Paul Marchant

Last month, I drove to Clover Valley, in Elko County, Nevada, to attend the funeral of an aunt, my mother’s sister. As we drove south on Highway 93, out of Idaho and into Nevada, the rugged, imposing, snowcapped Ruby Mountains came into view, powering skyward from the valley floor of the high desert country.

I’m pretty good at doing a lot of things at a high level of mediocrity. Not unlike a good share of the folks I know, I have several irons in the fire, as it were. Too often, I’m afraid, one of the most common byproducts of my activity – or malady, depending on your viewpoint – is that some of my projects are poorly done, done late, done late poorly or not done at all.

So I was at a county 4-H leaders’ council meeting the other night. I was there on behalf of the county fair board. Seems there were some questions from leaders regarding some of the rules of the livestock shows at the county fair. They wanted their concerns addressed before the beginning of the official weigh-in two weeks hence.

Last spring, my wife and I proudly attended the commencement exercises at Utah State University, where our second daughter graduated magna cum laude with a double major in political science and some sort of social work.

Well, I’ve got another mess on my hands. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s going to be a real joy to clean up. On top of the responsibility to clean up this mess, I have the extra burden of guilt that so often accompanies the scourge of procrastination.

As I was sitting at the end of the bench in my role as assistant junior varsity girls’ basketball coach during a game, I felt my phone buzz in my shirt pocket, alerting me of an incoming text. In my attempt to maintain proper decorum, I ignored it until halftime, when I snuck a peek as I walked to the locker room.