Too much crappola to fit in the spacious hatchback? No problemo, tie it on top like a pro.
Yes folks, welcome to a Watson flashback, the Plymouth Volare.
Now just imagine many, MANY, semi-annual, cross-country trips with two exhausted adults, three fighting kids, and one mammoth dog, Frodo, who was some kind of cross between a boarhound, German Shepherd, Great Dane, a little Saint Bernard maybe and of course Dinosaur, and you'll get the general gist. Of course our "little" Frodo had a drooling problem and would get a bit warm nestled in all our luggage (that wasn't tied on top of the roof) driving through Southern California, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas and Kansas in the middle of summer. His drool would slide down those faux-leather green seats to our necks and backs.
We were the Griswalds. And we really drove in the nearest thing to the Family Truckster.
How my parent's marriage survived those family vacations I'll never know, nor how they didn't leave one (or all) of us at one of the secluded, tumbleweed-lined rest stops.
I'm glad they didn't because I'm putting our lima-bean green, wood-paneled Volare in my story. In memorial of all the car sickness and family times that brought us SO close together.
Here's a link to a volare station wagon commercial. I love reading the comments underneath, especially the last one:
"I had a '77 non-wagon for my first car. Terrible car. Still miss it. Kind of like my first girlfriend. Terrible person. Still miss her."