“There’s a car for sale on the way down to school,” Ula reports one afternoon as she walks in the door, “I think we could afford it.”  She started taking classes down at SUNY Cobleskill last year, and she’s been driving down there a couple days each week through the summer to take a riding class.  In a few weeks, she’ll be starting there full time.  It’s reasonable that she’d be asking about a car.

“We may be able to buy it,” I reply, “but I’m not certain we can afford to own it.  The average annual cost of owning a vehicle these days is over ten thousand dollars.”

There are now four licensed drivers in our household.  There are two cars in our driveway, one of which is owned by Saoirse.  There’s another car down at the farm. 

Resisting superfluous car ownership has been one of the ways we’ve made our finances work in our family.  Bob and I raised the kids with only one car between us.

The first time we relinquished our second car was out of necessity.  We couldn’t afford to make the repairs.   That’s when we learned the delights that emerge upon eschewing vehicle ownership.

It became one of my best strategies for bending time.

When people share a car, they can only accept half as many commitments away from home.  Bob and I became fluent in stacking errands, and I learned the joy of transportation limitation.  “Sorry, I don’t have a car right now.  Can’t get there.”

Not having a car slowed the pace of our lives.  It enabled us to spend more time at home.  

Eventually, Mom, Dad, Bob and I surrendered any proprietary ownership over our respective vehicles.  We let the farm pay the costs of ownership, and we all just share them.

But life is changing again.  Both girls work shifts at the farm, and both girls go to college. Saoirse is generous in sharing her car with us, but her boyfriend lives about an hour away, so she’s gone frequently.  Ula will need to find her way to campus five days  per week, in addition to getting back and forth to the farm.

Still, I resist.  

There is so much I enjoy about sharing vehicles with our daughters and my parents.  

I appreciate the communication that happens as we coordinate our days. We have to tell each other where we’re going and when.  We negotiate who will get which car, and who will get dropped off.  That means someone is almost always riding shotgun, having more conversations, or sharing music.  

I appreciate the car pooling it forces us to pursue.  Jazz band starts up in a few weeks, and we share rides with Pat and Eileen, our neighbors near the cafe, who also play in the band.  We call it the West Fulton Jazz Bus.  

I appreciate the boundaries it forces into my world.  There are days when it makes sense to run errands; there are days when I simply cannot.  

And I’ve even learned to enjoy the wait that sharing a vehicle requires.  I carry a Kindle, a laptop, and a comfortable camp chair in the event I can find a nice shade tree to enjoy.  The wait while Ula finishes classes, or while Bob finishes errands, or while Saoirse finishes work has become yet another pleasure in my days.  It’s a chance to breathe, to gaze at different sights, to people watch, to happen upon a leisurely conversation if someone I know strolls by.  

Indeed, the  sharing of vehicles has brought immense pleasure and sanity to my life.

But I’m sure a 17-year-old headed to college twenty minutes away feels differently.  Still, I make my case: An additional vehicle is not within Bob’s and my means.  And I don’t want one, for all the reasons mentioned above.  I would prefer to continue sharing.

That’s when I realize something.

It’s not really my choice any longer.

Ula earns her own money.  She has savings.  She could buy a used car if she wanted to.

I wait several weeks for the topic to come up again.  

But it doesn’t.  She continues to take a car when she needs it; and she and her sister continue to touch base with us throughout the day, making sure Mom and Dad and Bob and I can get where we need to go, and that everyone makes it home in time for supper.  There has been no further mention of the car for sale on the way to school. 

It might be that this cooperative interdependence we enjoy will be fleeting.  

Then again, maybe our daughters also feel the pleasure and ease that come from sharing.  

They are young adults now, capable of making their own choices, independent of their eccentric parents and grandparents. So it all might change.  But today, Ula and I will drive to town together.  The midsummer rain will wash away the heat, and we’ll watch it hit the windshield, talking about her plans for this next phase of her life.  I intend to enjoy the ride. 

If you enjoyed this, please share this podcast with friends & family to get the ideas to spread.  Better still, you can help make the magic happen for as little as $1/month by hopping over to Patreon and looking up Shannon Hayes.  Or, if it’s easier, you can also donate to support the podcast by sending a check to Shannon Hayes, ℅ Sap Bush Hollow Farm, 832 W. Fulton Rd, West Fulton, NY  12194.

And that’s a really important thing to do, because all of this— the podcast, the blog, the books and the creative recharging that happens over fall and winter—   are a result of the support of my patrons on Patreon.  This podcast operates much like public radio.  It is freely available to all, made possible by the gifts from our patrons.  And this week I’d like to send a shout out to my patrons  Scott Walters & Caitlin Roben. Thank you, folks!  I couldn’t do it without you! Find out more about Sap Bush Hollow Farm here.