Two days ago in the quaint town of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, it was nineteen degrees, real feel eight degrees, and Groundhog Day celebration was in full swing...in the meantime, two weeks prior, in the "country" of Florida there was a cool down, and....
....in Florida, little did I know, the peeps here, long for that little fucking groundhog to peek up from the hole in the ground. They brace for that weatherman to give a nod to warmer weather ahead, and they celebrate the very day in a peculiar way.
The cool down brought out the snow coats, the warm gloves, and the scarves here in the sunshine state. There was ice on car windows, the once green grass turned brown from frost, as the weather barely breached the fifty degree mark. Floridians were icy cold messes, burrowing in their houses, stocking up supplies, and readying for the worst winter they've felt in fifteen years. Traffic here is typically a nightmare and the cool down gave me some reprieve as no one ventured out. Most were hunkered down and living on savings, and other means to survive, waiting for that glimmering hope that the sun would shine again. That sun giving each the strength to crawl back to life.
It was laughable, but that Phil character in Pennsylvania, is replicated down here in the Florida south. I was donating plasma, collecting money for the Mothership's fuel costs, and I heard brief excitement about Groundhog Day. Her name, Sonja. She is a lead phlebotomist on the floor of the plasma center. She started asking the routine questions to start my draw and I asked, "Do you like the cold snap?"
"No, I like it warm."
"Yes, but it's not bad, and will eventually go away." I said.
"I like to fish, and go to the beach," she said, and then it happened. She gave me a wink, more like a twitch of her lazy eye, her lips formed a weird grin, and she whispered, "Do you know when it's groundhog day?"
"I have no idea, why?" I asked.
"Because we celebrate and then it'll be warm." She said. The conversation ended, and I didn't give it much thought, after all I was in the "country" of Florida, where rules and logic are typically shat upon, at least in the area I'm living.
I had been chasing seventy degrees for three years, and I never cared if it drops down to fifty degrees (okay, a little, my blood has thinned and I do get a bit chilly, but like any Michigander, I suck it up). Fast forward two weeks later, the sun started to shine, dissipating the overcast skies, and the birds were once again fluttering to life in the morning, scavenging the grass for protein. People were warming their cars in the morning, but they were finally getting back on the road to get their provisions. The shelves at Aldi were emptying due to the lack of shopping during the cold, or were the Floridians just preparing for something more?
I found out on, Saturday, Groundhog Day Eve. The Mothership sits up high enough that when I'm writing I can see over the fences and into the surrounding yards. The sun was going down giving way to a cool breeze that gently blew through my open window. I noticed a large bon fire blazing in a neighboring back yard. There are certain days of the year down here that Fireworks are allowed, and I guess, maybe this Eve, was an exception? I heard a loud BOOM, and another, and then some sparkles flew into the air. I looked at the fire, it was those people with celebratory elations lighting off the conflagration. There were several humans, wearing strange hairy masks emulating g-hogs. They were dancing around the flames. Each of them casting a long shadow on their lawn.
The weirdest part of this dance, the fireworks, and this odd celebration, was that following the announcement on the news of tired old Punxsutawney Phil, there was more. On Groundhog Day, Sunday, the neighborhood was filled with cookouts. People flocked to Lowes buying flowers, and yard stuff. There was lines at the return desk, people returning snow shovels that they never used, and other wintery items that they stocked up on. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. People actually left the safety of their camera surveillance, left the privacy of their armed premises, vacated the weird flags symbolizing hate, and acted like they trusted their neighbors! That is all, folks. Anticlimactic, I know, but I'm glad I brought you into these Floridian Sun Baked shenanigans with me today. I still love this life regardless of the differences. And when hate is given I give love. Thanks for reading...
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Tim Eagle
Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.comÂ
