My Dutch and international readers may not have realized this, but today is Groundhog Day.  It's a very special day.  It's the day on which we honor one of the world's great rodents:  the groundhog -- that wonderful woodland creature also known as the woodchuck, the land beaver, the whistle-pig.  Its geographic range may be limited to specific sections of the North American continent, but its world-wide impact in the hearts and minds of millions of people cannot be overlooked.  Nor should it be overlooked.  Of course, that's why we celebrate Groundhog Day.

This is that one day of the year that we remember groundhogs' valuable and varied contribution to our civilization.  And indeed, where would our world be without the groundhog?  Just think of all the inventions, the discoveries, the works of art, the political movements, the heroic battles waged by groundhogs... Just - think - about - it.  Golly, I'm glad we have Groundhog Day to stop and reflect upon the meaning of it all...

Seriously though (follow this link to read the more standard explanation of Groundhog Day), isn't it strange that there are certain occasions which, when you really think about it, are absolutely ridiculous to observe -- and yet everyone from a particular culture knows that a certain date on the calendar represents that certain event?  Ask any American what holiday is celebrated on the 2nd of February, and chances are that they'll respond immediately and casually:  "Groundhog Day."  It's kind of similar with the Dutch celebration of Dierendag (Animal Day) on the 4th of October.  Our understanding of these dates is automatic -- even if it's ludicrous.  It must be some simple combination of a very tangible image (like a fuzzy groundhog, or whatever animal people think of on Dierendag), together with an empty stretch on the calendar that doesn't require any other memory recall.

At any rate, I wish you a very happy Groundhog Day.  And many happy returns of the day.

I swear that I can already start to feel the difference even in the very first days following the winter solstice -- a slow, steady, increase in the earth's illumination -- but this morning when I stepped outside my house to take the kids to school, it was obvious:  the northern hemisphere is tilting increasingly sunward... And my heart is growing increasingly warm in the glow.

This is something that I've come to love about Dutch winters (which are, generally, absolutely nothing to get excited about in any possible way).  Because of Amsterdam's latitude -- 52°22'22" North of the Equator -- the difference between the hours of daylight in the summer and the hours of daylight in the winter are extreme.  At the darkest times of the year, the sun doesn't come up until about nine o'clock in the morning, and it's already setting again by four o'clock in the afternoon... But in the brightest days of midsummer, the sun will rise around five-thirty in the morning and the last traces of dusk will linger in the evening sky until eleven o'clock or so... Thus, because there's so much ground to cover between these two extremes, the transition from summer to winter and back again to summer can be drastic and obvious.

Again, I really think that I can notice the difference, ever so subtly stretching the hours of daylight, by Christmastime (just a few days after the winter solstice).  The transformation is gradual at first, just slightly, slightly, softly, and slowly swelling hours of sunlight.  But (I don't know if there's any scientific proof of this) by the end of January and throughout February and March, it feels like we're grabbing great fistfuls of sunlight every day.  It's like Cookie Monster, getting a taste of something that he likes -- playing it all cool and casual in the beginning, but then somehow or another he ends up in a mad feeding frenzy.  In the latter parts of February and the early parts of March, especially, it feels like we're pulling in an extra ten or fifteen minutes of sunlight per day!  Again, I can't really say that there's any scientific proof of this bell-curve theory of sunlight's return to Amsterdam -- but in any event, the psychological effect cannot be denied.

All I know for sure is that at the beginning of this week, I was taking my kids to school in the dark.  And today, I took my kids to school -- at the same time, following the same routine as always, stepping out the door around 8:15 in the morning -- in the glorious dawn of a new day...

Dawn broke this morning, on the first day of winter, with a beautiful frosting of frozen fog covering the neighborhood.  Some ice is starting to form on the shallower canals.  It's really winter.

The cool, colorless, concrete corridors of the city were swarmed with swift cyclists swooping and swerving past each other like X-wing fighters in the Battle of the Death Star.  There's nothing quite like the morning commute in Amsterdam.  And then I saw her -- the poor girl -- on the far side of the Wibautstraat.  Her bicycle was upside down, propped up by its seat and handlebars, and she was crouched next to it, desperately tugging at the chain.  The relentless crowd of commuters streamed past, obscuring any accurate understanding of what had actually happened.  I wanted to stream past, too, as I was running late for a meeting -- but felt compelled to stop and offer my services.

"Heb je hulp nodig?"  I asked, with a friendly smile.

"Umm... Yah... Help?" She responded, in an Eastern European accent, apparently hoping that English might serve as a common denominator.

"Do you need help?" I responded.  Her wrinkled eyebrows and wordless gesture toward the bicycle made it obvious that help was appreciated.  So I popped off my bike, flipped down the kick-stand with my foot, and crouched down beside her to assess the damages.

It wasn't pretty.  The girl's long, loosely woven scarf was wrapped in and around and through the chain and the back wheel of the bicycle.  I couldn't imagine what it would have been like to have been wearing the scarf while it all happened.  Before I arrived on the scene, the girl had probably tried to crank the pedals a few extra times to see if the scarf could be emancipated -- because, no exaggeration, it was probably wound around eight or nine times.  As I tried looking at it and tugging at the scarf, nothing could be moved any further.  Not even a milimeter.  It was impossibly jammed.  I felt frustrated and exasperated for her.  "I was on my way to work," she offered.  There was very little that I could do, without any tools and without any time.  But I felt that perhaps it was best to simply choose to remain in the impossible situation with this stranger.  It seemed like the neighborly thing to do.  The human thing to do.

I scanned the scene, looking for a solution, and my eyes chanced upon a Kwik-Fit automotive tire store / garage about 30 meters away.  "Let's take it there," I suggested.  And having locked my own bicycle's wheel lock, I hoisted the upturned bicycle onto my shoulder and ambled toward the Kwik-Fit.  I figured they must have a wrench we could borrow, at least.  I carried the bicycle in and explained our plight to the middle-aged Middle-eastern man behind the desk.

"We repair cars, not bikes," he responded to me in accented Dutch.  Typical city manners.  He had no compassion; he was bothered to be bothered with some stupid situation like this on a Monday morning.

"Please," I entreated in my best, most-polite Dutch, "if we could just borrow a wrench, I could fix it myself."  The important man's co-workers, standing on either side of him, seemed more sympathetic.  And indeed, as I sprayed my plea in their direction, as well as toward the bothered mechanic, one of the others offered to go and get me a wrench.

"Just take that thing out of my garage!" the difficult one yelled after us.  "You can fix it out on the sidewalk."  Such classic cynicism.  I brushed it off like a pesky mosquito and thanked the other worker for his help in supplying the key for unlocking our problematic situation.  As I loosened the nuts holding the back wheel in place, we were able to finally slip the chain from the sprocket and create enough slack for us to gradually untangle the scarf from the bicycle.  It came loose in small centimeters at first, then in handfuls of fabric.  Finally, it was free.  Perhaps not ever wearable again, but at least it was free.  She rode off with a smile on her face -- doing her best to make up for time on her way to work -- and I returned to my bicycle with my own quiet sense of liberation.

Sometimes, it's the littlest things that make the biggest differences.

Ohio is a place where farms, fields, and forests dominate the landscape.  Oh, don't get me wrong:  the good people of Ohio are proud of their cities, their factories, their centers of commerce... but it seems to me that Ohioans are most at-home in the great outdoors -- trolling the streets of their smalltown festivals, working on their yards (maybe raking leaves) or fields (maybe chopping and stacking wood for the fireplace), and enjoying recreation in the form of backyard football or pick-up basketball or capture-the-flag... Yes, Ohio is primarily populated by salt-of-the-earth people who work hard, eat well, and enjoy nothing more than a good ballgame, taken in with good friends in the sanctuaries of living rooms, sports bars, or stadiums.  Archetypical Midwest America.  "The Heart of It All," as the state's license plates used to proclaim.

It seems that my fondness for my home state has increased in direct proportion to the length of time in which I have lived abroad.  Where I was initially bashful about the stereotypical icons of Ohio -- weathered farmers blasting country music on their pick-up truck's radio as they bounce over dusty country roads in the middle of nowhere (for instance) -- I now find an inexplicable pride and joy welling up from within my old Ohio heart.  I've come to embrace this colloquial identity.  I've come to revel in the down-to-earth, rough-and-ready goodness of Ohio.  And as such, it only makes sense that I am now the proud owner of my first Carhartt jacket.

Carhartt jackets are an icon of rural Ohio, the Midwest, hard-work, rugged fun, the great outdoors...  Simple.  Tough.  Classic.  And they're just plain good coats, being exceptionally warm and durable (and no, Carhartt is not paying me to write this post!).  When I was growing up, Carhartt jackets were most popular among the FFA (Future Farmers of America) crowd at my high school, and among construction workers, area farmers, and white-collar weekend warriors.  Truth be told, I never desired to own a Carhartt coat or associate myself with its common working-man identity... However, in the last couple of years, and especially since moving to Europe -- as I've changed my perception of Ohio and of myself... and as such, I've been thinking more and more about outfitting myself in the classic duck fabric of a Carhartt jacket.

And since I was back in the United States over the last couple of weeks -- back in the land of shopping malls and outdoorsman's outfitters, back in the land of the not-nearly-as-almighty-as-it-used-to-be dollar (compared to the euro, at least, which makes all products bought in America seem considerably less expensive), back just at the beginning of the winter season, and back just when I was needing to look into getting a new winter coat... it only made sense that I would look into purchasing a Carhartt jacket for myself.  I tried one on for the first time in the Bass Pro Shop in the Cincinnati Mills Mall, and encouraged by the positive reaction of a couple of my Dutch friends who were able to judge its effect on the streets of Amsterdam, I decided to go for it.  It feels so silly and materialistic and sentimental... But I'm really proud of my new coat!

I'm glad that I came home to Amsterdam with my Carhartt jacket.  It's been lekker warm (nice-and-warm) against the wind, chill, and rain of the fall weather.  It's surprisingly fashionable -- in spite of its iconic American aura -- even on the streets of cosmopolitan Amsterdam.  But more than anything, it's a connection to "back home."  Novembers are typically tough for me in Amsterdam -- probably my least favorite month of the year.  No Thanksgiving.  No American football classics.  No reverent hush of the season's first frosts and snows.  Just a dark and dreary descent into the bowels of Amsterdam's gray, rainy, depressed meteorological calendar.  Especially having just left the cool, crisp, blue-skied, colorfully-foliated glory of October in Ohio -- the nefarious Nederlandse November looms large.  But for some reason, putting on my Carhartt jacket, pulling up the collar against the chill, seems to provide me with some sense of protection... some ability to persevere... some reminder of who I am, where I come from, and where I am going.