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My family owned a succession of station wagons over the years - The Rambler was foremost, then there was an evergreen colored wagon with (gasp) faux wood sides, a cream-colored Malibu and a brick-colored Taurus. None ever matched the affection we held for The Rambler. When we traded it in, my mother had to wipe away a few tears. It was like putting down a beloved family dog.
At least twice that I can remember, once around 1967 and again around 1975, my father packed us into the family car (which we affectionately remember as as "The Rambler") and we left at 5 a.m. on a road trip to Florida because everybody knows, if you are going to drive to Florida from Massachusetts, you have to leave really early.
When it was light, we alternated between playing and fighting. Mom had a strategy for this, however, and each time we began to fight, she threw back tootsie pops or gift-wrapped presents for each of us. We got wise and began fighting whenever we wanted a present. There were wonderful things to play with in the back of the Rambler. We had politically incorrect plastic Cowboys and Indians and little red plastic boxes with puzzle cubes that made 6 different designs. We had crayons and coloring books, which I don't believe melted, even though we were in a black car that did not have air conditioning - that would have been considered a luxury. But back then, the window of "the way back" could be rolled down for a great breeze. This feature was also done away future models.
Our next favorite thing to do was torture our brother and his girlfriend (who he later married) in the back seat. She wore sleeveless tops and inevitably, the shoulder would slip, exposing her bra strap. I felt it was my personal duty to tell her each time this happened. I got confused, however, and ended up telling her "your girdle strap is showing". I was quite vigilant. To her credit, she was very patient, and even said "thank you" each time.
Another privilege occurred when mom decided to take a nap in the back and I got to go up front and be "the Navigator". Being up front was especially exciting because there was a little triangular-shaped window next to the full size window that could be cranked open. The Navigator also got to hold the map and trace our progress because we usually got lost at least once. During these times, my father would fume because "making good time" was very, very important. This was one of the few times when my father would swear or call himself names. His favorites were "jerkimo" (JERK'im-o), "stupnagle" (STOOP'nay-gul) and "jackass" (JACK'ass), which told us he was really angry with himself.
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