MURFREESBORO, TN. (WGNS) - Breaking news from the wetlands. At precisely 6:58 Monday morning (2/2/2026), a squad of forensic folklore investigators—the kind who own more camera lenses than socks—were crouched low in the frosty reeds of the Murfree Spring wetlands. Their mission: document the annual emergence of Rutherford County’s most influential meteorologist who does not, technically, hold a degree. Yes, we speak of none other than Rutherford Ralph, the marmot of the moment.
The team was already getting what the kids call “bad vibes.” As the sunrise arrived at the highly scientific time of 6:47 a.m. (don’t question it, just accept it), a massive shadow stretched across the wetlands. But before anyone panicked, the investigators reminded themselves—and each other—that a 328‑foot WGNS radio tower casting a shadow does not count. Groundhog shadows only. We follow rules here.
For over four decades, WGNS has chronicled the ramblings, wanderings, and occasional tantrums of this beloved local groundhog. This morning marked the forty‑second journalistic revelation from your Good Neighbor Station, and oh, what a revelation it was.
Ralph emerged slowly, dramatically, inch by heroic inch from his burrow near the Murfree Spring boardwalk. A giant blue heron froze mid‑stride. Beavers paused their engineering projects. Even the ducks—usually chatty as church ladies—fell silent. The wetlands held its breath.
And then it happened.
Ralph wiped the sand from his eyes, blinked into the morning light, and saw it: a strong, undeniable, emotionally devastating shadow. What followed was a series of piercing screams, a full‑body flip worthy of Olympic scoring, and a lightning‑fast retreat back into his cozy subterranean bunker.
The verdict was clear.
The crowd was crushed.
The folklore was fulfilled.
Six. More. Weeks. Of. Winter.
Yes, friends—six more weeks of ice, snow, winter winds, closures, slippery roads, and the most terrifying phrase in the Middle Tennessee weather dictionary: SNOW QUAKES.
But as your GOOD NEIGHBOR, we refuse to sugarcoat and we refuse to despair. We will stand together until the daffodils bloom along the Christiana Highway. We will hold out hope for the iris near the old Carnation factory smokestack. We will await the ruby‑throated hummingbirds like tiny winged prophets of spring.
Until then, we trudge on—boots crunching through whatever frozen nonsense February and March throw at us. And we do it with humor, grit, and the knowledge that Ralph, bless his furry heart, is only the messenger.
So don’t shoot him.
Love him.
And tune in next year for his next brave, bewildered report.
