THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, April 9, 1995 TAG: 9504070220
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Editorial
SOURCE: Ron Speer
LENGTH: Medium: 72 lines
``April,'' wrote T.S. Eliot in 1922, ``is the cruelest month.''
I think, for different reasons, that the British sourpuss was right.
Eliot, recovering from England's harsh winters, went on to say in ``The Wasteland'' that he hated April for ``breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.''
Living on the Outer Banks where winters are mild, my problem with April palls perhaps when compared with the problems faced by Eliot, who also wrote, ``This is the way the world ends/not with a bang but a whimper.''
What April does to me every spring is to turn me into a bowl of indecision, unable to carve out a satisfying path toward summer.
The reason is that gardening must be done in April if you want an early harvest - and every gardener wants to be the first to casually stroll around the block smugly passing out radishes or cucumbers or peppers or tomatoes to neighbors shamefacedly hanging their heads, THEIR crops still in the field.
But April also is the time when adventurous shivers run down the spines of even the most cautious of sailors, and the call of the sea echoes day and night. That first sail of the spring is a grand voyage, a boisterous shedding of the frustrations that have been building since the sails were furled last fall.
And April, with its brisk winds, its clear skies and rarely a thunderstorm, is ideal for once again going down to the sea in ships, trying desperately to remember the key to sailing - is port left or is it right?
And both gardening and boating are fun only on warm, sunny days.
So each and every lovely Saturday or Sunday brings a moment of truth for me.
Sailing or planting? Planting or sailing?
It's almost impossible to do both.
And this April has been particularly trying. Since it is our first spring in a new home on Roanoke Island, it seems to me there are acres of land to till, thousands of flowers to cultivate, miles of berry bushes to plant. Seems obvious that gardening had a priority.
But we are still strangers, too, to the sounds and seas in North Carolina, and clearly if we intend to become knowledgeable sailors we need to get the Wind Gypsy on the water, poking into rivers and coves and creeks.
So I've compromised, sort of. I've devoted most of the balmy days so far this spring to the yard, planting 15 blueberries, 15 blackberries, eight scuppernong grapes, 20 raspberries and 100 asparagus plants, along with lettuce and spinach and radishes and geraniums and day lillies and hummingbird feeders (first one showed up Wednesday).
But my heart was heavy last Sunday when I stopped in to check my boat and heard a friend on the radio, under sail on the sound.
So now it's time to quit playing farmer and renew my affair with the Gypsy.
I'll be on the high seas (not too high, I hope) with all the sails flying Sunday, the rail under water and the Gypsy accepting the challenge and throwing her shoulder into the waves.
And from now on I should be able to satisfy both my needs, with the soil and with the sea.
Yep, after you get over the indecisive days, life is almost perfect in April on the Outer Banks for a man who likes the water and wants to grow things. And it gets even better as the days get longer. By June, maybe I'll be sharing blackberries or blueberries with sailing pals, anchored in one of the Albemarle's prettiest harbors.
What's that? Yes, my dear, the junk in the garage has been there since we moved in last September. Yes, I did say months ago I'd clean it up. This weekend? Yes, dear.
Old T.S. Eliot sure was right about April. by CNB