Yesterday, I looked at one of the three high performance Swedish driving machines that I own. The registration tag was out of date. Well, I’ll be, it is past March isn’t it? So, today I went to the Dept. of Motor Vehicles. I know, I know, some people break out in hives if they set foot inside the doors of the DMV. Nothing says, “government bureaucracy” quite like the DMV. They have a nice system that lets you make an appointment. No sooner had I walked through the automatic doors under DMV’s slogan “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate” (it sounds classier than “Abandon all hope, you who enter here”), than I met the person at the window. It’s one of the benefits of living in a rural area.
It turns out that, according to DMV’s records, the fine 1995 Swedish driving machine hadn’t been registered for two years. Oh dear. You may wonder how this happened. I know I did. It turns out that Mary and I had our hands full two years ago then. Around that time, my father was growing progressively weaker. His caregiver had called to let us know he had started falling. One loses track of things when going through hospitals, dementia, convalescent homes, and mortuaries. Not to mention selling a house in Washington, estate stuff, and memorials. It’s been two years on May 28 that Pop’s been gone.
So, a mere $250 later, I think I have the cars registered. I think. Now where did I put my car keys. . . .
Nullius in Verba 