Pennsylvania

Keystone Groundhog’s Day

Keystone Groundhog’s Day

Tomorrow—that’s 2 February—
Is, well, Groundhog’s Day

And since I am in Pennsylvania,
Maybe I should say something
(Maybe not)

The groundhog is a creature
With variants: prairie dogs out
West (USA), like Texas
Armadillos in attitude and in
Treatment, so I’m told

Nuisance-being that somehow
Makes a hole we all attend to
On this day

Origins are fought over (the day,
That is, not the groundhog
Itself, made in the perfect,
Chortling humor of the mind
Of God), though likely it’s a time
And rite of spring brought up
Into present cultural moment

There is a town, and here it is
(Here’s how it’s spelled)

Punxsutawney (too bad—Spell-
Check defeated me again, this
Year by only one letter)

Here in top hats people (not
The beast—and I don’t know
Why anyone wears the hats)
Will withdraw the toothy animal
From its artificial den atop a
Hill in or near the town (pardon
Me, the borough, there being
No towns in Pennsylvania,
Municipally speaking, save one
Town for another day)

And then winter’s prophecy-
Predictor takes over the day via
Shadow—and that’s all

But I like the day because, unlike
Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving
Or Memorial Day, we have not
Wrecked this one

There are no Groundhog-Day cards
(I know of), so you must make your
Own—and thus enjoy the day (or

Maybe not) in whichever way you
Groundhog-like

(Legend has it that on this morning, if a groundhog can see its shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter. If it cannot see its shadow, spring is on the way. InfoPlease.com.)

ShenandoahNPS / Foter.com / CC BY via Google Images

February 1, 2016 4

On the Cusp of a Nor’Easter (prose poem)

On the Cusp of a Nor’Easter
(prose poem)

So my friend calls from Indiana. I tell her of my sister’s new job. I am relieved and happy, because my friend’s been struggling with sufferings that would drive me mad. She sounds well and has a chance to tell me some about her family on her way to church to help lead (in technical matters) a Bible study there. It is cold here. It is colder there (single-digit degrees for many days). When she must ring off, she does. I am at the coffeemaker and place the backside of the phone on a spiral burner on the stovetop (everything turned off). While the coffee’s cooking, I clean out some plastic bottles into which I put tap water to drink throughout the day. Not thinking at first, I place the cleaned-out bottles just outside the burner circle set upon the stove. When I’ve done this four times, I have four empty bottles cornering a phone set on a burner plate of labyrinthine form. I’m sure there is a deity for winter (generally, Persephone, though I’m thinking there’s one for winter only), and have I not built a small, strange contemporary altar to her. A narrow receiver (wireless) offered up inside four plastic monoliths keeping in their stillness their own kind of sentinel watching. Is this supplication? I want my friend to be well. I want her husband to enjoy retirement and her daughter have success at school. I want the cold to move on, over there, though for a Midwest winter season, I guess what is endured is rather normal. (Still too cold.) My temps in southern Pennsylvania still have two digits. But we are called to be ourselves storm-ready against a coming, miles-wide soon-arriving gale. It smacks the South and later rounds out to sea—on the way releasing slivering ice and snow and the season’s other dangers onto our regional metropoles: D.C., Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York. And in my small town? I pray for navigable roads. In my small place, I pray for electricity’s constancy—that it might faithfully provide sufficient heat in rapport with the thermostat. And now I guess I wait. We wait. I clear the stove and leave on the burner now a single cup, ready for coffee. The empty ceramic vessel a suburban symbol of encouragement and also, I think, of supplication.

January 21, 2016 4

The Farm Show

(what we celebrate)

The Farm Show

The Farm Show is happening
in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,
the state capital. If you’ve
ever shopped, looked at the
markings on a package of food,
and seen (you may say penna-
dept) “Penna. Dept. of
Agriculture,” that’s us.
That’s Pennsylvania. With
standards so high for food
that theirs is an approving
agency relied on
‘round the world.

Not local mythology (not
yet), this state (my state
for now) is important for
food—and the annual
Farm Show is a celebration
of this.

Is there anything better
to recognize than organic
eatable or otherwise livable
selection? I know there’s
a classically brutal aspect
to farming of most kinds.
Animals are raised to
die, lands are turned under
losing ancient undergrowth
and artifact, and now
there’s the tension of
losing farm land itself to
other development. But
for now and anyway, we
celebrate what we need
to eat.

Sheep-to-shawl (alpaca-
to-shawl) and field-
to-shelf, the process of
feeding, clothing, and
sheltering America and
the world is exhibited. Yes,
there are statues made
of butter. Enjoy! (A PA
celebrity famous for saying
that, although he said it
twice.) And there are
auctions for animals.
Many shows of the rodeo
kind abound, and many
buy the food there as well,
which I’m afraid refers to
some snacks better-suited
for carnivals. Though baked
potatoes don’t sound so bad.
Even loaded. Even chased
with a Pennsylvania dairy-
made milk shake. (Sorry, Mister
Weldon Johnson, but for these
Bits of cooperative creation:
That’s good!)

These festivals take place
elsewhere, certainly. And
so might we agree that
raising up the cause of
(say viddles) victuals is
worthy for all? (To borrow
again:) That’s good!

Missive. Truly yours,
from Harrisburg’s
(one-hundredth)
Farm Show.

C L Couch

Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania
January 2016

January 9, 2016 3