6SRW687

6SRW687!

For the first time in 47 years, I don't have a State of There drivers license nor State of There car tags. The experience of becoming a State of Here driver represents a major life passage for me. Let me tell you how I got here and what it means to me.

As you may remember, I moved Here in October of 2010. Work took me back There for three months or so. So I really, in my heart, count January 2011 as the beginning of my sojourn.

Through a series of haps and mishaps, it took 9 months to secure the title for my terrific car. Not a big deal, you say, except Here has hyper-strict regulations about car registration: you have 10 days after entering the state to register your car in the State of Here! That puts the 9 month scenario into perspective, doesn't it!!?! Son-in-Law II nervously asked weekly about progress on the registration project. Daughter II (and I) lived in fear of being pulled over, especially because There state tags had expired--gulp! All of us (Grandson included) were, in fact, pulled over one evening while Son-in-Law II was driving my car. The local policeman gave us a warning ticket for a defective tail light without even mentioning the expired tags--WHEW! 

One day while Grandson was napping and I was engrossed in my latest Kindle novel, two police cars drove up in the complex's driveway. One officer got out and consulted with the other officer, who was checking information on his in-car computer screen. In the year that it took them to make a move, my heart stopped, began thumping again fast enough to accompany "Flight of the Bumblebee", I broke out in a uber hot flash which put all those menopausal ones to shame, and I was glad I was sitting down, because I was truly weak in the knees. I was convinced that my name was flashing on the computer screen along with the inscription - WARNING! FUGITIVE FROM CAR REGISTRATION PROCESS. APPROACH WITH CAUTION AND APPREHEND BY ALL MEANS NECESSARY! IMPOUND AND KEEP THE CAR UNTIL THE SECOND COMING.

The officers (after only 5 minutes or so, really) walked to the front door of the half-way house across the way from our place to gather a person who had failed to report to her probation officer. (Well, that was the story I made up in my mind, anway.) When she was placed into the back seat of one of the police cars, I drew a ragged breath. Thinking of offering a prayer of thanksgiving for being spared, I suddenly realized that even God would not accept that prayer, because I was continually committing the sin of breaking the law of the land.

That incident--I still have a sinking feeling as I write these lines--was all the impetus I needed. Move heaven and earth--no problem! So, with title in hand, I then entered the Bureaucratic Maze of Car Registration in the State of Here.

In order not to wait forever, I made an appointment online to visit my local DMV. I waited in the "appointments only" line to get a number, sat with others who had appointments, and was called after only 15 minutes or so. (While waiting, I noticed cob-web-covered skeletons on the back row of chairs, clutching faded numbers--obviously, they had not made appointments.) 

"Now serving A16 at Window 11." And the "gentlemen" on either side of me glared and barked, "That's you!" which roused me from my people-watching fog. Once at the window, I offered my drivers license from There. The nice young woman informed me that I would have to take the written test to get a drivers license and then we'd take care of registering the car.

Daughter II had prepared me that I would have to take the written test. The last time I had taken the written test was in 1964, when it included hand signals for turns. But I was prepared--I had perused the driver's manual--also online. This is what I thought I'd read:

• You must have multiple bumper stickers on your car, espousing every ism and cause, except the one with the fish or the cross.
• Pedestrians will dare you to ignore them and make you screech the tires to avoid them as they dash across the street anythere and anytime they well please.
• Bicyclists own the road--yes, literally! Oh, there's a lane for them, but do they use that lane? NO! And they wonder why they get killed when the idiots who are trying to get around the car right behind them veer around that car and squash them like bugs.
• Motorcyclists weave in and out of traffic between lanes, causing drivers to need a defibrillator to recover from cardiac arrest.
• Motorists forget to use their accelerators. Yes, that means when you go uphill on Highway 101, the traffic suddenly slows from 65+ mph to less than 50 mph with no notice and no cause except for absent-minded drivers.
• Motorists cut you off in traffic, go around you on the right while you're waiting for the car in front of you to turn left, then do a u-turn in the 7-11 parking lot in order to make a u-turn.
• Motorists use their horns instead of their brains because each of them owns the road.

Well, low and behold, the rules of the State of Here are just the same as those of the State of There!! Come to find out, drivers Here just choose to ignore the rules! You will be pleased that I aced the written test. Something to be said for driving somewhat sanely for all these years.

Then came registering the car. Having all the forms ready helped. I paid the car registration fee and then had to get the smog test done before registration could be completed. Smog test: something I knew nothing about. Son-in-Law II recommended a local guy who could perform the test and make repairs as needed.

So, off I go. Very nice people. (You know, I'm always on the look-out for "nice people" in the Land of Here.) Well, nice people, except for the two gargantuan poodles which "guard" the shop from the front office--but that's another story.... The guy does the smog test--and my car doesn't pass. To meet emission standards, I need either a state filter OR a federal filter. State filter is over twice as expensive the federal filter. Thank goodness, my car needs the federal filter. Once the filter is installed, I must drive the car on the highway for 100 miles to reset the car's computer. Daughter II was delighted at this news, because the nearest Chic-fil-a is 50 miles away from our home, and this was the excuse we needed for a field trip to chicken and sweet tea heaven. On my return to the car guy, he redoes the smog test, and my car passes. Now, this process has cost (a) the price of the original smog test; (b) the price of the filter replacement; and (c) the price of the re-test--in addition to the registration fee. But at least I have the needed certification for the completion of the registration process.

I return to the DMV--oh, yes, with an appointment, of course. And, at long last, I have State of Here license plates and drivers license. Well, I do have my old SC license, but the nice young woman at the DMV punched a hole in it over the expiration date, thus invalidating it forever. (I guess I'll save it for a relic that my grandchildren will toss out in 25 or 30 years.)

6SRW687: this makes it real. That, and the fact that the weight indicated on my State of Here drivers license is within 10 pounds of my actual weight!

I am now an official resident of Here--one of only 3 states I have lived in in my 63 years on earth. Ties to Back There that should be broken have been broken. I'm really HERE, and Here is home. The die is cast. I've cross the proverbial Rubicon. (Sorry, those are the only cliches that immediately come to mind.)

A sobering reality. Surely I can return. And yet, all I hold dear, dear, dear (except for the long-time friends and Daughter I and husband) is Here. From now on, my sense of Place will be tinged by cool foggy mornings, mild dry sunshine, rainy winters, mountains meeting rocky shore. By people of every color and shape and language. By the absence of gentile politeness in daily interactions. By commonality of faith in small communities.

And what's the result? Well, I've become a little more agressive driver. I speed up and go around slower drivers. Although Daughter II urges me in a loud voice almost every time she rides with me, I haven't learned to use the horn either as a warning or an expletive comment on the absence of others' driving skills. And I still let people in front of me way too much. Guess you can take the girl out of There, but you can't take There out of the girl.

What's next? Botox? Implants? Hmmmm....

Lovely Handwriting - Or Things I Owe to Having a Big Brother

I have lovely handwriting. Even letter spacing and height, strong right slant, open loops in b's and l's and e's. Little tips before the downward strokes of r's and s's. Several of my friends have enlisted me to address their wedding invitations. It's not calligraphy, just gussied up Palmer method script writing. (I'll attach a sample to this post for you to see.)

My flipcharts, when I have time to prepare them properly, are manuscript lettering with shading, and attractive bullet points. Marker colors are coordinated from page to page. 

Why is this part of my Invisible Tattoo? Well,

A. My father had a distinctive, elegant handwriting. Perfect Palmer method, actually. The words made even more significant by his bold strokes. It was as if you could hear his sonorous voice coming off the page.

I have pages and pages of his sermon notes--he kept pen and paper on his bedside table to capture thoughts that the Holy Spirit gave him during the night. [By the way-tongue in cheek-the formula for a good sermon is three points, a poem, and a deathbed scene.] So many of the notes contain a topic and three alliterative words to represent the points of a sermon.

B. I have a Brother who is three years older than I. He was three years ahead of me in school. When I was five, he'd come home from school and ask, "What's 2 + 3?" And I'd answer, "What's a 3?" And, of course, his reply would be, "You're stupid!"

So, one day he brought home his "real writing" book. It was a paperback complete with practice pages for manuscript and script letters and words. I took that book and went my "office" which was the space where the chair fit under my daddy's rolltop desk. I'd take the book and manuscript sheets--you know the ones with the two blue lines separated by a dashed red line where the lower case letters were supposed to reach--and practice my "real writing."

The first word I learned to write in "real writing" was Rex, from the title of one of my brother's comic books, Rex, the Wonder Dog. Over and over until the "R" was tall and rounded. Over and over until the "e" looped in a perfect oval, and the cross on the "x"  came in a straight diagonal line through the center of the roller coaster squiggle, and both letters touched the red dotted line every time, every time.

In addition to practicing on paper, I wrote on the window sills in my room and on the wood adjacent to the keys on the family piano. You can imagine how my stock soared with those antics!

Then I began first grade. And while the other students labored over their manuscript alphabet, every single day (including Saturday and Sunday) I wrote:

Dear Miss Riser,

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Love,
Paula

As the years passed, I added more tricks to my handwriting repertoire. Instead of doodling in class, I filled page after page with upper and lower case letters. I learned to write all the lower case letters in script without lifing my pen from the paper. And the piece de resistance - writing the lower case letters in script BACKWARDS without lifting my pen from the paper.

I'm certain that my obsession with writing also contributed to my obsession with lovely paper and quality writing instruments. I have an endless supply of stationery, writing paper, sketch pads, notebooks, journals, accompanied by pencils and pens with just the right weight, just the right color/pattern, just the right ink, just the right point/nib. I'm pen and paper poor! (Although, you'd be proud to know that I gave or threw away a boatload of paper/stationery as I packed for the move Here.)

I've read that in order to become a master at anything--concert pianist, composer, golfer--it takes 10,000 hours of practice. If that is true, no wonder my handwriting is good.

What does it matter? Who cares? Well, my daddy did, and making him proud of me was one of the chief aims of my life. And, I care--it's a matter of personal style to make someone's name (their most important treasure) distinctive and beautiful.

And all because of my MEAN Big Brother!