I stand on my back deck, coffee in hand. The coffee is untouched; what I'm really drinking in is that first Saturday spring morning that heralds the news I've survived another winter. The sun is warm and soft on my upturned face. The lawn is a green and tantalizing tease of the lush summer carpet to come. Buds, once cold, waxy nubs of early spring promise, are almost visibly bursting forth into blossom. I bask in it all; the warming sun, the greening plants, the birdsong. All around me is new life, new promise; a foretaste of heaven on a suburban back deck.
"Honey, can you put up that new patio shelter this morning?" Tent erection! Theologians might dispute it, but I am here to attest that one can move from heaven's heights to the third ring of Hades, all in an eleven word, five second question. It is a perfectly reasonable question, asked by my dear wife, a perfectly beautiful woman.
But my perfectly beautiful wife and her reasonable question do not get a response. For as her final words drift out the open back window, honey is already sliding silently across the deck, moving with a ninja-like stealth reserved for balding, paunchy middle-aged guys looking for anything by a project on Saturday morning. Honey's destination is clear; anywhere on God's rapidly greening earth where no tent needs erecting.
The back gate latch lifts noiselessly. On the other side of that gate is freedom. It's an hour and a half at the driving range, a second coffee and the Saturday paper. Maybe even a trip to the river for a bit of fishing. That and countless other pleasures are beckoning. And they are all on the other side of that gate.
Careful now old boy, don't panic, you're almost there. The back gate swings open wide and honey triumphantly comes face to face with "“ the perfectly beautiful wife "“ author of the perfectly reasonable question. She's heading to the compost bin with a small container full of potato peels and egg shells. Normally an environmental champion, honey finds himself cursing the need for all things that rot.
"Oh there you are," chirps perfectly beautiful. "I put the patio shelter on the back deck."
Five minutes later I'm standing in the middle of the patio, staring at the box that ruined my Saturday morning. The box shows a young man sitting on a camp stool in front of the shelter, holding a fishing pole. He is smiling broadly at what must be his wife and young son standing in the doorway. It's quite obvious to anyone who's put up a tent the young man is grinning like this because the ordeal of tent erection has driven him quite mad. If the photographer had snapped the picture a few seconds later he would have caught him drooling and cackling, babbling on about grapple grommets and centre poles.
I release the first of countless sighs as I rip open the box and roughly seven thousand poles jangle and clang to the patio stones at my feet. That's followed by roughly two kilometeres of nylon, shrink wrapped into a metre long bundle that will never, ever again fit into the box.
At the bottom of the seven thousand poles are the instructions. At first glance it's quite obvious the instructions have been mixed up with plans to construct a small scale nuclear reactor.
"Join poles 1-a with 1-b and thread through grapple grommets 2a and 2b, ensuring poles are interfaced with centre pole 3-c." At this point I do what most reasonable, sane people do in my position; I carry out the assembly based on the picture on the box. Instructions? We don't need no stinkin' instructions! If that boob on the box can do this, so can I.
Four hours of close hand-to-hand combat later, the shelter is in place over the patio. Holding it up is a length of broomstick that I whittled into the shape of a missing section of centre pole 3-c. I find the missing pole three weeks later under the patio swing.
The perfectly beautiful wife comes out for an inspection tour. "Honey, is it supposed to be tilted like that?" she asks.
Honey mumbles something about the tilt being necessary for rain runoff, as he hides two unused (un-needed?) lengths of 1-a and 1-b behind his back. A light breeze has sprung up, cooling honey's sweat-drenched face. As he stares proudly at his creation the gentle breeze begins to accelerate the tilt, which becomes a sag, ending mere seconds later in a complete collapse.
Another sigh escapes me as I reach into my pocket for the tattered instructions and resume threading poles 1-a and 1-b with grapple grommets 2a and 2b. The golf course, morning paper and river are all beckoning. But I'm too busy interfacing grapple grommets with my broomstick centre pole to hear their siren call.