It’s February!
This never used to be a particularly celebratory time, mind you, but I’m turning over a new leaf. Maybe I’m working off a comparison chart. December isn’t particularly joyous to me. The days are short, the energy manic. It’s cold. I hate the cold. I don’t have a holiday tradition—Christmas with the family or some such thing. Nor am I a big fan of January. Same as above but without the slight boost holiday lights offer.
But this month! Short but with more daylight. Clearly the gateway to spring, at least if the clothing catalogues piled into my mailbox are any indication. Robins sit fat and plump on the brown grass and try out their best warbles. And while Valentine’s Day is minimally uncomfortable and even a little… sad for the uncoupled of the world, well, pet love is absolutely a thing.
I admit I’ve been energized by an unexpected spate of warm weather accompanied by the sun, which has been all too scarce this winter. The thermometer climbed past sixty and stayed there—not your grandmother’s winter thaw. My neighbors were out in force, blinking at the pale sun or madly engaging in activities like roller-blading, running, strolling, or kicking and throwing balls. I swear I saw someone in his garden. Of course, we plunged back into the cold because, well, extreme weather is the new normal. Not for long, though. As you read this, temperatures are climbing again.
For such a diminutive month, February features a number of holidays and festivals of varied significance. Did you know February is National Cherry month? Chinese New Year occurs in February this year, although Fat Tuesday does not. We always begin with Groundhog Day, which seems more meaningful in those parts of the country besieged by extreme weather. Never mind it’s unreasonable to expect a rodent to perform as a meteorologist. Honestly, it doesn’t make sense that we’d greet the sun with an “oh no, six more weeks of winter!” just because some little creature is afraid of his shadow. Talk about seeing the glass as half empty!
We also celebrate Black History month and Presidents’ Day. In the first instance, we set aside a month to remember pieces of history we ought to be celebrating all year round. In the second instance, we randomly meld together the birth dates of two American presidents we consider great, although I wonder if many people under forty knows which two presidents we celebrate—or can name any of the others.
Then there’s Valentine’s Day, whose origin story remains murky. The Catholic Church acknowledges three different martyred souls named Valentine. One was a third century priest who arranged for young lovers to wed in secret. In doing so, he defied the Emperor Claudius II, who figured single young men made better soldiers. Another Valentine apparently helped Christians escape the Roman prisons. That Valentine was subsequently jailed and may or may not have written a note signed “from your Valentine.” Heroic and romantic. Sigh.
Valentine’s Day seems to have replaced a rather pagan fertility celebration that involved the sacrifice of both a goat and a dog. Now it’s a multi-billion-dollar business that involves reams of paper and toys with the affections of millions. Nevertheless, I’m sure we all agree that exchanging cards is better than blood-letting an animal we’d prefer to see bouncing around on YouTube in pajamas or nuzzling a baby or a cat. In fact, most of us in 2019 would go all John Wick on anyone who hurt a dog.
Speaking of movies: February is a bit of a no-man’s land in terms of sports and entertainment. The Super Bowl and the Golden Globes are both past, leaving only the Oscars, Grammys, and a couple of talent and strength competitions that compete for “most dreadful.” On the other hand, the networks bring back our favorite shows and Netflix continues to pile on the programming.
And nothing beats reading. After wading through three books I disliked so much I won’t mention them, I read three books in a row I really enjoyed, including an extraordinary science fiction novel and Nebula award winner in 2016 (The Fifth Season by N.K. Nemesin), a lyrical 2018 best seller (Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Ownes) and an important non-fiction read that manages to be uplifting despite its painful subject matter (Parkland by David Cullen). Even better, I read these absorbing books in front of the fireplace with the dog curled in my lap.
That’s the best kind of February.