Groundhogs and Love

Edited and re-shared in 2026 because it's a good Groundhog Day story . . .

Hello Friends,

Today I am re-sharing a story I posted here two years ago today so that my free subscribers who have joined me since then don’t miss it. If you have read it before, the edits, as well as the story itself, will make it worth your time to read again.

It is a story that goes back 74 years as we humans count time, but God arranged the events before time began. I originally wrote it about 12 years ago and had the privilege of sharing it with my mom back then. She loved it, but of course she was doubly biased since she actually lived it and her daughter wrote it. Because of this story, Groundhog Day holds a special memory for my siblings and me and will always make me think of Mom and Dad. Read on to discover the link between groundhogs and love:

I am about to make my mom cry. I will no doubt shed some tears myself before I get done with the telling. But I have to tell it because it’s a sweet, beautiful love story. And in 1963, it became my story.

Most people only think of February 2 as the day when a groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil pokes his head out so we can check if he sees his shadow, and somehow that predicts the weather. If the little rodent sees his shadow, we are headed into six more weeks of winter. If, however, he does not see his shadow, we can anticipate an early spring.

Thanks to some stealthy internet research, I discovered that way back in 1952, the groundhog did, in fact, see his shadow. But here’s something else that was seen on that day. It wasn’t on the news, nor did then President Truman even catch a glimpse of it. Perhaps he should have, though, since the story involved a man who had fought valiantly in WWII:  A soldier who saved the lives of the men in his unit by warning them away from a booby-trapped Italian farmhouse that would have blown them to bits had they crossed the threshold. A soldier whose own life would have been snuffed out had he not heeded the voice that urged him away from the haystack he hunkered behind. A soldier who crossed the Po River with three eggs in his pocket for a midnight breakfast on the other side. A soldier who was awarded three bronze stars. A soldier who returned home alive and intact, with only some shrapnel in his leg but with the shards of war undoubtedly embedded in his soul.

In 1952, that former decorated soldier studied to earn his teacher’s certificate while a female student who was ten years younger worked in the college registrar’s office in a small Missouri town. The Lord had made sure their paths crossed multiple times in the preceding months, including placing the former soldier at the same typewriter the female student used following his class. When she arrived for class, there he sat. Waiting for her, no doubt.

Their first date occurred on Groundhog Day, 1952, when they attended a college football game together. Eleven weeks later, on April 20, they married. The woman later justified their very short engagement by declaring, “If you know he’s the right one, why wait?”

Two years later, their first child, a girl, entered the world. A couple of years after that, they got a two-for-one when my twin brothers came along. Back then, the doctor came to their house to deliver “the baby,” only to discover another baby hiding in there. Surprise!

The photo below, published in the local electric coop newsletter, shows mom and half of the eventual six kids in front of the brand new electric washer, c. 1958. Dad was behind the camera, no doubt feeling very proud of himself for sneaking the fancy new washer into the basement to surprise my mom. I am sure she didn’t miss the old ringer washer at all.

Fast-forward a few more years to 1963 to when their only dark-haired child was born—me.

Fun side note here: My youngest was born exactly 43 years after this photo was taken. Mom’s handwriting on the back indicates I was five months old at the time. I was born January 7 and my youngest was born June 7. Fascinating.

A nostalgic snapshot of my childhood includes station wagons, Dad’s bowling leagues, a black and white television with a clunky knob, a telephone party line, root beer floats, swimming in the lake, riding bikes where there were no sidewalks, floating on rafts on the pond, sledding down steep hills, tadpoles (dying) in jars, traipsing through the 40-acre woods and beyond, linoleum, shag carpet, 16 mm home movies, Big Chief tablets, five-cent milks and orange sherbet push-ups, kittens, puppies, calves, a milk cow named Bossy, rainbows, and unicorns. (Just kidding. I never saw a unicorn.) There might even have been some teenage drama and ridiculous behavior in there as well, but I won’t discuss my sister right now.

Meanwhile, my parents enjoyed their married and family life with their six kids—that is, when they weren’t aware of what we were up to when we roamed the woods, played in culverts, and slid down steep, grass-covered hillsides into rock piles. If I were to describe their marriage in a few words, I would choose committed and fun. My dad was far from perfect, but he loved to laugh and especially enjoyed playing practical jokes on others to make them laugh. My reserved, somewhat shy mother’s eyebrows remained in a constantly raised state because of my father’s sometimes off-color humor and antics. But he could sure make her laugh.

Church Directory Photo - 1993. Here she was only three years older than I am now. Fascinating.

Even in the laughter, though, their life together was rarely easy, and sometimes it was terribly difficult. Along with the inherent difficulties and trials of raising six kids, they endured financial strain and stressful job situations, as well as a house fire that destroyed nearly all of their possessions a week before my 16th birthday. But nothing was as heart-wrenching as Dad’s diagnosis of stage III lung cancer in early 2000 and his subsequent treatments and decline.

After 17 months of hopeful medical intervention, small improvements and setbacks, then a week of obviously last days, Dad, husband to our mom for 49 years and one month, passed away on May 20, 2001. That year the shadow of the groundhog predicted a longer winter. I don’t remember any actual weather details of that time, but I do remember the abysmal ache of loss we felt when death cast its shadow over us. Our family grieved the absence of the man who was husband, father, grandfather, uncle, and friend. The rest of Mom’s days yawned before her like a hollow chasm, and she sorrowfully but determinedly envisioned spending the rest of her life alone. It seemed winter had come to stay.

However, such was not to be, for God began to reveal His plan to give my mom the gift of another love by orchestrating events to bring her and an old acquaintance together. Neither of them would have chosen the paths of grief they were forced to walk, but they gratefully embraced their second chance at love. In 2005, the 73-year-olds married a few weeks after old Phil poked out his head and saw his shadow.

In her loss, when all Mom could see before her was a long winter of loneliness, God, in His goodness, blessed her with an early spring of love.

In 1952 and in 2005, the groundhog got it wrong.

Janice Powell

Originally penned in 2013, edited 2024.

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February 2026 edit:

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