Have you noticed those decorative license plates people attach to the front of their cars? In some U.S. states, registered license plates must be displayed on the front and back of your vehicle, like Montana and New York.  Other states issue only one vehicle registration plate.  As most of you know, Georgia is one of 19 states that requires only one registered plate, thus allowing drivers to display a personalized message on their front bumper.

Some tags are impossible to read, primarily because I’m getting older.  I’ve noticed a lot of tags that read “Blessed.”  These are usually attached to the front of a Mercedes, BMW, Cadillac, or other ultra expensive vehicle.  I’ve often wondered why I’ve never seen a “Blessed” tag on the front of a 15 year old Ford F150 with an 8-track player, beaded seat covers and a rusted bed. Apparently, those drivers are not allowed to be blessed.  It probably has something to do with the gun rack fastened to the back windshield.

Then there are the customized license plates that declare the occupants’ household to be divided. What’s up with that?! I didn’t grow up in Alabama so I don’t fully appreciate the Auburn-Alabama rivalry. But is it really necessary to announce the dysfunction in your home on the front of your car? You wouldn’t have a tag that read “OCD” or “Co-Dependent” would you? Most of us would never place a tag on the front of our car that read “Unfaithful Boyfriend” or “Compulsive Gambler.” I guess if you really want strangers to know about your unfortunate condition, you can always relocate to a state that allows you to broadcast your affliction on the front of your car.  I’ve heard West Virginia is nice this time of year.

For the record, I refuse to purchase one of those house divided tags.  As you may know, I’m a fan of a college team that enjoys an annual rivalry game with Meridith’s alma mater.  She’s a graduate of her beloved institution.  I’m a fan of mine.  She has every right to endorse her team at the top of her lungs – which is a frequent occurence.  She wears the colors, flies the flag, sings the song, and wears the pin.  My alma mater hasn’t fielded a football team in decades, so I adopted one. But I have little right to speak of my adopted team as my own, and certainly no right to declare our home divided over such a suspect affiliation. A fan is not the same as a graduate. That’s why we have the NFL. The games on Sunday seem to have great appeal to fans who didn’t finish college or grew up in Pittsburgh.

Just so you know, we’re not a divided household.  We just sit in separate rooms (or Zip Codes) one Saturday a year. Jackson sings the fight song of Meridith’s team and hardly knows the mascot for mine.  He wears orange and blue and isn’t allowed to wear red and black.  His college fund is ear-marked for Meridith’s alma mater and, to him, Athens only exists in Greece. Ironically, both teams share a similar tune for their respective rally song. But as Meridith often points out, my adopted team must force an extra note into the song in order for the lyrics to match the meter of the tune. I’m speechless . . . and very glad we live in a red house and own a black car.  War Eagle, baby!

Are you kidding me?  It’s mid-August and summer is fading quickly.  What happened to June?  I vaguely remember celebrating Mother’s Day and enjoying the rising anticipation that accompanies the end of an academic school year.  I must have blinked.  In May, we composed a summer fun list.  You know – the things we wanted to do while school was out,  the weather was warm and the sun didn’t set until 9:30 PM.  Now we’re facing the season of sunset and darkness at 5:45 PM and an early-bird dinner every night. Though it sounds romantic (or rugged, depending upon your perspective), there’s no way I could live full-time in Alaska. Cold and interminable darkness in the winter. Perpetual sunlight and giant insects in the summer. No wonder they pay people to live there. But, oh, what a view!

Now that summer is beginning to retreat, what’s on the horizon? August signals the resumption of school bells, increased traffic, choking smog, and the familiar rumble of school buses. Teachers report to classrooms with orders not to smile until Christmas.  Many water parks and theme parks close for the season and landscaping companies hunker down for the lean months of dormant grass and hibernating customers.  Personally, I look forward to the days when my Bermuda grass turns brown and I can store my lawn mower, unplug my hedge trimmer and enjoy a few days of semi-retirement away from the tyrants that proliferate in my yard.

Secretly, I enjoy the changing seasons. Others prefer a more consistent climate.  Some believe the weather in San Diego is perfect.  The thermometer hovers at a constant 72 degrees year round (that’s what I’ve heard) and Great White sharks only linger along Mission Beach and LaJolla in the winter.  Perfect?  Definitely awesome.  But I’ve discovered a recurring anticipation that builds every August and seems to persist until all my warm weather clothes mysteriously disappear into the dark recesses of my closet, thereby yielding choice real estate to my long sleeved t-shirts and sweat pants.  Meridith insists that this enigma is precipitated by the kick-off to football season.  As usual, she’s right.   Still, when I see the leaves beginning to turn bright red, yellow and orange, and I can see my breath as I stumble to the mail box, I know change is in the air.

All of this signals a common phenomenon.  When we know with certainty that something is going to end – or change – we’re less affected by what we anticipate or experience.  This perspective doesn’t eliminate our pain or sense of lose, but our capacity for understanding gives way to a growing acknowledgement regarding the temporary nature of what we currently experience.  Ironically, this insight doesn’t diminish our gratitude, but rather increases our appreciation for those things and people we hold dear.  Everything around us falls into the category of change and disintegration:  dream houses fall into disrepair, prized cars require upkeep and maintenance, careers come to an end, books gather dust, dishwashers stop working, children graduate and move away, software systems become obsolete, and waist lines begin to expand (ugh!). With a fearful or frustrated resignation, we lament the progress of time and the culmination of the seasons.

Yes, football season begins in just a few weeks (more on that later).  But as the whistle blows and our thunderous rhetoric replaces genteel conversation, the dog days of summer will give way to Labor Day weekend.  And before you know it, we’ll be Christmas shopping.  Think of all that will happen between now and then.  Part of me wishes that summer would last 500 days.  But the leaves would never change, my grass would grow year round (geez), Christmas would be sweaty, and the lifeguards would never have a day off. Change? Bring it on!  I’m ready for some football!