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Whistlepig Day was an important Portland tradition for many years. By February, we are usually more than ready to bid goodbye to our long, wet, dreary winter. We are eager for some good news: longer days, warmer temperatures, an early spring!
Those who aren't from Portland may know the Feb. 2 holiday by a different, more ludicrous name. I've heard in certain regional dialects that people may grow up calling it "Groundhog Day" or "Thickwood Badger Day" or "Weenusk Day." This is patently absurd.
Here in the Northwest, we call these noble soothsaying rodents by their proper nomenclature. Should you ever utter the words "woodchuck," you will not only be exposing yourself as the out-of-town transplant that you are, but you will also probably hear me and my dyed-in-the-wool native Portlander friends having a snicker at your expense.
The most famous Whistlepig Day celebration is, undoubtedly, that in Punxsutawney, Penn., where poor Punxsutawney Phil the whistlepig is roused from his burrow the morning of Feb. 2, and held high overhead like a squirming trophy for a crowd of cheering onlookers. Phil's handler "asks" Phil whether or not he detected his own shadow. Based on Phil's reply, it is declared that we should expect either six more weeks of winter or an early spring. What superstitious hooey.
Portland demanded an evidence-based approach. That is why, in 1946, Mayor Earl Riley decreed, "The city of Portland, an engine driven dually by the pistons of logic and skepticism, will hereby and forevermore absolutely reject any meteorological proclamations issuing from the village Punxsutawney in the Quaker State."
On Feb. 2 of that year, Portland's Whistlepig Day festivities were held on the waterfront for the first time. Thus began the annual tradition that saw Portlanders gather on that day to sing songs, eat whistlepig-shaped sugar cookies and find out whether we could expect a long winter or early spring.
The predicting was carried out by dozens of whistlepigs rather than a single animal. When called upon, the handlers would carry them to the river and kneel solemnly. The mayor would fire the starting pistol, and the whistlepigs would be dipped in the water and urged forward. Whistlepigs are not natural swimmers, but as everyone knows, they are extremely coachable.
And off they would go, battling the current, fighting to keep their tiny snouts above water. It took about 30 minutes for the swiftest whistlepig to emerge on the opposite bank, famished, and when it did, it would be met with a decision: to eat from one of two bowls, one containing iceberg lettuce and the other winter brassicas. Whichever green it sampled first would provide incontestable proof of either a long winter or early spring.
This science-based prediction method proved far more accurate than Punxsutawney's quackery, but in 1999, Mayor Vera Katz, in the midst of her fanatical crusade against our most important cultural pillars, canceled the event, citing an unacceptable number of whistlepig drownings. Sadly, we all knew this was happening, but we chose to look the other way. After all, what was the weight of a few lost whistlepigs compared to the lost soul of Portland?
