• The month of loathing

I loathe February.

Yes, this is a point which I have belabored before, but one reason I loathe February is because the month makes writing – usually a pleasure – more like drudgery. Hence, to write a column, I sometimes have to revisit topics. With few exceptions, I don’t really like to write about the same thing twice, but with February, I have no choice. As creativity, such as it is, wanes, so must I revisit topics – and that usually happens in February.

I will say immediately, lest I offend someone who loves this month, or feels it is simply a misunderstood, less fortunate month in need of a hug, that February has a few high points. The birthdays of my Sister the Troll and my beloved mother-in-law, as well as Miss Rhonda’s buddy Janet and several others, for instance. Then there’s Valentine’s Day, which is one of my favorite holidays. There – see? I can be fair and balanced and say something good about February.

For the most part, though, I detest this month. February is barely even a month, in my book. It doesn’t know if it wants to have 28 or 29 days, and while coquetry is admirable in pretty young woman, it is irritating when one is trying to pay bills, complete tasks, and spend some time outdoors.

I think my passion for the outside contributes to why I loathe this month with a vengeance bordering on mild psychosis. February marks the end of hunting seasons (although states surrounding us have several that go into March). Not for eight months will I be able to go out on my porch at night and hear the chorus of coonhounds ranging through Colly Bay. Beagles will have to bay with sadness as bunnies prance past their pens, sneering and teasing them. Only few weeks of bird hunting remain, and I’ve yet to take the time this year to wait patiently for a pointer to freeze, waiting for the command to flush an explosion of whirring quail from a hedgerow.

February marks the end of most of the trapping seasons as well, so I will lose most of my early morning private time.

Of course, the onset of February means our state’s ridiculous fox laws kick in. In two of the counties where I trap, foxes are no longer legal game after Jan. 31. Any foxes taken as incidental catches must be released. Hence, I am sure 50 percent of my coyote sets will be filled with foxes on a daily basis. Foxes are so ungrateful when you release them. I think it’s because they love the month of February, which as I may have mentioned, I consider repugnant.

I am sure everyone is familiar with the song from that wonderful cartoon, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I don’t mean the silly modern version with Jim Carrey (a production which I think was made in February) but the classic animated version with Vincent Price. I believe if you took the Grinch song and changed the words slightly – simply swapping “February” for “Mr. Grinch” – you might be able to capture a portion of my antipathy for this month.

My normally bright disposition, that which causes Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm to appear drab and sad, will soon deteriorate even further. I might even sound sarcastic sometimes, if you can imagine that. February does that to me.

My worst times on the highway have always been in February; once I was involved in not one, but two crashes in the same day — on the same day I was fired from my job. Years later, on my way back from an abortive afternoon of blacksmithing, my truck went straight instead of gently rounding an icy curve and I ended up nose down in a canal, with ice floating through the cab. That was the day I discovered that a Chevy S-10 pickup truck can turn an anvil into a very effective ballistic object.  Thankfully, I only got struck by the three-pound hammer and the axe handle. Neither the tools nor the anvil were injured, and I drove that truck for another 10,000 miles – but not until the end of February.

I really, really, really dislike the second month of the year.

The American Indians knew about February. Just think about what some of the tribes called the second month – some tribes called February the Month of the Starving Moon, while others called it the Month of the Storm Moon. There are other names as well, but I’ve always though those were the most appropriate: a time of little food, and a time of storms like the one we experienced last week. Yes, that storm was in January – but I think it just missed, since even Mother Nature doesn’t like February.

I am repulsed by this month, this gnarled, sneaky, shifty little weasel of a month called February.

But while I’m snapping and snarling about February, I am also begrudgingly looking forward to what the month offers.

Soon the jonquils will stand like frozen little soldiers, defiantly bearing the gold and yellow shields against the misery of the month. An early wren is already nesting in the holly bush by our kitchen door, much to the dismay of our cats, who are too lazy to even consider bird hunting (even out of self-defense).

The bass will soon begin fanning patches of sand into their own versions of ideal starter homes, attacking even a poorly-presented lure with the gusto of a suburbanite defending his lawn from weeds. The catfish will again eat with vigor, rather than a slow and sorry sense of survival. The pear tree I found last year might produce this season, so I’ll be watching for its blooms whilst I gather some sassafras from a nearby patch that somehow survived the loggers.

When February finally slinks through its final sloppy stages, the greatest porch in Southeastern North Carolina will again be open for business. Sam the Pig won’t be quite as grumpy and cranky. His naps will become more for recreation than resignation at having nothing better to do.

Come to think of it, maybe Sam’s got the idea. Perhaps I can find a spot of sunshine, tucked away out of the wind in a lee somewhere, and sleep my way through February. The idea has some merit, except for the fact that I develop insomnia during February, and sleep, Shakespeare’s yarn which knits the ravel’d sleeve of the day’s cares, escapes me. Still, a nap – one lasting 28 or 29 days – might be in order. With a little bit of rest, maybe I’ll wake up, and the month of February will have just been a bad dream.

While I haven’t fully researched it, I’ll bet that somewhere out there, some academic has discovered yet another Native American name for the month of February. If not, I’d like to submit one of my own – the Month of Loathing.

You see, I just don’t like February.

–         Weaver is a syndicated columnist who lives in Kelly. He does not like the month of February. Email him at jeffweaver@whiteville.com, or catch up to him on facebook.com.