Groundhog Day is, in my estimation, one of the most underappreciated holidays on the American calendar. Cattle and horses obviously sit the throne and occupy most of the court of my animal kingdom, but any event that elevates an unlikely critter into the national consciousness is OK in my book. (Still waiting to hear back on my proposals for National Pelican Day and Hug an Armadillo Day.)
The fact that we have a day not only dedicated to celebrating the unassuming groundhog, but also to trusting his forecasting chops, brings me irrational joy. Feed me all the pomp and circumstance of the dudes in top hats lovingly extracting a sleepy Punxsutawney Phil from his burrow on Gobbler’s Knob to look for his shadow. Actual meteorologists with actual degrees and fancy graphics don’t seem to be particularly trustworthy – and, quite frankly, I’d rather pin my faith on old Phil to tell me how much longer winter’s going to last.
Regardless of meteorological prognostication prowess or lack thereof, Groundhog Day has, since 1993, held another meaning that cattle producers can relate to. Bill Murray’s portrayal of hotshot weatherman Phil Connors in the now-classic film led us as a society to use the term “Groundhog Day” to refer to anything monotonous or repetitive. And let’s be honest: No matter how much you may love what you do, there are surely moments when you feel stuck in a time loop with no way out.
Every day, it seems, you’re up before dawn, bottle-feeding bum calves or saddling horses or breaking ice in the water tank. One chore after another, you go through the day, ticking things off your to-do list but somehow never getting any closer to the end of it. Supper waits until it’s too dark to get anything more done outside, and your head hits the pillow much closer than you’d like to tomorrow’s rise-and-shine time, when you get to start all over again. Most days, it seems like the dogs are the only ones who appreciate your efforts at all.
Even if we stretch it out and view the routine on an annual scale, it doesn’t look much different: A Carhartt-clad, sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled zombie, you somehow get through calving. Then you slog through the early-spring muck to beat back a scours epidemic. You endlessly ride fences to keep the herd out of the good spring grass until just the right moment. You pray for rain. You invite the neighbors over for a branding. You go over all the notes and spreadsheets with the banker. You pray for rain. You wean and sell calves. You buy what you hope is enough hay to get through winter. You preg check and debate whether it’s worth giving that open 12-year-old one more chance on the place because of all the good years she’s put in. You pray for rain.
And then you start the routine all over again. Why?
Because it’s not all the same. Because sometimes the rain does come. Because sometimes the paycheck is enough to make you grin. Because seeing your grandkids splattered head to toe in manure-infused corral mud is a beautiful sight. Because to you, it’s worth it.
Here’s to another fine year ahead – whether that overgrown squirrel sees his shadow or not.
