A couple years ago, my parents celebrated their 40th anniversary and my brother, sister and I threw them a party to celebrate that fact. At that party, I talked for several minutes with one of my Dad’s cousins, Ronald Newman. He was 13 years my Dad’s senior and was a cousin on his mom’s side. The Pour side. Ronald’s mom, Louise, must be 100 at this point. She was my Grandma’s sister. My Dad wasn’t yet thought of when my Grandpa Tyler went to WWII. And I’m not entirely sure if he and my Grandma were married, but Ronald told me that my Grandpa would send him “artillery art” back from Guam, which is where I believe he was stationed. Artillery art was name given to little trinkets soldiers created out of old casings and shells. They could also etch on them. What my Dad’s cousin was describing happened to be in my basement on a shelf just above my work bench. I’d held onto these things through several moves from home, to college, so on and so forth.

At some point after my Dad was born and was old enough, I suppose, he felt as though they belonged to him  and so he gave them to him and my Dad, in turn, gave them to me… maybe 25 years ago. It felt good to talk about a connection like that. One that only four people really cared about… myself, my Dad, my Grandpa and Ronald. I wanted to send him a picture. I had his email address. I had a camera. All I had to do was take the five minutes it would’ve taken to snap a couple shots, upload them and send them off. I would imagine that it would’ve brought a smile to his face at the very least.

And now, after a year-and-a-half of procrastination, that opportunity is no more. I was talking with my Uncle Chuck last night and by way of an unrelated story, he told me that they had recently gone to one of their cousin’s funerals. I knew it was Ronald and it hit me like a punch in the stomach. It wasn’t grief necessarily, because I didn’t know him all that well. It was guilt. I owed him that picture. My Grandpa’s initial thoughtfulness was paid forward twice more and I couldn’t even snap a picture. Life will always be busy but procrastination only exasperates that feeling.

My losing battle with procrastination dates back to as early as I can remember. I’ve read hundreds of advice columns on way to combat this chronic problem but I naturally slip back into the same patterns. It’s not that I don’t get things done because I do. It’s that it seems to always be in a hurried frenzy. Some would disagree, but I work fairly well under pressure so either I’ve adapted to my procrastination or I actually prefer to work this way and giving myself more time would only result in a lower quality product. I wouldn’t know because I’ve yet to try the latter.

This instance is particularly painful because of the personal nuances involved. Sending a couple of pictures may have started a larger conversation about my Grandpa, who, after multiple strokes, couldn’t talk much. Or even about a side of my family that I don’t know a whole lot about. Only that they farmed and were prone to being crotchety. So here’s your picture Ronald. Unfortunately, “better late than never” doesn’t apply here.