[Allen Tice]

It was a bit like the carol "King Wenceslas" yesterday in the Big Apple: snapping cold with a blasting wind; the only lack was caked snow on the ground: there was snow in the wind though, in bursts. (And the seven day Roman Saturnalia begins tomorrow on 12/17, so be kind to Saturn ! maybe he will reciprocate.) Anyway, it was very brisk and brusque out of doors and I and my wife had driven to a remote shopping center to buy groceries where we could park. For years the car had a slightly tilted license plate holder in front. Something had bent it, and though I had tried to wrest it straight several times, it resisted. And it made it easier to find from afar in a parking lot full of similar looking cars.

In the USA, some states require only a rear license plate; New York requires one in front, too. If you lose a license plate through theft or otherwise you must replace it via a well-papered bureaucracy, and worse, the current plate offerings are colored a repulsive and hard to read yellow and black, versus the previous style, which was blue on white that I like and I have retained it since I could do that. You don't want to have a plate stolen or lost. Bureaucracy, documentation, explanation, and fees.

The parking lot for the store was fullish and a fire-fighter truck was up on the curb as I noodled toward the store at 3 mph. I had to pull into a narrow lane to pass it. I was worried about any pedestrians popping out or other vehicles coming the other way, especially police or fire vehicles.

Suddenly there came a rapping as of someone firmly tapping, pounding, pounding, loud resounding, banging on my auto door. I stopped and looked: 'twas just a cop and nothing more! I rolled down the window, admitting flying snow, and said, "Uh-oh, what's wrong. I'm sorry!" But the policeman was smiling and through the open window had handed me my front license plate. He said,"Your license plate just blew off the front of your car. Here it is!" I couldn't believe it at first, but there it was, road dirt and all. After a moment, I thanked him completely, and he smiled again. Rolling up the window, I moved the car slowly to a spot and verified from outside that I had lost and he had found my plate, and that consequently I didn't have to tap the dance bureaucratic.

After shopping, I stopped at a minimal gas station (just pumps) to ask where I could find a repair shop. Up strolled a really, really well-insulated street man who said he could remount my plate then and there for a few bucks. Then he produced some simple hand tools and a starter screw, and did the job.

Good news: no lost plate; no bureaucracy; nor any hassle. What are the odds that a policeman would hand me my freshly lost license place in the freezing wind, and that an incredibly warmly dressed street mechanic would appear at just the right time a few blocks later?

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