When did station wagon become dirty words?
They were hardy, versatile, fun vehicles my station wagons. The first was a wallowing Chevrolet company car in one of my early failed careers. After becoming a homeowner and in need of a backup workhorse (the Rover 2000 wasn’t up to it), I snapped up a stripped down, slant six, stick shift 1964 Dodge for $125 at the Government Services Administration’s monthly car auction.
Bert, named after an old schoolmate who was also big, homely and simple but brave and loyal, did yeoman service for six years as we went about civilizing our 1929 bungalow. He succumbed to rust but was quickly replaced by Nubert, a nearly identical 1962 Plymouth wagon that had sat crippled in the Architect of the Capital garage for many years and whose crevasses were still filled with seeds, pods and wilted flowers. Nubert gave way to the Green Hornet, a plucky 1977 AMC wagon from – where else? – the GSA auction. I loved them all.

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