No thanks, Al Roker.

Each year on February 2nd, a group of oddly dressed men pull something called Punxsutawney Phil out of his log / home in order to determine the length of winter. Sorry, Phil, but I prefer my forecasts from Doppler and not a member of the rodent family. (If it's any consolation, I would say the same thing to Al Roker). Last month, Raleigh had its first appreciable snow storm in five years. I KNOW we're in for a doozy of a season, shadow or not.

But for me and my family, February 2nd was never about the Groundhog. It's my parents' wedding anniversary. It's also my aunt and uncle's anniversary. In an odd set of circumstances that we're pretty sure was legal in at least 48 of the 50 states, my mother and her sister, married my father and his brother...respectively and simultaneously. Picture if you will, a 300 person double wedding in Jersey City, NJ, 1963: the brides did their best homage to Marilyn Monroe with platinum blonde 'dos, sparkling blue eyes and waists so tiny Elizabeth Taylor would have been jealous; the grooms were Rat Pack cool, but more handsome; the father of the bride(s) footed the bill, and walked the aisle not once, but twice. After giving away one daughter, Granddad made a U-turn, went to the back of the church, and did it all over again. Kind of like the movie...Groundhog Day.

Every February 2nd of my childhood was spent regaling in stories of my parents' massive wedding, laughing at the photos of Grandma and Nana in their fashionable hats, and watching in awe as my parents dressed for an evening celebration with their wedding day compatriots, my aunt and uncle. So you'll forgive me when I ignore the fuss of a furry creature known for his hibernating prowess. We had a real reason to celebrate. And now, 46 years to the day, I have an even greater reason to reflect.

My parents spent thirty-eight years exhibiting the truth in the axiom that family does come first. And little things do matter. And actions speak louder than words. They taught Sunday school, ran youth athletic leagues, volunteered at the school, took meals to elderly neighbors, befriended the lonely, championed the bully's target, not for show, but because it was their nature. At hom we danced in the living room, paying little mind to whether our more ambitious steps skipped the record. We cheered for our home teams with naked abandon. We laughed from the bottom of our guts, mostly at ourselves. We had each other's backs, and still do. When Dad was diagnosed with cancer ten years ago, there were five of us in the doctor's office awaiting the second opinion. Literally.

As a wife and mother myself now, I particularly appreciate the lessons I learned from my mother: you put your family and husband first, right up until the point where you are ready to pull your hair out by the roots. Then you have earned the right to "me" time. Where you spend it -- be it the beach, the salon, or a dark, quiet closet -- is immaterial. What's important is that you emerge on the other side refreshed and ready to go. Don't be ashamed to ask for it; but don't try to be a martyr either. In Ecclesiastes it was written, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven," but it was my Mom who taught that there was a time to ask my father for that post-college trip to Europe, and a time to allow the man to enjoy his martini. Bible study, Lamendola style.

What I truly celebrate this and every February 2nd is the family my parents raised, the family that started with a pledge they made on that snowy day in Jersey City, 46 years ago today. I opt to vacation with my brother and his family. My favorite birthday present is dinner and a movie with my baby bro'. I still count "hanging out with my Mom" as one of my favorite thinsg to do. My father's picture is in nearly every room of my house, as is his memory. It's is a testament to what unconditional, enduring love can create. It's rare. It's precious. It's the greatest gift. Happy February 2nd, indeed.