The Tale Of The Misdirected Missouri Personalized License Plates

Normally, I’m a fan of big government. I see a positive role government plays in the lives of Americans in terms of providing safe roads and bridges, first-rate public education, housing assistance for the poor and a hand up for those who are conscientious, but temporarily out of work.

At the moment, I’m quite piqued with the Missouri License Bureau, or whatever department they call it in Jefferson City that handles license plates.

Pardon the pun, but bear with me on this narrative.

Way back in July, I filled out an application to get one of those fancy personalized college license plates. At least it seemed like a good idea at that time.

I would make a donation to my favorite college (that would be the University of Missouri), pay some extra fees, and I could get some personalized message, up to six letters or numbers, or combination there of.

My wife has SK8-MOM. Our daughter used to be an ardent figure skater, so that made sense. SK8-MOM used to be on a Volvo, now a Hyundai, and pretty much everyone in town knows the owner.

When you fill out application, you have up to six choices. My first choice was L8GRAD. Get it? "Late Grad." I hit paydirt on the first try.

I worked for my degree from Mizzou in two different terms: Jack Kennedy's and Lyndon Johnson's.

I served in the Navy for three and a half years, then finished up my bachelor's of arts in the second semester and summer school of 1971. Hence, I was a late grad of sorts.

From August to December, I burned up the phone lines, trying to find out just where my application might have fallen into someone’s out basket.

Partially, it was my fault. When I filled out the application, I turned in all my paperwork in September but failed to enclose a $15 application fee (though there was no paperwork formally requesting the check). The bureau doesn't process credit cards.

So, in a sense, I started the application process over again.

And so it went back and forth the entire fall. I would call periodically checking on the status. Just try and phone anytime of the week, or the month, and your call will be at least 20th in line. I’d put the phone on speaker and do other work while waiting it out.

One time, the woman on the other end said they were four months behind in their orders. I ordered reporters’ notebooks on the net just this week, and the delivery came from Minnesota the next day. (That’s life in the for-profit sector). I don’t suppose any rank and file government employees works overtime to catch up with back orders?

Finally in December, after working my way up in the queue by 20 positions, the answerer said my plates were “being made” and would be delivered to the Wentzville License office.

I was stunned. My paperwork requested the plates be shipped to Olivette, approximately 1 mile, 1.6 kilometers or just two left turns from my house. Wentzille? "Why not Lake of the Ozarks or Sedalia or Tarkio?" I asked myself.

The nice woman looked at my paperwork and said, “Oh yes, you did request the Olivette office.” When I asked if shipment could be rerouted, she said politely, without explanation, that’s not possible. Mind you, the plates still wouldn’t be shipped for a couple more weeks.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Wentzville. Heck, we have a Patch there, and darn good one at that. I pass Wentzville every time I’m going to or from Columbia.

The Google map saved me. I had no earthly idea where 807 East Pearce Blvd. was in old town Wentzville. Luckily, I didn’t have to rely on the clerk at the local Huck’s convenience store to sort out directions. Ever done that before? New clerk has no idea where Pearce Boulevard is even though it's just one block from where you need to be.

So, thanks to the Missouri License Bureau, I used up a quarter of a tank of gas and an hour of my work day and drove some 60 miles round-trip retrieving plates that I could have gotten three blocks from home.

At least the kind folks in Wentzville loaned me a Phillips screwdriver long enough to change the plates in their parking lot.