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Point of View
A longtime driver laments the loss of his car
By Carl Heintze
When I was in college during World War II we observed what was called "Carless Wednesday." The idea was that on Wednesday of every week you didn't drive your car anywhere. This saved gasoline and rubber. Both were then in short supply because of the war.
It was a noble effort. But it didn't really matter to me whether it was Carless Wednesday, Thursday or even Sunday. I didn't observe it. I couldn't. I couldn't afford to own and operate a car. I was carless all week long.
And that's where I find myself right now.
Carless.
Well, not exactly carless, but one car less. We had two cars in our family, or did have until recently, when I decided one of my granddaughters needed a car more than I did. She had to go to work and to college. I didn't.
In plain fact, I didn't really have to go much of anywhere, and if I did, I could always--well, most always--use my wife's car. So we are trying to be a one-car family.
It's a strange experience for a native Californian. After all, most Californians my age grew up with at least one car in the garage. They weren't always new cars, but they were there--or at the curb. Like a lot of California families, my family got used to having one car per person.
Thus, at one time in our family history, there were five cars parked in and around the house: one car for each family member. It just seemed natural when the children, one by one, grew up, got married and moved away, they took their cars with them. And it was just as natural that my wife and I retained ours.
We justified this for a long time on the grounds that we didn't work in the same place or even in the same direction. We needed our cars to get to different destinations at different times of the day. We certainly knew it cost us more--more for gas, more for maintenance and more (and more) to replace them when they wore out.
But, of course, the truth was that we had gotten used to having a personal vehicle, just as folks in the days before automobiles were used to having their own individual horses. Our cars got to be not family possessions, but, like horses, personal property. We usually didn't drive one another's cars; we liked different kinds of cars, and when it came time to replace what we had, we were less than attentive to what the other spouse wanted.
Well, that's changed now.
My wife's car is bigger than the one I called mine. It gets poorer gas mileage, although it is more comfortable than the little puddle jumper I used for myself.
But somehow it's all different.
Somehow there is just not the same relationship between myself and my wife's car as I had with the one I surrendered. We had a symbiotic tie. I could leave my things in the trunk without fear of having them being removed. I knew when I needed gas and the interval between service stops. It was like having my own horse: I knew when it was hungry, when it needed attention and the importance of tender loving care.
I admit it: I took better care of my car than I did of hers. My car just seemed to fit me better than hers. When I slid into the driver's seat, it was as if my car and I became reconnected.
But that's not how it is now. When I go out to the driveway in the morning, the little, old red Saturn isn't there. Instead there is a blank space. The driveway is empty.
And, I must admit, that causes a certain pang, like, you know, when you had to shoot your horse because it had a broken leg or put it out to pasture or send it to the glue factory because it was too old.
My wife's car is in the garage, of course, and I can drive it, but I fancy that when I open the garage door to back it out, it receives my attention with thinly veiled hostility. It seems to be asking "Where is my mistress?" or "You've got a lot of gall, thinking you can drive me like she does."
This, of course, is folly.
Cars can't talk. They don't know who they belong to. They aren't loyal like dogs or horses. One driver is just like another as far as they are concerned. Cars don't have feelings. Or souls. My little Saturn doesn't care that I turned it over to a younger driver.
Or does it?
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Saratoga, California Since 1955
