Saima Sitwat is a freelance writer based in the Pittsburgh area and president of the Muslim Association of Greater Pittsburgh (saimaadil@hotmail.com).

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The legend of Punxsutawney Phil is one of the few things in Western Pennsylvania that reminds me of my native Pakistan. I grew up in a country where a rooster would predict the crack of dawn, flocks of birds are considered harbingers of spring and a crow braying at your door would signify the arrival of unexpected guests in the near future.

When my husband and I moved to Pittsburgh in 2005, we felt right at home with all the folklore and myth prevalent in this region.

Sometimes folklore is mixed with superstition. I remember my fascination on first walking across the Roberto Clemente Bridge and the sight of thousands of locks in different shapes and sizes attached to the bridge for a variety of reasons. Most are “love locks,” but some are for good luck or a wish for a remedy to a personal problem. The last I had seen a bridge full of locks was on Karachi’s famous Native Jetty Bridge.

The story of Phil is the best, though. In 2005, Pittsburgh saw an exceptionally harsh winter and, as I eagerly awaited spring, I realized that, in Western Pennsylvania, it is not the spring solstice that brings better weather. Our fate depends on Phil, a groundhog who resides in nearby Punxsutawney.

The idea of animals predicting weather is rooted in ancient Greek, Roman and Scottish traditions. Each year since 1886, on Feb. 2, “Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinary,” comes out of his winter abode to predict the weather for lesser mortals, such as human beings. If Phil sees his shadow, it’s bad news and means six more weeks of winter. Disappointed, he will return to his hole to eat and sleep. If he fails to see his shadow, spring will arrive soon(!) and hence he will stay above ground.

My first response to the story was, “Yeah! I can take that!” as I awaited the live telecast on TV at 6 a.m. on the morning of Feb. 2, 2006. In later years, this became a family tradition.

This year, I decided I would go to Punxsutawney to pay homage to Phil on Groundhog Day. Uh oh. I underestimated the reverence for Phil in the hearts of his legions. It was too late. By early January, I couldn’t find a place to stay closer than 45 miles from Gobbler’s Knob. As a result, this Feb. 2 it again will be me and my TV screen. I will have to wait until next year.

This reminds me of how we say in my culture, “You don’t make it unless you are called!”

So, this Groundhog Day, I will settle in to watch Phil from afar in the morning, and later in the day watch Bill Murray caught in his time warp, all while wondering how people across time and continents are more alike than different in their simple joys and aspirations.

Perhaps next year, I will be “called.”

First Published: January 27, 2018, 5:00 a.m.