April doesn’t have weather, April has attitude. As a child of that desperate kingdom of the potato, I came to know April weather intimately.
To paraphrase the sentiment, we regularly got screwed over by April. To recall my childhood was in that age as yet to discover civilization, more precisely when the tractor got a cab.
Our fate was to go potato planting with a homemade assortment of survival gear; stocking caps, sweatshirts in multiple layers, the downside being it would have been nice to have a bit more articulation than a one-piece coffin lid.
Not to put too fine point on this, where April was concerned fashion wasn’t an issue, survival was, 14 hours of exposure to April wind chill, that radio reports now regularly remind us as dangerous. Our dad didn’t allow us to listen to either rock and roll or weather reports.
For myself I didn’t need to be told that planting potatoes in such weather could kill those unprepared. Our mom regularly shopped the Salvation Army clothing center not because we were poor, instead to buy out the entire residue of the garment rack.