Some Reflections On February

February….I don’t have a lot of good things to say about the month of February. I maintain that its sole purpose is to be a placeholder, keeping the calendar symmetrical in much the same way that the chronologic hinterland between 3 and 4 a.m. keeps the face of the clock nicely balanced. Otherwise I’d really prefer to ignore it.

It’s not that nothing of interest occurs in February; on the contrary, Madison Avenue has fanned the flames of the once-simple feast of St. Valentine into a veritable marketing conflagration; men everywhere agonize over purchasing the perfect romantic gift for their sweethearts even as they are still paying off that perfectly romantic gift they bought at Christmas. And it’s true, the majority of the month is sandwiched between the media events of the Super Bowl at one end and the Academy Awards at the other, both extravaganzas providing us with several hours during which overpaid pop heroes bash against one other interspersed with – if the folks in the advertising world have been particularly creative - a few entertaining commercials.

Mardi Gras of course happens in February, too, but even in this day and age it is overshadowed by the fact that Fat Tuesday celebrations preceed six dreary weeks of Lent. Historically, legions of nuns exhorted hordes of Catholic school children – of which I was one – to give up candy, television, and in short just about anything that made the gloomy, interminable weeks at the end of winter the least bit enjoyable. Catholic guilt being the chronic condition that it is, I still feel compelled to observe Lent by, esstentially, “giving up stuff” (but I draw the line at coffee), and a real moral and theological challenge comes when Ash Wednesday falls before the chocolate bacchanalia that is Valentine’s Day in this household.

By February the cozy warmth of the fireplace has lost its novelty as we slog outside to the woods with yet another bucket of ashes and haul in yet another armload of firewood. Inevitably during this task we leave a trail of bark fragments and other woodsy detritus across the living room floor that is of course hoovered up by considerate dogs who later upchuck it in the middle of the night, ideally within hearing range.

The cuteness of dogs playing in February snow is rapidly replaced by the drudgery of mopping up after them. And the mud, when it appears, is even worse than the snow. There is a peculiar, intensely sticky quality to February pasture mud . If you aren’t careful a misstep into a waterlogged horse track will suck the boot right off your foot, leaving you teetering helplessly on the foot that remains shod, desperately fighting for your balance as you try to locate, and step back into, the wayward boot without soaking your sock in the cold muck (because once your sock is soaked putting it back into the boot and squishing disconsolately back to the house is just, in a word, gross).

Bright, glittery holiday clothing has long since been put away, to be replaced by boots, long underwear, and that essential item of Southwest Ohio farm haute couture, Carhartt Coveralls. The new boot purchase that makes my day does not involve Manolos or Jimmy Choos, but instead a basic black rubber pair on whose box is emblazoned “ The Original Muck Boot Company.” My most recent purchase was known as “Chore” – yes, they have model names, same as any department store slinky stiletto . In perusing the Original Muck Boot Company website, I discovered that there are dozens of styles, in businesslike shades of black and olive (Farm and Ranch styles), camo (hunter models, of course) and in colors such as “Dusty Pink” and “Plum Vine” for the garden . Presumably gardeners dress more cutely than we farm/ranch types. Is there crossover? Is there a hot pink plaid Chore boot? There should be. I’d buy a pair. And what are we to think about styles with names such as “Hoser” and “Woody Max?”

I recently read that adding as little as 9 lbs of weights to an exercise vest worn while walking helps burn calories and increase bone density. While internet surfing on a recent snowy Sunday , I googled weighted vests for exercise and found models with prices ranging from about $30 up. I then took my winter horse-feeding clothes and muck boots to the clinic and weighed the pile on the dog scales. Thirteen-point -nine pounds (this did not include the bottle of hot water I carry to thaw out the barn cats water dish). I’ve got it made! At this rate I should reach my ideal weight …around the end of August, although I’m going to look pretty funny wearing Carhartts and Muck boots and slogging through the woods when it’s 95 degrees out.

In truth, not all is drudgery in February. Along about this time every year the desire to meet signs of impending spring head on (and to drop a pant size or two in the process) impels me to start hiking. The sun grows a little stronger each day. Robins start to appear. True, they sit around looking disgusted, as if one of the group is saying “all right, who said we were supposed to take a left and head north at Atlanta?” Eventually the doves and cardinals start singing – I love the irony in this: those sounds that give us so much pleasure which are in fact territorial challenges. I picture a cardinal perched on a branch announcing with his best DeNiro snarl, “my tree, my chicks. You want a piece of ME?!”

This longing for spring after weeks of cold and darkness probably dates back as far as the history of human occupation in cold climates. It’s likely that nomadic tribesmen asked themselves essentially the same questions as the migrating robins: All right, we obviously though Og knew what he was doing when he said turn left and head north at Lascaux. I say we eat him now.” In medieval and renaissance times, treatises of farming lore known as manuals of husbandry described February tasks that including sorting seed (which reminds me, it’s time to get out the seed catalogs, even as the mercury drops and the snow flies). One Thomas Tusser, in the mid-1500’s, reminded fellow Englishmen that Feb. was a time to repair fence, clean barns and fertilize the pastures. Some 75 years later Nicholas Breton noted that “the husbandman falls afresh to scouring his plowshares.” One detects a common thread in these tasks: they are performed either outdoors or in the stables or barns. I suspect that this was because by February, medieval housewives simply could not stand the presence of their husbands lollygagging in the house another minute and essentially threw them out as soon as it was humane to do so. “Aethelred! Get your fleabitten ass off that wolfskin rug and out to the stable before I shovel you out!”

Oh well. As Nicholas Breton notes: “There is hope of a better time not farre off.”