It was hot and muggy in the old middle school gym in Sugar City, Idaho. In the absence of anything that seemed to even resemble a ventilation system – other than the door on the east end of the gym being ajar, courtesy of a big gray garbage can – the air seemed to be thick and stale, a natural byproduct of summer basketball in small-town southern Idaho.

I have a bad habit of temporarily leaving something (mineral tubs, tractors, fencing equipment, grain totes, etc.) sitting in front of the house with the pure intention of putting it in its proper place tomorrow. Sometimes, however, tomorrow doesn’t arrive for quite a while.

As I found the last parking spot in the lot behind the school and jumped out of my pickup, I heard the obnoxious blast of the morning bell, reminding me and the handful of students still speed walking to the door that school was now in session.

As is my style, I strolled into the family gathering at my sister’s house about 45 minutes late. From across the large room, my wife cast a sideways glance my way that exuded equal parts relief and disdain. My tardiness, though brought on by the best of intentions, had once again resulted in my undoing.