Old Wagons Have It All Over Fancy Suvs

Bought me an S-ewe-V t’other day.

I ain’t talkin’ Blazers or Broncos. No fancy-schmancy Land Rovers for me.

Got me a real man’s rig: A 1977 Buick station wagon.

It’s two-tone brown with genuine fake wood paneling along the sides. The kind that sticks on like tape.

The inside is covered with an acre of tan Naugahyde durable enough for an all-night diner.

Cargo space? I’m thinking of renting the rig to a mortuary for home pickups.

Someone say power? Lurking under the hood of my faux woody is 350 cubic inches of octane-addicted infernal combustion.

An S-ewe-V shouldn’t be confused with an SUV (Sissified Ultra-expensive Vanitymobiles).

I didn’t even know what an S-ewe-V was until I pulled into the company parking garage the other day. Paul, the attendant, took one look and said something like, “Whoa, you could haul sheep in that thing.”

It’s true. There’s no worry about microchip meltdown or staining the Moroccan leather in an S-ewe-V.

But people tend to forget the West was won by pioneers driving homely wagons.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Where do you find such a vintage piece of Detroit iron?”

In a word, Worley.

I traversed the North Idaho wheatfields one Sunday last month and bought my S-ewe-V from its original owner, a retired farmer named Bill.

“It was our family car,” he told me, a bit misty at losing his old friend, “but we don’t need it any more.”

Like a fool, I asked about gas mileage.

“I won’t lie to you, Doug,” said farmer Bill, gazing at a distant silo. “It’s not good.”

There’s a reason for turning off the engine before refueling an S-ewe-V. If you don’t the needle never reaches “F” on the gas gauge.

An S-ewe-V squanders more fuel than an Exxon spill. But compared to all the natural resources that go into, say, a spanking new Jeep, keeping a 1977 Buick on the road is really the ultimate act of recycling.

I never dreamed I’d own a wagon, although I suppose it was genetically unavoidable.

My father, you see, was a wagon man.

My formative years were spent scooched in the back seat of his 1952 Chevy wagon, a belching beast in two-tone green.

He had it until 1964, when he bought a red Rambler wagon. It had overdrive. The front seats reclined all the way back.

After the Rambler came two blue Dodge wagons. The last one could have passed for the Family Truckster in Chevy Chase’s first “Vacation” movie. It was squatting in the garage the day my dad’s heart failed like a faulty fuel pump.

My generation hated station wagons.

Nerdmobiles, as we called them, were the ultimate expression of frumpdom. They symbolized Lawrence Welk squareness and practicality - everything we children of the ‘60s shunned.

Beaver’s father drove a wagon. Rebellious Eddie Haskell would French kiss Lumpy Rutherford before he’d be seen in one.

I wanted a muscle car, like my pal Bill Hamilton’s hot red Chevelle. Dodge Chargers and GTOs roared through my dreams. A 409 would’ve been real fine.

Then the other day I saw the Dome Light.

I need something roomy to haul my band equipment. A wagon seemed like the affordable answer.

Trouble is, the wagons of today look like the sickly offspring from a union of minivan first cousins.

If you want a manly S-ewe-V, you gotta get a golden moldy.

So laugh all you want when you see my brown barge coming. Just stay outta my way.

My S-ewe-V may be a moving violation, but the bumpers are made of real steel and the laws of mass and momentum are definitely on my side.

Don’t fret about the sheep. They all have seat belts.