It’s Febru-ugly. I mean that in the worst possible way. What in the heck is going on around here? Ever since they caught that guy in the Queen’s bedroom the weather has had a mind of its own.

You remember what February is supposed to be in the North Georgia Piedmont, don’t you? We should expect a few nights of frigid temperatures here and there. After all, it’s still winter and we are a four-season state — supposedly. We might even have a random snowfall across parts of the state — which I realize that we did have in the northern suburbs last week.

But if I wanted the weather we’ve had this February, I’d move to Seattle. I bet they’ve seen the sun more than we have.

February. Watch the jonquils shoot through the formerly frozen ground and bloom. February. Count off the days until pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training, with the hope springing eternal within your breast that this well be the year that your team will win it all — with or without trash cans to bang upon and foam tomahawks with which to chop.

February. We’re supposed to begin the month with General Beauregard Lee doing his thing while that Phil groundhog up in Pennsylvania does his, and then go play golf three or four times a week until March gets here.

February. We’re supposed to watch the Academy Awards and remember all the good times we had going to the picture show over the course of the past 12 months. Nowadays even that broadcast has divided the country into watchers and non-watchers.

February. This year was supposed to be the year local college basketball fans got to see their teams come together and meld into competitive units that can play with anybody. We are supposed to be watching the March Madness predictions while figuring out what seed our respective teams are likely to achieve when it’s time to punch their card for the Big Dance. My school, Georgia, has the supposed No. 1 guy in the NBA draft, and we have parlayed that lottery ticket into two whole conference wins. My friends on North Avenue aren’t really any closer to making the tournament than we are.

And that nice warm weather that whispers “spring is on the way” is hiding out someplace where there are no red clay motifs because it hasn’t made an appearance around here.

I played golf six times in January. This month? Nada. Every day I have been free it’s been like “Rain, rain, go away; come again some other day.” The rain doesn’t go away. Instead it stays and then is like, “OK. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day. Katie Scarlett O’Hara said so. I’ll come back tomorrow, too.” And on those rare days that it hasn’t actually dropped water onto the local courses, they are still too soggy from the previous rain to let duffers like me loose on the fairways and greens.

I have a 2-week-old grandson who has never seen the sun.

And as I write these words, I am looking at our five-day forecast. Today. Chance of rain. Tomorrow. Chance of rain. Day after tomorrow. Chance of rain. Day after that — Mostly cloudy with slight chance of rain — but 25 degrees. The first day on the forecast without at least a 20% chance of rain is Saturday, Feb. 29. See what I mean? February isn’t even supposed to have 29 days, but this year we are being punished.

Into each life some rain must fall, but do we have to have all of ours in one month?

I am certain that the weather in March will be picture perfect. Plenty of sun. Warm Southern breezes. Flowers blooming everywhere. I bet that in March the golf courses will dry out and green up and every day will be like paradise. I bet the basketball games during March Madness will be the best in history, and the Braves will come on like gangbusters. I bet we have the best March in the history of March.

And I won’t be here for a silly second of it. I’ll be halfway around the world in Israel and Egypt with little communication with what’s going on back home. Such is life.

I know the cards I’ve been dealt, and I will play them — and go all in. But I do wish my Hoop Dawgs would win one more game before I depart, just so I’ll have something to warm the cockles of my heart while I am gone. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

Febru-ugly. Feel free to go on, just any old time.

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Darrell Huckaby is an author in

Rockdale County. Email him at

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