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My 40-something daughter loves learning. After earning her PhD and securing a good job she learned to play jazz guitar. More recently she began art classes.
When she gave me a belated Father's Day gift a few weeks ago, it was accompanied by her illustration of our family's most memorable automobile ̶ a 1977 Dodge Royal Monaco Brougham station wagon.
We acquired the station wagon a few months after our daughter was born. A Dodge Dart had taken good care of us until we also needed to take along baby things. Our four-year-old son was growing fast and now the Dart had become crowded.
I don't like crowded spaces so I went looking for a station wagon. While some young guys looked upon station wagons as old men's cars, I longed for a comfortable car.
I found what I wanted at the local Chrysler/Dodge/Plymouth dealer. I had recently had a promotion and raise at work and determined we could almost afford it. Soon enough we were driving a large tan (the window sticker said "fawn") station wagon with a color-coordinated vinyl interior.
This was our first car with power steering and brakes, cruise control and an FM radio. The big V-8 engine had a drinking problem but gas was still relatively cheap and I was one happy daddy.
When the kids grew a bit older, I purchased upholstered cushions that fit nicely in the back end of the wagon when the back seat was folded down. Then I purchased a 12-volt television and a TV antenna that clipped onto the luggage rack.
In the days before we became aware of the need for infant seats and seat belts, our kids enjoyed family travel in comfort and with entertainment.
The majority of our travel in those days was a three-hour, one-way, weekend trip to the grandparents. On the return trips the children donned pajamas to sleep so Cindy and I could enjoy a quiet ride.
Unfortunately, our daughter was less anxious to sleep than her brother and a quiet ride became a reality farther down the road than we wished.
Somewhere along the line, our daughter and her across-the-street playmate discovered that the back end of our large station wagon was a perfect place to play with their Barbie dolls. More than once I had to ask them to vacate their "doll house" so I could drive somewhere.
As the kids grew older and became more discriminating of their surroundings our daughter realized that our army tank of a car was ugly and she was reluctant to be seen in it. By now the '77 Dodge had become the family's "second car" but still useful for running errands in the city. Pre-teen girls apparently develop high standards for their means of transportation.
Our son learned to drive in the Dodge wagon on the quiet streets of a large public cemetery in our part of town.
In 1988 I took a job three-hours away. I knew I would have to commute on weekends for several months and wasn't confident in the 11-year-old gas guzzler's suitability for those trips. With some reservations I traded the family bus for a more reliable and less thirsty sedan.
While I had had other cars with sentimental attachments the station wagon had family attachments. At the time we traded in the station wagon our son was a teenager and our daughter was growing close to teen hood. They had essentially grown up with the car.
It was the car that took us on family vacations and countless trips to visit grandparents and cousins. It was the vehicle that took us on weekend visits to Kansas City and Minneapolis. It was the car we used to take our son to the hospital for surgery and our daughter to the emergency room after she broke her foot in a sledding accident.
As a family we have joked about the old station wagon and often told stories about it. It holds countless memories for us.
Today my daughter's illustration of the grand old Dodge hangs proudly on a bulletin board in my home office. Maps will show us where we went but this old car helps us remember how it felt.
(Arvid Huisman can be contacted at huismaniowa@gmail.com. ©2026 by Huisman Communications.)