SUMMARY: Well, the summer's waning but there remains a chance to achieve all that you envisioned back in late May. Mike Dewey walks you through the possibilities.
We still have life.
Theres always a chance.
And you never know.
These are the clichés Im clinging to as the days of summer evaporate and the odds against success escalate.
On Memorial Day, Id have said maybe 25-1.
On Independence Day, though, the smart money was 3-1.
But now, with Labor Day so close, Im thinking 50-1.
And youre probably wondering, What in the world is this guy talking about and why should I possibly care?
The answers are: the annual License Plate Game and, well, because I hope you do.
A little history before we get started so that the uninitiated among you can get your bearings and share what some others may already know. Every summer since 1991, weve played a game, one that begins on the Friday of Labor Day Weekend and ends on the Monday of Labor Day Weekend.
Its object is simple: in those 100 or so days of summer, you have to see license plates from all 50 states and the District of Columbia.
Do that, and you succeed.
Fail, and you wait for next summer.
There are only a few rules, the most important of which is that the plate has to be on a street-legal vehicle, not nailed up in someones garage or something that washed ashore after a hurricane.
And you cant walk into a bar – where the wall motif is license plates from everywhere and every year – and start claiming them as you make your way to the jukebox and select C12 ... which is Simon and Garfunkels America.
Or at least it should be.
Cant you just hear it?
Im empty and aching
and I dont know why.
Thats my theme song for the License Plate Game, the one I cant get out of my head when were trolling hotel parking lots or chasing a live one down the interstate or prowling through U-Haul lots or trudging through truck stop parking lots and its 100 degrees and the asphalt is sticking to your sneakers like mutant Black Jack gum.
It keeps me going, still searching ... Ahab-like in my obsession or, perhaps, the Good Shepherd chasing down a few lost lambs.
THE LOST LAMBS in this Year of Our Lord, Twenty Thirteen -- a summer with blazing blast-furnace heat, everyday thunderstorms and precious little beach time – have been whittled down to three.
But thats too many, probably, to finish the game with all 51 safely accounted for. See, once you hit the mid-40s – as we did back before July 4th – youre in the Horse Latitudes, the Doldrums, the place where theres very little wind to propel you forward.
Thats when one of two things happens: Either you withdraw from even trying to finish or (and this is my curse) you strap it on and hit that accelerator thinking, If I have to drive all the way to *%#@ing Montana, Im gonna reel it in.
Faithful readers might recall the time my wife – then my fiancée – took off on Labor Day, heading for my alma mater because I figured that there was a slim, but very real possibility that outside Married Student Housing, wed find a car – probably a Volvo – with Rhode Island plates.
And thats precisely what happened.
Well, it wasnt a Volvo, but it gave us 51 and nine months to reflect on our accomplishment.
I took a photograph to mark the achievement and, while its not Neil Armstrong on the moon, my wife looks pretty heroic in it to me.
And thats only one of a dozen late-in-the-contest stories I could tell because – and such is the case again this summer – once you get close to 51, you want to see it through.
The game originated in the mind of my brother who, thinking of ways to occupy his young children on long road trips, came up with this insanely addicting manner of passing the miles.
Now, it should be said, that not everyone gets it.
In that way, its kind of like fantasy baseball or Trailer Park Boys or the writings of John Updike.
And thats fine.
Ive introduced the game to friends and family members and, well, sometimes it just doesnt take root.
Then again, Im not into all that Kardashian Housewives from Hell nonsense or music that sounds like someones buried alive in a coffin and is banging away – rapping, they call it -- at the lid, screaming obscenities.
So I get it.
BUT THIS SUMMERS going to end badly, Im pretty sure.
Last weekend, I pulled out all the stops with a trip downtown, a visit to the nearby military base and a jaunt to the beach all of which only reduced the number to make from four to three.
New Mexico is now in place, but that still leaves us Wyoming, Idaho and Nevada.
And youre thinking, maybe, Well, dont they all kind of border each other out there somewhere? Why not just hit the highway head west?
Good question.
For one thing, my 1991 Honda Civic hasnt run since last summer – Bennys been in an auto-induced coma for all that time – and I cant see flying to Cheyenne, Boise or Carson City.
Gotta pay the rent, you know.
The truth of the matter is that my wife and I havent successfully completed the License Plate Game since the Summer of Twenty Ten.
Thats a long, long time ago.
And with no road trips on the horizon – well be spending a week on the Outer Banks, but thats just AFTER Labor Day – its looking more and more as if another failure is in the offing.
Thats OK ... it keeps you coming back for more.
I was sitting in the driveway the other night, a nearly full moon bearing witness as I listened to a game from the West Coast – gotta love XM Radio – and I remembered something from the License Plate Game, something that happened more than 20 years ago.
We were sharing a pizza in the park that late spring evening and suddenly, I saw a car with Hawaii plates coast by.
Did you see that?
Sure, my wife said, but the game doesnt start for a week or so.
Ill be right back, I said, and sprinted to see where the Hawaii car was heading. Luckily, not far, and I saw a woman and two small children emerge from it, walking toward Kiddie Land with the swings and sliding board and all that good stuff.
Taking my time, I considered my options and decided on the direct approach.
Excuse me, maam, I said, smiling and looking harmless. You new in town?
The woman eyed me warily.
Why?
My rehearsed line came out smoothly.
Its your car, actually, I said. Im on a scavenger hunt and part of it involves a Hawaii license plate.
Really? she asked. Thats all?
I nodded.
Well, youve seen it, right? she asked.
Now, the tough part.
Sort of, I said. The thing is, the search doesnt actually start until Friday and if youd kind of tell me where the cars going to be parked then, well, Id sure appreciate it.
She laughed and told me.
That year, Hawaii – the Big Kahuna – came in at No.1.
This is what gives me hope as we try to reel in Wyoming, Idaho and Nevada.
Hey, if you make a word using the first letters of all three states whats that spell?
Win, of course.
Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. Check out his Facebook page for more good times.
