lies than truths.
Which made me think about the nature of lies. As a society, maybe as a species, we have a lot of trouble sticking to the truth. Sometimes we just tell people what we think they want to hear. Or tell them something close to the truth. I told my toddler daughter that milk was cow juice for about a year until she caught on, because I didn’t want to give her too much fruit juice, and she kept asking for juice like all kids do. Of course, sometimes the lies get out of hand, and for proof of that all you have to do is turn on any television.
Anyway, all that reminded me of a poem I wrote after it occurred to me (some thirty years after the fact, call me slow) that my mother had lied to me about a few things over the years, mostly in the guise of prettying up a situation. I’ll let you pick out the truths and the lie.
Several Truths and a Lie
There’s no need for jazz lessons
and you will never be a tap dancer.
Parents just put their kids
in those programs so they don’t
have to have them around. Can’t bother.
We love you more, love you too much
to let you be lonely like that.
You know I call a heart a heart and
no one can stop me from speaking
what others are afraid to say.
If you enjoyed Several Truths and a Lie
You’ll find more of my poems on this blog or in the collection Stars Crawl Out From Their Caves, which is available in both ebook and print.
Missed a poem of the week? Links to prior weeks are on this page.
Meanwhile, I will be out looking for that groundhog den, so I can have a word with that critter who apparently does not recognize his own shadow. (Actually I will be traveling for a business conference this week. In Atlanta. But I will definitely set straight any groundhogs I find along the way.)
Oh, if you’re thirsty, remember there’s always juice, err, I mean, coffee…
