There are not many positive things I can find to say about February.

Actually there’s only one: It’s short, even though it seems longer than May and June combined. Of course, as Hallmark is at constant pains to remind us, frigid February contains Valentine’s Day, a corporate celebration of romance, when the media dole out love and guilt in equal measure and if you’re lucky enough to receive a card, it’s usually from someone you can’t stand.

Valentine’s Day is a double-edged sword, or perhaps that should be arrow, for those who, like me, are palpably past it. It can be agony for people whose love life is in dismal disarray, and who have no desire to be reminded of that wretched, obese cherub with his bow and arrow, wreaking havoc wherever he goes and leaving multitudes of star-crossed lovers to sort out the resulting train wreck.

It’s pretty difficult to get all dewy eyed when you go to your mailbox and discover a raft of RRSP ads and T-4 slips, both the antithesis of romance, cruelly reminding you how much you’re paying the government for the privilege of breathing. The only consolation this year is that  your net worth has probably plummeted to an all-time low, meaning you won’t have to pay as much tax.

February, fittingly, begins with ‘F’ and the myriad celebrations listed online for this miserable month are generally more depressing than inspirational. According to about.com, February is Dental Health Month. It also the time we gather together to celebrate National Carrot Day (Feb. 3), National Weather Person’s Day (Feb. 5) and National Dog Biscuit Day (Feb. 23), and, perhaps most stirring of all, it was on Feb. 17 of an unnamed year that the first canned sardines were packaged.

At Chateau Gilderdale, the only cure for mid-winter blues, apart from Mr. Wallethead’s wine cellar, is gazing out of the window at our bird feeder. I bought it after concluding that we were at the stage of our lives when we should consider giving up clubbing and rap concerts and try knitting, golf, trips to Casinorama and bird watching. I’ve only managed bird watching so far, although Mr. Wallethead is pretty handy with a putter.

When the fearless golfer first put our feeder up, not a single bird showed up for weeks. All we had to look at were rogue squirrels, trying every trick in the book to break in, including hanging upside down on the feeder, completely obscuring it from view. Not for nothing is it called the Squirrel Buster, however, and it has staunchly lived up to its name, although those bushy-tailed rodents never give up for long.

Happily, after a two-week hiatus, flocks of beautiful birds miraculously appeared, providing a visual treat to more than make up for the bone-numbing weather and the long haul from winter to spring. On really cold, snowy days, the branch above the feeder is festooned with birds awaiting their turn at one of the four fly-through windows, bringing to mind a lineup of cars at Tim Hortons, minus the damage to the environment inflicted by idling engines.

February is for the birds all right and they’re welcome to gorge themselves at this local fly-in whenever they like. I leave you with an uplifting little poem by Lilja Rogers:

First a howling blizzard woke us,

Then the rain came down to soak us,

And now before the eye can focus -

Crocus.

Categories: Columns, Vintage Whine
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