Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, April 25, 1994 TAG: 9404260034
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A5 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Monty S. Leitch
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Fortunately, though, at the last minute I threw in a couple of T-shirts and a pair of shorts, too. Fortunately, because last week the mountains of western North Carolina basked in 80-degree-plus weather. I came home with sunburn on my knees and forearms and nose.
Last week in North Carolina, the dogwood and azalea were already in bloom. The trees leafed out even as I watched. I sat in one meeting and saw through the window great clouds of golden pollen wafting through the air. In North Carolina last week, the daffodils were already shot, the lilies-of-the-valley almost out.
Had I crossed some sort of time line when I crossed the Continental Divide? Back home, in Virginia, my few puny daffodils were just getting started good. The dogwoods had scarcely budded.
But down south in North Carolina, the trees were promoting sneezing and wheezing, the sun was beaming down daily, and I had genuine need of the ceiling fan in my room, even at night.
It put me all out of whack.
So it's no wonder, then, I guess, that I thought taking a wade in the mountain stream on the grounds would be a good idea.
It was a glorious Wednesday afternoon. Great, fluffy white clouds drifted lazily over the sparkling lake, on which swans glided picturesquely. Red and white tulips nodded in pots. A gentle breeze lifted the hair on my neck. All the beautiful, bucolic cliches you can think of applied.
So I took my pimento-cheese sandwich and potato chips to a picnic table by the creek, and I sat in dappling sunlight to eat. The crisp mountain brook babbled beside me. Under its rushing water, mica-shot creek rocks glittered like jewels. I grew drowsy with contentment. Cliches continued to mount in my mind.
Meanwhile, however, my feet sweated in big, heavy socks and Reeboks.
That's when the idea hit me. "Wouldn't it be wonderful," I thought, nodding beside that exquisitely glittering creek, "to wade in there like a kid?"
And, of course, having once thought of it, I had to act. I removed those sweaty shoes and socks and, full of delight, full of anticipation, I pattered my way across the mica-shot (and also, therefore, glittering) creek bank and right down into the creek.
Whoa, baby!
Just a friendly little reminder from the Guy Upstairs that it was still April, after all, no matter how dense the clouds of pollen wafting off the trees, no matter how warm the sun.
It took about 10 seconds for my toes to go numb. Numb enough, in fact, that I stumbled a bit getting myself back to shore. A mere 2 feet away.
Stumbled, but didn't fall. Which is fortunate, as I was the only fool on the picnic grounds at that moment and certainly the only fool in the creek. Had I fallen, I would have lain there and frozen to death in less time that it takes to say, "Don't you know any better than that, young lady?"
Well, no. Apparently. Indeed, one other April, on the banks of a much bigger creek, I wasn't content merely to wade, but indeed leapt, fully clothed, into the beckoning water.
I'm not sure I know what all this says about me. I'm not sure I want to know, either.
So if you know, please keep it to yourself.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times & World-News columnist.
by CNB