A Trip to Hugo

    “Our Kansas license plates expire in August,” said the Goodwife. 

    So they do, and since, as of Tuesday August 12, 2014, we no longer have a Kansas address, I decided we had better do something about it. 

     A sure sign of old age is the thought that you should make as much of a trip (such as up the stairs) as you can and do everything you can while you are there.  I think the aim is to save the ever-ebbing energy. 

     The desire to make good use of a trip is one reason why a person is so easily distracted.  Trying to grasp two or three things mentally proves as difficult as it does physically.  Once I get upstairs and take care of the one or two add-ons, I forget the original purpose of the journey.  I usually end up making two trips. 

     What did I come up here for?  Mom always said when you forget something, go back to where you were when you were thinking of it.  One trip just turned into two.     

     My Synthroid supply is running low.  I need a prescription for that.  I need a new doctor.  The Goodwife needs a new doctor, especially after a Sunday visit to the ER in Kansas revealed a higher-than-healthy blood pressure.

     We did our homework.  A call to the County Clerk informed us that to license vehicles in Colorado, we needed our Kansas vehicle titles, proof of insurance, a valid driver’s license, and a verification of vehicle identification number.  The first three items on the list are to be found in the wallet, the glove compartment of each car, and the file cabinet, now conveniently accessible in the north bay of the farm garage.

      The clerk suggested either the city police or the county sheriff to get the VIN verification.  Living twelve miles from the nearest municipality, I chose to call the sheriff’s office.  I gave the dispatcher my address and cell phone number.  A deputy would be in contact with me to make an appointment to come to the farm and check the VIN numbers.

      “I had an interesting visit with the lawman,” the Goodwife said as I washed the dust from my hands and that caked onto the sunscreen covering the hairless parts of my head.

     “On the phone?” I asked.

     “No.  He was here.”

     “Already?”  I had just called in the late forenoon.  He hadn’t called me.  A look at the cell phone revealed he had called.  No chance of hearing, or feeling, the phone ring while operating the old John Deere tractor.  I began working the summer fallow that afternoon.

      “I just about missed him.  I didn’t hear him at the door.  I saw him driving out of the yard, so I called the dispatcher, and he radioed the officer, and he came back.”           

    “So did he find the VIN numbers ok?”

   “Oh yes.  He was really interested in the old cars, especially the old 4X4 and Dwighty’s car.”

    “So did you take him to the red barn?”

    “Of course.  We looked at all of them.  He likes to buy old junk cars and restore them partially.  Then he sells them to someone else who does the fancy work.”

     All of this while I was parading back and forth in the dusty summer fallow slaying weeds.

     We made appointments with the “doctor”, the PA really, for Thursday when the field work would be done.  We could get the blood pressure checked, renew a prescription, get new license plates all in one fell swoop.

     We made appointments for 9:30 Thursday.  "Come a little early to fill out the paperwork," we were advised.  We got there about 9:15.  We should have been there before 9.  Insurance information, medical history, allergies, surgeries—type and dates, releases for this and that.

      It was nearly 10 before the PA got to me.  She was very thorough, going over all the problems, family history, listening to this, to that, tapping here and there.  The Goodwife got similar treatment.  Apparently the tapping didn’t go so well as she ended up having both knees X-rayed.  Step one to the blood pressure problem: record salt usage.

      It was nearly noon when we walked out of the clinic.  I needed a haircut in the worst way.  We could go to Limon, get my haircut and eat lunch.  Which we did.

      The Goodwife visited the library while the barber uncovered my ears.  I stepped out of the barbershop and spied the front end of the car, where there was no license plate.

     Dang!  Why had we gone to Hugo in the first place?

     I reported to the library where the Goodwife was in conversation with the librarian ladies who were trying to eat their lunch.  “Do you remember why we went to Hugo?” I asked.

     “What?”  Puzzled.  “To visit the doctor.”

     “Any other reason?”  She couldn’t remember.  “License plates,”  I said.

     “Oh!”  she laughed.  What else can you do?

     During lunch at the local deli, a guy in a red shirt and a baseball cap asked how we were.  He was from Gem, Kanas, was there working for a Colby fire extinguisher company.  He recognized us from Lions Club activities.

     The story should end with our return to Hugo, purchasing license plates, installing new plates, filing papers in appropriate glove compartments, awaiting new titles arrival in the mail.

     Two miles out of Limon, I pulled to the side of the road.  “What’s wrong?” asked the Goodwife.

     “I think I forgot to bring the VIN verifications. “  After my contortions failed to retrieve the manila envelope in the back seat, the Goodwife released her seat belt and grabbed the packet.  Sure enough, titles, proofs of insurance, but no VIN forms.

     Time to call it a day.  Back to the farm we went.  I found the VIN forms buried under the junk mail on the table.  Into the manila envelope it goes.  Now where to put the envelope so I don’t lose it?

     I spent the rest of the afternoon hoeing up bowls and watering dusty dry spruce saplings.  It doesn’t take much mental alertness other than avoiding the tree stem with the hoe blade.

     A trip to Hugo is in order.  This time, I think we will try to do only one thing.  But wait!  I need to get new skylights to replace the hail-damaged ones on the big shed. .  . .