This is what separates us from the monkeys

It is 97F - 33C and sunny today. Too hot, too hot. We have erected a screen tent behind the cottage as a sanctuary from the multitude of flies that pester us this summer. We have purchased deck chairs made of green plastic in the shape of wood slats - they are supremely uncomfortable. Dave has placed a glass table top on an upended birch tree log; it is clean and crystal clear; all the growth rings in the log are visible through the glass, the effect is beautiful. On the table rests an icy drink and our reading glasses and books. If there were a breeze it would come through the screen cooling our skin and tickling the windchimes I have suspended from the center point of the tent roof. But there is none, the air is still and hot.
Dave has decided the tent experience would be improved it he could place a sprinkler on top of the tent and let the water trickle down the sides. Then it would cool the air and the day would be perfect. I think the situation would be much improved by the addition of a pillow to my chair. I can't find anything appropriate so I bring out a blanket and fold it to fit into the seat of my chair. Dave has exited the tent through the zippered opening and is collecting a ladder and a hose with an'owl eye' sprinkler attached. I watch with amusement from my now soft but somewhat lumpy green chair, munching a really juicy, crisp apple while he exerts himself. He climbs upon the ladder and swings the hose with attached sprinkler lasso style, attempting to land it on the point of the tent roof. Of course, it bounces repeatedly off the green and white nylon fabric of the roof. I am sure the little points on the sprinkler are going to puncture the tent roof and I tell him so. He says 'I just need some string...' I unzip the tent flap and rezip it as I leave to keep the flies out of our space. The sun scalds my tender Danish skin as I head for the house to rummage in Dad's catch-all closet. 'Where's the string, Dad?' I ask perusing the shelves on the right which hold duct tape, scotch tape, masking tape, three staplers, boxes of staples, boxes of matches, cups holding safety pins, paper clips, extension cords, an abandoned electronic chess set, baggies containing batteries, dishes of nails, earrings, a box of .22 shells, old padded envelopes to be reused, and zillions of other miscellaneous things. 'I don't have any string', he says. He is standing in the kitchen with a cookie in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He rarely sits down. 'What? How can you not have string? You have everything else.' I grab a roll of duct tape and a broom which I fancy will help lift the sprinkler to the desired position. When I return to the tent, the sprinkler is on the dry patchy ground 10 feet away from the tent. Dave has turned it on full blast and water is indeed running down the sides of the tent screen. As well, it is sprinkling right through the screen and wetting down our chairs, reading glasses, and my worn and frayed cloth bound edition of Brothers Karamasov. The glass tabletop is covered with droplets which will dry as spots and my lumpy blanket is now sodden. I roll my eyes.

This 'improvemen't episode continued for another amusing 30 minutes with many trips between the spigot and the sprinkler but I will spare you the tortuous details. Suffice it to say we ended up sitting in wet chairs with the sprinkler off. Our soaked clothing did indeed keep us cooler for a time! My book wasn't badly wet and the tabletop can be wiped off.

Today, when we went to town for groceries and 15 other errands, Dave bought a soaker hose and replayed nearly the same scenario. This time all that got wet were the cottage windows and the mail lying on the glass tree trunk table. I think he still has plans to try and drape the hose over the tent - stay tuned!