Years ago when the children were tiny and we lived a much longer commute away from work and our schedules were not so fragmented that we could actually ride in the same car together, there was a drive time radio show called Harvey in the Morning. Harvey was John Harvey, a folksy non-shock jock who was pleasant and funny and informative and about as far away as you can get from trash like Howard Stern as it’s possible to be. Harvey graduated from high school with my husband – I doubt he was voted Most Likely to Anything.

This was long enough ago that he introduced us to Bruce Hornsby and 10,000 Maniacs. His producer was named Julie, though her last name escapes me. She became a big part of the program, a bouncy counterpoint to Harvey’s sometimes-plodding delivery. Julie was from Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, home to the most famous groundhog of all, Punxsutawney Phil. Several years Harvey and Julie made the trek to Gobbler’s Knob to report live from the annual event. It was a gigantic affair, with Julie’s parents contributing to the reports (I think her father had been one of the sacred Inner Circle of Groundhogdom) and touching descriptions of how Phil seemed to be faring amidst all the attention. Eventually the radio station they were on was bought by one of the mega-media conglomerates and the Harvey in the Morning show was deemed too soft-edged and aimed at entirely the wrong demographics. We moved on as well and our morning radio habits shifted to the University of Pennsylvania’s public station or the occasional Imus broadcast.

Happy Groundhog Day to Harvey and Julie, wherever they might be celebrating it.