If Candlemas day be fair and bright,
Winter will have another flight.
If Candlemas day be shower and rain,
Winter is gone and will not come again. posted by caddis at 2:46 PM on February 1, 2006
I'm in central PA, only a couple hours away from Punxsy, and I've been meaning to make the trip to Gobbler's Knob to see Phil. People I know who are from this area say that Groundhog Day in Punxsy is a lot of fun, but unfortunately I have to work. Luckily, the local TV stations is having a couple hours of Phil coverage starting tomorrow at 5AM.
I heard that there is going to be a Terrible Towel wave as part of the festivities this year since the Pittsburgh Steelers are in the Super Bowl. posted by Fat Guy at 2:56 PM on February 1, 2006
Metafilter: Because Pagans are the new Black.
Happy Imbolc! Blessed Be. posted by Uccellina at 2:59 PM on February 1, 2006
All the lights in my apartment are on (the ones that work, that is. The ones in the bathroom don't, so I shall light some candles for a Neolithic hair-washing ritual.)
And today was cloudy in London, so I'm hoping for an early spring. Though I'd settle for any spring at all, really. Hurrah! posted by Pallas Athena at 3:29 PM on February 1, 2006
Now you've done it. You called attention to Groundhog Day! I expect Hallmark cards, special chip dip recipes and rhinestone studded trowels to be on the market right after Christmas.
Not to mention $5.00 Tshirts selling for $19.95 with a picture of Phil. posted by Cranberry at 4:40 PM on February 1, 2006
"The Giveaway" (from The Love Leters of Phyllis McGinley, )
Saint Bridget was
A problem child.
Although a lass
Demure and mild,
And one who strove
To please her dad,
Saint Bridget drove
The family mad.
For here's the fault in Bridget lay:
She would give everything away.
To any soul
Whose luck was out
She'd give her bowl
Of stirabout;
She'd give her shawl,
Divide her purse
With one or all.
And what was worse,
When she ran out of things to give
She'd borrow from a relative.
Her father's gold,
Her grandsire's dinner,
She'd hand to cold
and hungry sinner;
Give wine, give meat,
No matter whose;
Take from her feet
The very shoes,
And when her shoes had gone to others,
Fetch forth her sister's and her mother's.
She could not quit.
She had to share;
Gave bit by bit
The silverware,
The barnyard geese,
The parlor rug,
Her little
niece's christening mug,
Even her bed to those in want,
And then the mattress of her aunt.
An easy touch
For poor and lowly,
She gave so much
And grew so holy
That when she died
Of years and fame,
The countryside
Put on her name,
And still the Isles of Erin fidget
With generous girls named Bride or Bridget.
Well, one must love her.
Nonetheless,
In thinking of her
Givingness,
There's no denial
She must have been
A sort of trial
Unto her kin.
The moral, too, seems rather quaint.
Who had the patience of a saint,
From evidence presented here?
Saint Bridget? Or her near and dear? posted by IndigoJones at 6:17 PM on February 1, 2006
My wife is a Brigid, and she celebrates St. Brigid's Day each year. What a pleasant surprise to find this post.
Winter will have another flight.
If Candlemas day be shower and rain,
Winter is gone and will not come again.
posted by caddis at 2:46 PM on February 1, 2006