Musings

Groundhog Blues

Posted at October 28, 2006 10:37

By Ron W. Marr

My neighbor shot a marauding groundhog the other day, thus consigning the entirety of America to another 365 days of winter. I’m not saying that this particular rodent didn’t deserve his fate, for last summer he’d played fast and loose with our gardens. By early fall he’d excavated more holes in our yards than a gravedigger. Still, to end his existence just prior to February 2nd, Groundhog Day, seemed a temptation of fate roughly akin to burning a flag at a Veterans of Foreign Wars meeting or claiming your seventeen dogs as dependents on next year’s 1040.

Why this groundhog had awakened a couple weeks early from his slumber, I have no idea. Maybe he was hungry and maybe he was confused. Maybe he wanted to do a bit of shadow-boxing. Maybe he’d hoped to attend a Valentine’s Day protest against hydroponic gardening.

Or maybe he was bored to tears, having contracted the groundhog version of the February blues. I can relate, for the spell between New Year’s Day and the Ides of March is too long, too cold, and too gray. Remaining inside one’s humble abode over the long winter, be it cabin, castle, or hole in the dirt, can cause the mind wander and the nerves to fray. It’s a common syndrome in those locales prone to the cold gales of the northland – the insidious onslaught of cabin fever.

During my Montana days the locals knew, via hard-learned experience, that one should strive to be as polite as possible in February. This effort often failed with magnificent gusto. After six months of snow and more than a few solid weeks of thirty below, emotional fuses tended to burn hot. To no avail we hid the guns, unplugged the phones, and endeavored to stay away from smart alecks, firewater, and smart alecks with firewater. Come February, in Montana, tempers were shorter than a midget in a ditch. Come February, in Montana, even the earthworms were filing for divorce.

After a decade of such in the highlands, I learned a few things about cabin fever and the perils of February malaise. Mostly, I learned to move back south to my Ozark homeland, where the mercury rarely drops below a comparatively balmy twenty degrees. To my mind winter is mild here, the people friendly all year long. Then again, I’m still so enamored with a return to the state of my birth that I don’t even mind the August chiggers, ticks, and water moccasins.

However, I learned something else about cabin fever during my decade on the high peaks. During the frosty times you are well advised to keep your hands busy and your mind active. An overabundance of sedentary activity and negligent thought process leads to a bad attitude. To combat this tendency, some people read. Others sew quilts, spear fish with sharp sticks, cut wood, or join a bowling league.

Me … I got serious about guitar.

Now I’ve played guitar for years, usually the same chord patterns over and over. My repertoire consisted mainly of repetitive strains of “Sweet Home Chicago” or “Margaritaville,” badly plucked tunes which gave affront to all who had functional ears. And I was just fine with that. For starters, I’ve a fickle attention span. For another, I’m easily amused.

But this year, when the mercury dropped below freezing, I found myself strumming the old National blues-box a couple hours a day. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened. One evening, in a literal bolt from the blue, the practice paid off. I was suddenly able to do things with those strings I’d never even imagined. I was bending notes, sliding all over the frets, hitting odd barre chords, and picking with both speed and accuracy. It was weird and noisy and great. Even Boris, my blind malamute seemed pleased.

Somewhere in the midst of this process, I forgot all about winter. The fire was high and the cabin was warm and the music rang out over the Gasconade. At my age (that would be 46) I had resigned myself to the belief that I was too old to improve my heretofore nonexistent musical talents. That’s what I get for thinking. The truth of the matter is that you never really are too old to learn. All that’s required is a swig of desire and a shot of gumption. I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes the oldest clichés hold the most wisdom.

I still believe that you can’t teach an old groundhog new tricks. All you can do is send the little devil to his reward and keep him out of the tomato patch.

But it seems you can teach an old guitarist some new licks.

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