Utagawa Hiroshige[a] (歌川 広重) or Andō Hiroshige[b] (安藤 広重)
Kanbara: Evening Snow (Kanbara, yoru no yuki),
from the series “Fifty-three Stations of the Tokaido
(Tokaido gojusan tsugi no uchi),” also known as the Hoeido Tokaido
(c. 1833/34)

"…teetering on the edge of some tragic change in fortune if I cannot get this tendency under better control."

I heard myself proclaiming that I have been doing that fabled deer-in-the-headlights reaction one better, for I’ve been frozen as if caught in headlights on a dark forest road WithoutHeadlights present. I suspect that this reaction might not be classified as a talent, though I also imagine that it might, like deer’s reaction to bright lights, offer some evolutionary benefit, or used to offer one, before cars made such interactions dangerously commonplace. I can’t tell which of my native responses to such perturbations are positive ones and which might be more dangerous, though I carry opinions. I usually feel guilty when I notice that I’m frozen WithoutHeadlights again, as this must be a snowflake’s response signifying something shameful. I imagine myself more powerful, and capable of shrugging off most threats, though in real life, my vulnerabilities continually surprise me. I occasionally qualify as a superhero, but fleetingly, and only ever in my own mind.

This passing summer has been a struggle for me. My vulnerability seemed amplified, perhaps caused by the sure and certain threat of my seventy-fifth birthday looming up before me in Mid-August. Then The Muse fell and broke both ankles, conscripting me into the unplanned role of Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy to her Uncle Wiggly. And, this Prosperity Series was emerging in the background, sometimes foreshadowing or shading the foreground, too, as my understanding of the larceny perpetrated on me and my beloved country deepened. I overwhelmed myself, feeling stretched beyond my usually tolerable limits. I caught myself freezing up sometimes, falling into another in a series of staredowns with yet another absolutely unavoidable. There might be no more worthy opponent than even the least significant unavoidable. It cannot matter how long I can hold out before I engage; I’m destined to engage regardless. I procrastinate then without purpose.

Yet I continue procrastinating. Perhaps something beneficial occurs when I’m failing to engage. I’ve spent the last two weeks finding reasons not to finish harvesting the second Mirabelle plum tree. When my son and grandkids were here two weeks ago, we spent a frenzied hour or two starting the harvest after I noticed fresh damage to one of the trees. The neighborhood raccoons must cherish those plums and savage the trees trying to access some. They’d probably taken thirty pounds off the one tree, and the other was overladen, so we started harvesting that one before sunset overtook us. The next day was too hot and smoky to resume, and then they went home the following day. I began my fresh procrastination. Each morning, I’d resolve to harvest something. Each evening, I’d realize that I’d failed to satisfy my intention. The inaction became a pattern, and my guilt grew every evening. Still, my procrastinating held.

Until yesterday, the stars aligned or something. The final day of August arrived, and that phony deadline managed to get me up the ladder to finally harvest. I’d visited the local winemaker’s supply shop that morning to purchase supplies, for our intention had always been to render those plums into wine, or even brandy if we could find some legal or at least reasonably untraceable way to distill it. The fruit could not have been more perfect. As if to highlight the notion that nothing can replace a spate of dedicated procrastination, my delay had resulted in the finest imaginable harvest. The fruit had assumed its signature translucent yellow and its infamous honey flavor. Further, the two-week delay had finally allowed The Muse and me to study up on the process required to properly render the harvest. We had previously been seriously unprepared.

I suppose the apparently useless residue of guilt must have had some use, though its benefits seem securely cloaked behind a lifelong mystery for me. I have always held this apparently spurious superpower to become crudely invisible under the influence of certain uncertain stressors. Almost anything can set me off. Curiously, though, the resulting delays have often proven beneficial, albeit in ways I could not have possibly anticipated when stockpiling guilt for committing an only presumed crime of procrastinating. It’s probably just an innate coping mechanism that kicks in when even I can’t suspect it’s needed. Wiser hands might guide me than I could ever imagine, not quite imaginary angels or gods. I have plenty of times overstayed my procrastination and spoiled some unavoidable. I might have only been unusually fortunate so far, and am now teetering on the edge of some tragic change in fortune if I cannot get this tendency under better control.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Prosperity, #PureSchmaltz