“Isn’t it great?” Doc asked the assembled tailgators in the Mule Barn truck stop’s parking lot. “It’s April. It’s spring. The crocuses are croaking, the flamdoodles are flamdoodling,”

“There’s no such thing as a flamdoodle, Doc,” said Bert.

“They musta crocused too,” Steve threw in.

“Facts … just facts. You can’t ruin spring with just facts. April brings the sun down on our shoulders and warms things up and makes people feel kindly toward one another.”

The steering committee of the vaunted world dilemma think tank was drinking coffee in the parking lot on socially distanced tailgates because of the pandemic, of course.

“Actually, Doc, said Bert, “history doesn’t back you up on your opinion of April. You know … mathematicians and statisticians are still trying to see if April 15 isn’t the most tragic date in all (he spread his arms wide) history!”

“That there’s the Ideas of April, ain’t it?” added Windy.

“I don’t know if April has Ides, Windy, but that’s the right day.”

“I know why,” Dud said, “Tax deadline.”

“That doesn’t even start to cut it, Dud,” said Bert in his most professorial tones. You can always tell when Bert’s been reading. “That’s a mere blotch on an evil day in history.”

He waited and sipped. He knew it was coming. It fell to Steve.

“Okay, Bert. What bad stuff happened on April 15?”

“Well, Lincoln was assassinated … 1865.”

“That there’s one,” Windy nodded.

“The Titanic sank … 1912.”

“That there’s …”

Bert whipped out his hand and counted on his fingers. “Notre Dame Cathedral caught fire and burned up a bunch of stuff … That Hillsborough Stadium thing in England collapsed during a soccer game and crushed 90 people … and those two brothers blew up the finish line of the Boston Marathon and killed three people.”

Heads nodded sagely.

“You know what else?” Bert said. “Gunny died on April 15. R. Lee Ermy himself.”

“Dang!”