As I announced yesterday over on my Blogger site, I'm shuttering that blog for a while to concentrate on a period of research  for my next book. But I also want to revive this site in order to have a place to think out loud and explore some new ideas. For a quick jumpstart, here's an old historian's salute to the dreary month of February. 

 

I think it's time we did something about February!  It's already the shortest month, thanks to Julius Caesar, who revised the calendar for us.  His astronomers failed to reconcile a 365¼ -day solar cycle with a 29-and-a-1/2-day lunar one, so they ended up with one month shorter than the others.   I'm grateful they made it February rather than wasting two of the lovely days of May.  Personally, I would have been even happier if they had made it only 20 days long.

After all, what does February have going for it?  The days are getting a bit longer, but when the sky is gray and ugly all day long, it's hard to get excited about the sun rising a minute earlier than the day before.  The glitter and fun of the holidays is over.  All we have  left are the unpaid bills and the unexplainable extra five pounds on the scales. February seems to have its own "F" word – "fat." Magazines on every news counter are telling us to "Lose Ten Pounds by Tomorrow" and "Walk Off Your Belly Fat."  Makes you want to get  up in the morning, doesn't it? 

And the weather  -- We used to say that  if it's going to snow in Memphis, it'll snow in February. If we had those flakes back in November, we'd all have been singing "Over the river and through the woods."  If they came in December, we'd be crooning about "Frosty the Snowman" and "Sleighrides." But February snow?  "I'm Dreaming of a White Groundhog" just doesn't cut it. But then neither does the unseasonably warm weather we’ve had this year. We’ve already had several 70-degree days, and each one throws our weathermen into a panic about “the threat of severe weather.” I’m tempted to junk all my calendars and assume that we will enjoy all four seasons on a daily rotation.

And speaking of groundhogs, have you thought about the weirdness of February holidays?  We start the month by waiting for a glimpse of a bleary-eyed rodent, hoping he'll tell us that winter is over.  Actually February 2 used to be celebrated in pagan Europe as a cross-quarter day, halfway between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox.  Christians made it into Candlemas Day, 40 days after the birth of Jesus and a time for the blessing of the year's supply of candles. Punxsutawney Phil, of course, is a purely American invention: he made his first official weather predication on February 2, 1887.  Where did we get that idea?  I haven't a clue.

Then there's Valentine's Day – a time for sweethearts everywhere, right?  Well, maybe not.  The real St. Valentine may have been a Christian priest in 269 A.D., in the reign of Claudius II.  He was thrown into prison for his beliefs, and while he was there,  he made friends with his jailor's daughter.  When he was taken out to be executed, he left her a farewell note, signed, "Your Valentine."  The day just happened to be February 14, the Roman festival of Lupercalia, in which Roman girls drew names out of a box to see who their  lover would be in the coming year.  So the two ideas--lovers and friendly farewell notes—gradually grew into our current celebration of hearts and flowers.  The next time someone asks you to "Be My Valentine," however, you might want to remember what happened to the first Valentine.

Also in the middle of the month comes "President's Day." Uh-Uh! Not going to go there.

The last day of February this year is Mardi Gras, certainly an excuse for a party.  In the medieval world, Mardi Gras was the last day of Carnivale, a period of silliness that began back on January 6 and extended up to the first day of Lent.  It was a time when everyone ignored the ordinary rules of society and the prohibitions of religion for a short while.  But Mardi Gras also carried a stern warning that the season for repentance was at hand.  All meat, oil, and eggs had to be consumed before midnight, since Lent brought with it 40 days of fasting.  In French Mardi Gras means "Fat Tuesday," and there's that "F" word again.

Maybe we just ought to give in and celebrate anything that comes along in February, in the fervent hope that it will make the month go faster.

In honor of my German (Hessian) great-grandparents, and in the tradition handed down to the Schweinsberg granddaughters through Grandma Karolina, I have been busy this morning making sure that my little household will be as lucky as possible in the coming year. (And Heaven knows, we may need all the help we can get!)

My southern friends won't understand this. They'll want to talk about back-eyed peas and greens, but -- trust me -- on a blustery New Year's Eve, whether in Germany or Pennsylvania-- finding a pot of pork and sauerkraut is about as lucky as it gets!

Tradition says that it always brings good luck to eat pork, although for those who don't like the meat, a marzipan pig makes a good substitute. The pork itself can take many forms -- a schnitzel,  a roast, a tender chop, or --  ideally -- slow-cooked with sauerkraut. Why sauerkraut? Because it comes with a wish that you may have as much money as there are shreds of cabbage in a vat of sauerkraut.

My own favorite version of the old recipe combines the following ingredients in a slow cooker and lets them meld on low for six hours. Yes, I suppose it might taste better in a cast iron pot simmering on the back of a wood-burning stove, but, hey! Serve with mashed potatoes. And why mashed potatoes? Because it tastes good!

Time to vent, just a little, as we move deeper into December and the holiday hoopla.  A time to stop, take stock, and remember what’s important in this life, and what is not. 

A case in point:

I have some old friends, some folks with whom I connected many years ago when we were all  working as mere “go-furs” behind the scenes of a large philanthropic organization. It’s been the kind of friendship that goes for months or years without contact but renews easily and joyfully when events bring us back together  for a day or two. They are the kind of friends with whom you go for a drink, or a quick sandwich, exchange views of family pictures, mention future plans, and then spin off on your separate trajectories.

In the last few years, one of these friends has hit the fast track to international prominence, by now serving in a jaw-dropping executive position that has him and his wife jet-setting around the world, hob-knobbing with others whose names I have only encountered in the newspapers. I miss our quick reunions but have rejoiced in his successes.

And now . . . 

Would I be pleased to find a Christmas card from him and his wife among the others that have started to arrive? Of course I would. One of the blessings of the holiday season is that we take time to remember the people who have played an important part in our lives..

Would I understand if his multiple responsibilities made it physically impossible for them to send out personal greeting cards this year? Of course I would. It really never occurred to me to expect a greeting from them. 

But there it was in my mailbox . . . 

. . . Christmas-stamped, sealed, and hand-signed . . 

. . . and addressed only to my husband . . 

. . . who, as most of you know, died almost two years ago.

So what are you doing this holiday season? Whatever it is, I hope it will be personal, heartfelt, and meaningful.  It’s time to move beyond doing what’s expected, going through the motions, knee-jerking your way through the tasks at hand. Better to send one sincere message to someone who changed your life than to send out 500 identical — and meaningless — cards.

Today—July 15—is St. Swithin’s Day. Why is that important? because it allows you to get a weather forecast for the rest of the summer. Here’s the traditional rhyme:

For the historically-minded, St. Swithun was an Anglo-Saxon Bishop of Winchester who lived in the ninth century. His tenure as bishop ran from 853 to approximately 862. This statue of him used to decorate the west portal of Winchester Cathedral. Today, if you want to see it, you can visit him in the crypt.

For the superstitious, I must warn you that his weather-predicting ability has been rated considerable below that of Puxatawney Phil. You must admit that the probability of England’s weather being consistently wet or dry for forty days in a row is highly unlikely. On the other hand, the prediction often works for our southern states. Today, for example, the weather forecasters here are predicting bright sunshine and clear skies with intermittent thunderstorms. I’m assuming that if we get both, a prediction that the mix will continue for the next 40 days does not seem unreasonable. I’d bet on it. Thanks, Swithun, old chap.