Lehe: Because Phil said so

Today I endorse Groundhog Day.

In its own mythical sense, it determines… Today I endorse Groundhog Day.

In its own mythical sense, it determines winter’s end, and thus, spring’s dawn. I had to see it for myself.

On Feb. 2, at 1 a.m., I realized I was ignorant of how much more winter we would have. So, I swallowed a 5-Hour Energy drink and hit the road with my friend Rob.

At 3:30 a.m., we navigated a traffic jam through downtown Punxsutawney. It is weird to be in a traffic jam in a rural area, especially so early in the morning, and it is even weirder to do it on a tandem unicycle, but fortunately we were not on a tandem unicycle.

After parking, I stepped out into the cold. The wintry wind blew so cold that I was forced to warm up with an extra pair of pants, an extra hat, and an extra large amount of alcohol. Then, once we were too warm to drive, Rob and I boarded a yellow school bus that drove out to Gobblers Knob, where we were told the action would happen, just as it always does at places with names like Gobblers Knob.

It turned out that Gobblers Knob was a field at the edge of a snowy wood, and the air over the field was thick with steamy breath and disco music. The overhead lights illuminated thousands of men, women and children , — all wrapped up in coats and hats — shuffling stiffly between a stage, a bonfire and two snack vendors. On the stage, girls in oversized, neon-colored top hats danced in front of the majestic stump that housed Punxsutawney Phil. At the bonfire, people huddled to warm up, although it was the laughing, sniffling crowd, compressed around the fire that provided the operative heat. At the vendors, people lined up to buy coffee, hot dogs and super-sweet hot chocolate at prices fixed barely above cost, even though, freezing and stranded, we were as ransomed as Six Flags patrons paying four dollars for bottled water. Overall, Gobblers Knob exemplified the communal enthusiasm that makes Pennsylvania a commonwealth instead of a state.

I observe you Pennsylvanians, and I’ve noticed that just like blood coagulates in open air, Pennsylvanians with free time spontaneously coalesce into clumps of traditions, committees and delegated responsibilities. The First Continental Congress, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the Whiskey Rebellion are all good examples. The Inner Circle is another.

The Inner Circle is a group of fifteen men — including businessmen, teachers, construction workers, and funeral parlor proprietors —  who bear the sacred responsibilities of planning Groundhog Day, caring for Punxsutawney Phil, and wearing top hats. The members have nicknames that seem like mixes between Native American names and American Gladiator names — Native American Gladiators, maybe. Ed Jekielek is Storm Chaser. Butch Philliber’s nickname is Ice Man.

The President of the Inner Circle, Bill Deely, doesn’t seem to have a nickname, but he does have the power to administer the elixir of life that has sustained Punxsutawney Phil for over 100 years. He also brandishes a cane that lets him understand groundhogese.

Something else to remember about Pennsylvania is that it is a swing state. No one ever knows which candidate will win its electoral votes. And even when a Republican like Arlen Specter wins, he might swing around and become a Democrat. But few states go as far as Pennsylvania, where the beginning of spring is a swing issue that comes down to one vote.

Before I went, I assumed the groundhog was a weather vane. But Punxsutawney Phil just pays homage to the shadow myth’s naive climatic determinism. The reality is that Punxsutawney Phil controls the onset of spring.

But we can influence him. The Groundhog Day festivities began at 3:30 a.m., but Punxsutawney Phil didn’t prognosticate until 7:30 a.m., so we had four hours to lobby the Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of Prognosticators. “Phil! Phil! Phil!” the people chanted. Some carried signs that read, “Six more weeks!” Other signs demanded a sooner spring.

Finally, Mr. Deely pulled Phil out of the stump and lifted the chubby, brown mass high above his head, for all to see. “Everything the light touches,” he seemed to say, “produces a shadow.” Sure enough, Phil saw his quivering little shadow splayed across the top of the stump. And just as Phil had spoken, Pittsburgh endured its snowiest February on record.

Afterward, everyone met the press. Dozens of reporters stormed the stage to interview Thunder Conductor, Stump Warden and The Big Windmaker. I climbed up and got a picture with actor Stephen Tobolowsky, who played the annoying insurance salesman Ned Ryerson in the movie Groundhog Day.

Before leaving, I looked into Phil’s little plastic terrarium. He peeked out through a wad of grass and whispered something: “You won’t write your article about this until the first day of spring.” And, once again, Phil was right.

E-mail Lewis at lewis500@gmail.com