Minor Holidays that Connect Us to Our Past

History lovers like to connect dots between present and past. I fit in this unique group because nothing thrills me more than discovering unexpected links between Now and Then. Recently, I got more than I bargained for when I explored the backstory to Punxsutawney Phil and America’s Groundhog Day. By the time I finished researching, I found answers to questions I didn’t know I had.

First, I always wondered what Candlemas Day was when I saw it on calendars at the same time I noted GH day. Why I never stopped to look it up befuddles me. Otherwise, I’d have known much sooner why local churches host pancake feeds on February 2 or thereabouts and how that event relates to weather predicting groundhogs. The obvious commonality is that Candlemas and GH day share the same date. Once I knew that, I wanted to know more.

Easy, peasy. Groundhog Day first began when ancient peoples celebrated the halfway mark between winter solstice and spring equinox. Think about that one. Approximately three months separates two major solar events our ancestors used to mark time and indicate seasons. Halfway between gets you to early February. In some climates that’s the time hibernating or estivating critters crawl out to check the weather. Depending on the culture, those could be bears or hedgehogs, close enough to woodchucks if you stretch your imagination to end up as Groundhog Day in our culture.

For people whose lives were heavily influenced by sunny and dark cycles, longer periods of light and upcoming planting traditions would provide reasons to celebrate. Pesky rodents and other hairy creatures emerging from under and above ground dens at the midpoint between two major solar events encouraged foretelling impending weather using clever rhymes. Thanks Farmers’ Almanac for sharing:

                If Candlemas be mild and gay/Go saddle your horses and buy them hay

But if Candlemas by stormy and black/It carries the winter away on its back

Long ago, Romans honored Lupercalia and held purification and light festivities to mark increasing sunlight each day. Tribes living in Germany and Ireland held ceremonies for similar purposes. The Irish called their revels Imbolc (“lamb’s milk”) in honor of lambing season. Once Christianity came to the island, this holiday evolved to honor St. Brigid, saint of candles and light.

We’re back to Candlemas--a feast day that celebrates introducing Jesus in the temple and blessing candles. Not only did participants deliver those valuable light sources for consecration, they also feasted on crepes or pancakes. Now we see the initiating event for why so many congregations host pancake feeds on February 2^nd.

Unless you happen to be an Ancestry.com junky or a fan of TV series that reveal celebrity genealogies, it’s easy to forget how generations before ours influence us. Heavens, many don’t realize winter solstice signifies the darkest day of the year and summer the longest. It’s even easier to forget spring and fall equinoxes mark halfway points between those landmarks.

After years of not paying attention, I now know that February 2, aka Groundhog Day or Candlemas, signifies another midpoint—this one between winter solstice and spring equinox. Our ancestors understood that life is short so we should celebrate often. From now on, I’ll rejoice with pancakes poured in the shape of groundhogs, soaked with the previous spring’s maple sap turned to syrup, and served by candlelight.

Winter Morning Shadow Plays

            One of my favorite childhood memories or perhaps even adult memories involves using a bright light to cast finger shadows of rabbits, birds, and other creatures onto a blank wall. One morning, I noticed Mother Nature playing her own shadow games on Big Creek below my kitchen window. These engaging and active silhouettes encouraged me watch further and discover what fun the “old girl” could concoct using barren branches, agile squirrels, and flitting birds.

            A number of factors played into this shadow extravaganza.  First of all, water filled the creek that winter and provided a surface to reflect dozens of scampering critters bobbing in the overhead branches at any one time.  Also, the creek hadn’t frozen for long periods due to unseasonably warm temperatures. This sharpened the mirror-like effect on the slow-moving stream. Next, the red line on the thermometer recorded mornings chilly enough to invigorate squirrels and birds, but not so cold that it forced them into still, huddled energy preservation mode.

Another bonus was unnaturally clear air—no fog, no mist, no moisture of any kind obscured mirrored images. Finally, weekends provided time to be home around 8:30 a.m. when the early sun popped over the hill in just the right spot to profile a myriad of cottonwood, ash, and locust shadows onto the winding brook.

            What I saw when I gazed out the window onto Big Creek was a most unusual circus.  Shadows of furry, acrobatic figures chased one another from one darkly silhouetted high branch to another up and down the bank. The inconsequential forms seemed to fly as they leapt across open space. I suspected a previous May’s tornado created greater gaps than the squirrels were used to based on some of the stretches their images made as they reflected vaults from one landing to another. 

Amazingly, those breaches didn’t faze them as they launched wiry forms from limb to limb across spans of about 300 feet. The fearless rodents blasted off across open territory with the fearlessness of the Flying Wallenzas. 

            Every now and then I spied one of the reflected creatures performing a flip or winding itself artfully around a branch like it wanted to enhance its routine. Working in tandem, several choreographed a chase scene to rival the chase in The Thomas Crown Affair.  In addition to the fury critters’ mirrored dives, leaps, twirls, shadows of big and little birds hovered and darted in and out of the darkly profiled scenes. Where to look first became the morning challenge. Who cared about coffee?

            I don’t know how I missed this show on earlier weekend mornings unless that year’s presentation had more to do with previously mentioned factors—unnaturally warm temperatures and lack of moisture in the air that provided clarity we normally didn’t experience winter mornings.  Whatever the reasons, I’ve recorded this shadow play in my memory banks so I can sit back on future mornings and smile at the antics of frisky squirrels turning somersaults in my mind.