The loud, celebratory music emanating this morning from the ecologically diverse environs of the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere is in recognition of an annual calendar event hallowed by all the voting citizens of the Tallahatchie Free State -- namely, the Colonel.
The scourge of the Julian and Gregorian Calendars, the month known as (the Colonel loathes to even give it mention by name) February, is dead and buried; its page on the calendar ripped clear and cast into the smokey fires of Gehenna like the clothing of a plague victim.
Named for the Latin term februum, meaning purification, [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] was called Februa for the ancient Roman mid-winter full moon ritual of atoning for sins.
The Romans elevated sinful excess to an art form and [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] is, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, the most miserable month of the year; and, therefore, entirely fitting as a calendar setting for rumination and reflection on one's imperfection.
But, [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name] is dead for another ride 'round ol' Sol. It shall receive no more attention.
The loud, celebratory music referenced in the opening lines of this missive is not so much for the deceased, as for the arrival of a new month pregnant with promises of rebirth and victory.
The name of this wonderfully manly month is March, aptly named for Mars -- the Roman god of war. Spring begins in March, and with Spring came the start of the traditional Roman military campaigning season.
Mars..., Martial..., March.
Pardon the Colonel for a moment while he pauses to beat his gnarled fist upon his hoary chest and utter monosyllabic grunts signifying reconnection with the long-slumbering, war-like sliver of his soul hidden deep within the shrivelled lump of barely viable tissue formally known as his heart.
The Colonel also feels compelled to extend his pause in this paucity of purposeful prose to ensure that the 'Bama and LSU grads are keeping up with the rest of the thousands of you who loyally lap up literary libations ladled out in posts hereon.
For you T-town pachyderms and Red Stick kitties who may have stumbled upon this blog in your continuing search for hounds-tooth hats and Mardi-Gras beads, respectively, the above use of the term "martial" is not a reference to the inhabitants of the Red Planet.
March, beyond the martial references above, is also a favorite of the Colonel's for the following reasons:
1. It is not [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name].
2. It contains the beginning of the turkey season.
3. It contains the beginning of Spring Football (or at least the close approximation of that sport played by the Ole Miss Rebels).
4. It contains March Madness. Make no mistake, the Colonel is no fan of that girls' game. The sooner March Madness begins, the sooner it ends.
5. The crappie (please pronounce with a short "a" or the Colonel will hurl anti-yankee epithets in your general direction) start biting.
6. Did the Colonel mention that it is not [the month the Colonel loathes to even give mention by name]?