A House Divided

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!