Lin Christie

April may be the cruelest month, but so far, February is the shaping up to be the coldest. It’s also the shortest. A month filled with more celebrations and odd customs than its compact length ought to be able to hold.

First up is Black History Month, which actually began as “Negro History Week” in 1926, when the second week in February was designated for the celebration of the contributions of African-Americans. The second week was chosen because it coincided with the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass. Over decades, the observation grew in popularity, especially in large cities. The week-long celebration was expanded and renamed Black History Month in 1970. Six years later, President Gerald Ford declared February to be Black History Month. Today, Black History Month is observed in the US, the UK, Germany, Canada, Jamaica, the Republic of Ireland, France, and numerous African nations.

And then there’s Groundhog Day. Really? What’s that about? Don’t we torture rodents enough without designating a day to drag one out of bed at the crack of dawn and make him predict the weather? What credentials does Punxsutawney Phil have that makes him qualified to prognosticate seasonal conditions and pronounce the prolongation of possibly the most perilous part of the year?

(I must apologize for my outburst and for my excessive use of alliteration. It won’t happen again.)

As I was saying, February has more than its fair share of event days. Take Valentine’s Day, for example. A day devoted to love. Like many of the holidays with origins during the Middle Ages, Valentine’s Day began as Saint Valentine’s Day, the feast day of the martyred saint, Valentine of Rome. Or maybe it was Valentine of Terni, whose feast day is also February 14. A third Valentine is also mentioned in official church records. Maybe my childhood omission of the apostrophe—Valentines Day—is more accurate than I once thought. Over the course of human history, Saint Valentine’s Day became associated with romantic love—although I have a hard time squaring romantic love with the contents of the reliquary of St. Valentine of Rome. Inside the glass-walled box rests the skull of the saint wearing a wreath of flowers. While I’m not one of the world’s great romantics, I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in puzzlement.

Presidents Day used to be Washington’s Birthday and Lincoln’s Birthday. Two potential cake days. Yay! In the end, combining the two allowed for a Federal Holiday and a great sale on household appliances, so WIN/WIN! However, as an unintended consequence of the adoption of the title “Presidents Day,” we now not only celebrate the great presidents, but we are also forced to commemorate less-than-stellar Commanders-in-Chief. I mean, what can we possibly celebrate about William Henry Harrison, the Thirty Days President? I guess we can always say his reign was longer than that of Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Days Queen.

Which brings me back to the beginning—in spite of the numerous party days, February is still the shortest month, and as a shout out to that distinction, I present to you two drabbles. Drabbles are kind of like micro stories. Each is exactly 100 words, not including the title. And like every good story, there should be a beginning, a middle, and an end. So without further ado—

Funny

“Mommy?”

I opened one eye, finding the clock. 2:46.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” I asked my four-year old without stirring. Lately, she has been having nightmares. Nocturnal visits have become regular occurrences.

“I feel funny.”

Sighing, I sat on the edge of the bed. “Come to Mommy.”

My hand touched Amy’s forehead. A shiver traveled through me. I realized that she really did feel funny. The reptilian creature who had once been my daughter bared its razor teeth, tearing my flesh. 

Now I understand—

I turn to my sleeping husband. I can almost taste the blood.

“Honey…? I feel funny.”

The Gardener

Last year, we planted a garden—tomatoes, cucumbers, melons.

But soon, the garden was so overrun with slugs that the Gardener planted exotic slug-eating snappers. Soon there were no more slugs. But the snappers had multiplied and before long, small dogs were going missing.

So Gardener bought a snapper-eating goat, which soon eradicated the snappers. We had tomatoes, cucumbers, and melons aplenty. But we found out too late that snapper-eating goats are omnivorous, with a fondness for fresh meat.

We miss the baby.

We do not, however, miss the Gardener.

By the way, could I interest you in a goat?