Never Knew a Groundhog that Wouldn't Run

I never knew a groundhog that wouldn't run. Take the ones in my yard, for instance, they run, they dive, they perform death-defying tumbling acts that'd put Olympian gymnasts to shame. Oh, the twirls! The swirls! The spike-haired one that does the backflips is my favorite.

Ridiculous, you think to yourself, the old man's finally lost his last marble --but I tell you, watch out for those groundhogs, there's a lot more to them than they let on.

When I was young and chasing groundhogs for my father, I used to wonder, what if it were really groundhogs that George Washington was thinking about when he cut down that cherry tree?

Was it really just a lark, a rebellious prank, or could it have been, perhaps, an earnest attempt to help his father clog those pesky groundhog holes? Even now, as a shabby old bachelor, I still picture it:

"Hey George," Augustine would have shouted, using much the same tone my father did, "we're going to get these mangy pests yet! Go get something to block these holes."

And George, being a dutiful son, took his prize hatchet to the strongest tree in the yard-- the infamous cherry tree.

"Here you are, Dad," he'd have replied, in a manner similar to mine, I imagined, dumping the wood near Augustine and helping him stake the boards firmly into the ground.

"That'll teach them," Augustine would have answered, wiping his hands on his shortpants and smiling at George. "We won't see the like of them around anymore."

It wouldn't have been until the next day while on horseback that Augustine would notice the tree stump and new groundhog holes directly beside the old ones. Full of frustration, he'd have hollered for George and question him about the tree.

"Father, I cannot tell a lie, I cut the tree."

Unfortunately for everyone, in my mind, at least, George's mother would have overheard the conversation and set to screaming so loudly about her precious tree - brought all the way from England - that even the groundhogs would have been scared enough to high-tail it out of there, never to be seen at Mt. Vernon again.

Other days, I'd wonder about Abraham Lincoln, who, I had learned, grew up in far less promising circumstances. A cherry tree, for him, would have meant one thing: heat during the cold Indiana winters. There was never any playing with an axe as though it were a toy, most likely there wasn't ever any playing at all, except, of course, with his friends, the groundhogs.

He gave them names -- Fluffy, Lee, and Bea -- nevermind that they were the same names as my sister's cats. I'd imagine that he often read to them, practicing his pronunciation and, later, during his teens, making them listen to his grand speeches. I know it was the speeches that did it in for them, for, whilst in the middle of an especially moving one, Lincoln's voice must have cracked just as severely, and hit just such a high, high note, as mine did on that humiliating day in high school, that the pain was too much for the groundhogs to endure, they had to run. To this day, very few groundhog are seen in that part of Spencer County.

But that is not the case in my back yard. They run rampant, rampant, I tell you. I haven't mowed the lawn in six months, it's that riddled with their holes. Instead, I sit, sipping my coffee on my screened-in porch watching thier antics.

The last time they came out was St. Valentine's Day. The females pop up, mainly to watch the lovebirds coo and the humans hold hands. I can tell they think it so very romantic. Male groundhogs, though, really only pop their heads out to see the ladies or to poke fun at us humans, especially us old men. I've seen them tittering and pointing paws -- far too often in my direction. Obviously, most male groundhogs would much rather be in their holes, betting on the ant races or the burrowing worms, but they do enjoy a good laugh now and then and, besides, what better chance to meet that cute new single lady over in burrow three?

As for myself, I've never tried to chase them away or fill in their holes, recognizing it as a futile endeavor. Instead, when the grass gets too high, I throw parties for my young nieces and nephews and watch helplessly as the groundhogs go running from the high-pitched shrieking and laughing, the loudest of which comes, unfortunately, from me.