I was visiting with some people after church and the subject of Groundhog’s Day came up. I confessed that I hadn’t paid any attention to whether or not Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow. It turns out that he did. That is supposed to mean six more weeks of winter. As usual, however, it depends on which groundhog you consult. Staten Island Chuck did not see his shadow yesterday so his prediction is for an early spring.

There is another reason I don’t put too much stock in what hibernating rodents forced to wake for the ceremonies of humans when it comes to weather. Groundhog’s Day is February 2. Our son’s birthday is roughly six weeks after February 2. He was born in the Ides of March. In the places where I have lived most of my life, March 15 would be too soon for an early Spring. Twelve weeks after Groundhog’s Day would be an early spring, and unless one has a greenhouse or similar structure, April 27 is too early to put out your tomato plants in those places.

It isn’t that I am any better than woodchucks at predicting the weather. I’m not. Since we moved to the Pacific Northwest, I haven’t experienced much of what I would call real winter. We’ve had a few cold days and there have been a few skiffs of snow, but the climate around her is very mild compared to the places I lived the rest of my life.

February 2 in the family where I grew up was Uncle Ted’s birthday. Uncle Ted was the brother of my maternal grandmother, so technically he was my great uncle. He was pretty special to me as we shared the same name. His given name was Edward, but according to the version of the story I was told, my father said, “If you’re going to call him Ted, why not name him Ted?” At any rate my name is Ted. I don’t have an Edward or Theodore behind the single syllable. And I lived all my life believing that I was named for Uncle Ted which is a definite honor from my point of view.

All of the children of Roy and Hattie Russell grew up in Fort Benton, Montana, when it was still pretty much a rough and tumble frontier town. Fort Benton was established as the head of navigation of the Missouri River. Just upstream from Fort Benton the Great Falls of the Missouri made passage by steamship impossible, so Fort Benton is where freight shipped up the river was transferred to overland transport, usually mule trains. The townsite was within the traditional hunting grounds of the Blackfoot Confederacy. The fort was established in the 1850s as a trading point for beaver hides and buffalo fur. The arrival of Steamboats in Fort Benton in 1860, marked a transition in shipping as soon afterward gold was discovered in several locations in Montana. The rush for riches in gold, silver, and copper mines brought a host of settlers to the area. Roy Russell was a trained court reporter and rode the steamboat to Fort Benton to become the first official recorder in the Montana Territory.

Uncle Ted grew up with a distinct flare for mechanics. He learned to repair and modify bicycles and made several long distance bicycle trips, including explorations of Yellowstone National Park and the territory that was later to become Glacier National Park. His interest in machines combined with is interest in travel and adventure and he eventually ended up in California working as a machinist. During the Second World War he and Aunt Florence were living in California when my mother rode the train to that state to follow her beau, a pilot she had met in Billings, Montana when she was in nursing school. They were married in the home of Aunt Florence and Uncle Ted. There was a special bond between my father and Uncle Ted forged in their shared interest in mechanical devices. After the War, Uncle Ted worked as parts manager of a car dealership and became an expert in auto repair.

When my father purchased a John Deere Dealership he needed a parts manager and the timing worked out for Uncle Ted and Aunt Florence to move to Montana once again. Once they arrived we were together for our holidays, including birthday celebrations. Aunt Florence died of a heart attack and Uncle Ted continued to be a part of our family and worked for my father until his health prevented him from working.

We have hundreds of Uncle Ted stories in our family. I remember clearly one winter day when he came from the parts department into the shop at my father’s business and proceeded to drill holes in the soles of a pair of work boots. Next he installed tire studs in those holes, giving himself a pair of homemade cleats. He put those on before heading outdoors to walk around town and believed himself to be the most sure-footed person on icy paths. Later he built himself a walking stick with a spike in the end to enhance his traction.

One day he invited me over to his house and informed me that the time had come for him to quit driving and since I was planning to get married, he was going to sell me his car. He said that the old Ford pickup I was driving was too expensive and too unreliable for a married man. The price was less than half of what he had paid for the car and he told me that it was less than 50 cents a pound. It is the only car I’ve ever owned where I knew the exact weight of the vehicle. It didn’t take much to convince me and that car saw us through the first five years of our marriage including numerous trips between Montana and Chicago.

We got a skiff of snow here yesterday and temperatures are supposed to stay below freezing for a week or so. That might mean a bit of extra work getting water to the cows at our son’s farm, but other than that, I’m not seeing much winter disruption in our lives. After all, it’s February. It is supposed to be winter in my way of thinking. It seems like a good time to let groundhogs hibernate. Six more weeks doesn’t seem like a problem to me.