phil

Phil, the Sadness beneath the Fur

Carrying the weight of the world's weather concerns on your tiny furry shoulders can be a terrible burden, but mixed with the strain is the knowledge that you are looked to by half the world for word on wheather spring is just around the corner.

Here, in an exclusive interview conducted more than a decade ago is a look at a side of the world's most famous weather forecaster which the world has never seen before...

Phil, the Groundhog, up close and personal.

by John McCormick

Every February 2nd the media flock to the small west-central

Pennsylvania community of Punxsutawney to learn what the weather

will be like for the next six weeks.

For nearly 104 years Phil personally has been honing his

Delphic propensities, perfecting his craft, and constantly

striving to improve the reliability of weather predictions until,

today, Phil has reached the peak of his profession and is every

bit as reliable as the U.S. Weather Service.

All we normally see of the hairy, hardworking weather-rodent

Phil is the half hour he spends in front of the klieg lights on a

cold February morning each year; few are privileged to see the

amount of preparation that goes into making each year's

prediction.

This year, in an exclusive interview with the meteorological

marmot, this reporter looks at his home and professional life,

following Phil from his palatial home at the center of town life

on his estate which he graciously opens to the public who use it

as a town park, to the moment he leaves on his yearly journey

into the media spotlight.

Unlike many celebrities, Phil and his family are not the

recluses one might expect; instead, they are always ready to

greet both townspeople and visitors alike from the picture window

of their home.

Although his actual quarters are kept very rustic in order

that Phil can remain in touch with his bucolic nature, so

important to maintaining the correct mindset essential to his

success in predicting the whims of Mother Nature, the rest of the

building houses his 10,000-volume library.

But, as if to remind us that every celebrity must live in

fear of the crazy element that can run the gamut from

souvenir-seeking fans to crazed assassins, connected to Phil's

home/library is a fully staffed police station manned 24 hours a

day.

With a foresight that can only be applauded by those who

depend on Phil's vital services, the town has even built a fire

department adjacent to Phil's residence where his fellow citizens

stand prepared to leap into action to protect this most valuable

and celebrated member of the community.

As I approach Phil's home from the adjacent park, across

from the area's largest shopping complex, Groundhog Plaza, this

reporter is first struck by the elegant but understated entrance

to the weather shrine.

Although there are no large, glaring signs indicating that

this outwardly utilitarian structure houses the world's greatest

four- legged weather mystic, the entry is graced by a simple but

effective life-sized bronze statue of Phil himself, one paid for

by a group of local believers in the town itself and erected in

1977 in recognition of his long and faithful service.

As Phil welcomed me to his residence, there was an

unmistakable air of tragedy about this very reserved celebrity

and, although he declined to discuss his private concerns, I was

well aware that only a few miles away his fellow groundhogs were

considered little more than vermin to be aggressively sought and

destroyed by local farmers and gardeners.

A note of even more personal tragedy entered prognosticating

Phil's life when, his first wife, Phyllis, died in 1978. This

sense of tragedy is only emphasized because Phil himself, being

the anointed "SEER of SEERS," is immortal.

Phil's entire family was present, and I suppose I should

take a few words to say something about the apparently happy

marriage of Phil and second wife Philomena, which was performed

at a ceremony presided over by a county judge.

This was an arranged marriage, with Philomena coming from

the extreme southeastern corner of the state.

Although Philomena had come from a much more sophisticated

environment in Philadelphia, she was both gracious and open,

dressed only in her inexpensive fur coat.

Also in residence with Phil and Philomena is their cousin,

Barney.

As I was locked into the building for the night's vigil,

Phil was quiet but intense in his concentration, preparing for

his dawn appearance at Gobbler's Knob high in the hills

overlooking the quiet town of Punxsutawney.

Contrary to the accusations made by some yellow journalists

and repeated in some muckraking supermarket tabloids, Phil does

not make any advance decision; he told me that his prediction is

made precisely when he stands forth on the Knob.

As a part of his preparation, Phil sleeps from September to

February, gathering his energy for the remarkable effort involved

in making his most accurate prediction.

Despite the comfortable surroundings in this modern home

which was built for him in 1973-4, I remarked on the absence of

any modern entertainment devices.

Phil pointed out that this was for two reasons; first, the

presence of modern electronics would disturb his carefully

maintained closeness to nature, and, second, Phil apparently

lives in dread of seeing or hearing weather predictions on TV or

radio - thus, this is one marmot family that will never watch

James Herriott's "All Things Great and Small," CNN, or even

Willard Scott's smiling face.

As we settled down for the evening, Phil dined lightly on

the wilted lettuce bouquet I brought for Philomena and the rest

of his family discreetly chowed down on the kibble supplied by

Phil's trainer and official handler, Bud Dunkel.

Bud, who is generally known as "The Keeper of the

Groundhog," is in reality Phil's caterer, delivering fresh

vegetables and sunflower seeds to supplement Phil, Philomena, and

cousin Barney's regular Eukanuba diet.

Although I had intended to sit up with Phil all night on his

lonely vigil, I must have drifted off to sleep because, the next

thing I knew, Jim Means, President of the Punxsutawney Groundhog

Club, along with Phil's personal trainer, Bud Dunkel, had already

arrived dressed in top-hated formal wear, ready to escort Phil

to his morning appearance before the world's media and adoring

throngs.

This is where my part of the story ends, leaving the actual

reporting of Phil's brief appearance in the glare of publicity to

the gaggle of reporters awaiting him on that cold hilltop or

destiny.

Me? I am heading for a hot breakfast before the throng

returns to what is now a nearly deserted town.

Although I had politely shared some of Phil's dry kibble, it

just wasn't filling.

I plan to spend most of the rest of the day watching over my

snow-covered garden plot awaiting any of Phil's distant relatives

who might stick their heads out on their day.

But I expect to put my varmint rifle down long enough to

attend some of the day's festivities in nearby Punxsutawney; in

particular I want to see the Oreo Cookie Stacking Contest and the

naming of the Punxsutawney Ambassadors.

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