I’m a groundhog. Well, symbolically, I’m a groundhog. I emerged from my burrow on Groundhog Day, 1986.  I’m reminded of this each year my birthday rolls around, when my mom recollects her story about being in labor with me as the hourglass sands of Feb. 1 dwindled, and I still hadn’t arrived. My dad, a distinctive concoction of stoicism and sharp wit, always kept jokes within a hand’s reach of his flannel shirt pocket. When…

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