Amazing what you find when you're not looking for it. Probably since the day I started this blog, I've been searching for a 1968 Ford Ranch Wagon in "Brittany Blue" just like the one I grew up with. While this one I found on Haggerty's auction site is a bit fancier "Custom 500" than my father's car was, all things being equal, this is the same car of my woe begotten "wonder years".
Let's swing open or pull down her "Magic Tailgate", kick the "poverty" hubcaps and take this memory machine for a figurative drive down memory lane.
First, some context as I attempt to see this car again through my then six-year-old, car-obsessed eyes.
Late summer of 1970, I was thrilled to learn the "block was cracked" on my father's 1961 Rambler Classic, four-door sedan. While I didn't know what that meant, all I needed to know was we were getting rid of the damn Rambler and we were getting a "new", or "new-to-us", "new car".
Long story short, my father picked up a literal rental grade 1968 Ford Ranch Wagon from a Hertz' used car lot not far from Kennedy Airport to replace it. I can still hear this impossible to baton down properly spare tire banging around behind it's plastic cover.
Suffice to say I was disappointed and in more ways than one. Not only was I not thrilled with the dreary, featureless, utilitarian to a fault Ford wagon, but I was more upset my father bought it without consulting with me about it.
Yes, I was all of six-years-old but still. Then again, my father was clueless when it came to stereotypical, father son bonding. We never played catch in the yard let alone go car shopping together.
Knowing my father, he did what was most convenient and bought the first car he saw that fit whatever price point he was comfortable with. He rented from Hertz out at Kennedy Airport often as he traveled frequently for his job, they had a used car lot selling off some of their rentals and, voila. He bought a station wagon. I doubt he even consulted with my mother about it.
Back in the 1960's and 1970's, station wagons were big business for The Big Three. For 1968, Ford sold seven different iterations of their full-size models, but they also sold intermediate- and compact-wagons. Note from this Ford sales brochure, "Ranch Wagon" is at the bottom of the wagon totem.
The piece de resistance on this car, though, are these fold-down, "facing" rear jump seats; the stuff of prepubescent kid dreams back in the day. These non-removable seats increased passenger capacity up to, well, in theory anyway, ten people. For comparison's sake, the current Chevrolet Suburban has seating for up to nine.
Fold the seats and rear seat down and you've got hauling capacity to rival a pickup truck. In my father's car, there were metal panels that opened and closed north-south giving access to a cavernous, subterranean trunk; in my father's car, a trunk loaded with sandbags to help give it at least some modicum of traction in winter.
Owing to the ala carte nature of the way these cars could be optioned, this car is a bit an oddity. For instance, it has a column mounted three-speed manual, the proverbial three-on-the-tree that even by 1968 was increasingly rare; my dad's car had an automatic. Also, as we get under the hood, appears this car also lacks power-steering that my father's car had as well.
Then again, my father's car had been a rental, Hertz no doubt wanted a car as accessible to the masses as possible.
Like my father's car, this one has the new-for-1968, 302-cubic-inch Windsor V-8; I don't see a power steering pump. Smooth and torquey, my father, who was not a car guy, loved its power and, sign-of-the-times, thought the 17-miles-per-gallon highway it got the pinnacle of thriftiness.
Adding to my verklempt was that the family across the street from us had a 1968 Ford Country Squire loaded with every accouterment on the options list. You name it, it had it. Including pie-in-the-sky air conditioning, a hedonistic option given that my parents didn't own even a single window air conditioner. We roughed it with these side-vent windows that opened via a separate crank from the regular door window cranks. I can still smell my parents' cigar and cigarette smoke whirl winding through the car when these vents would be open.
Bidding on this, last I checked was at $2,800. Despite its indirect history with me, I have little interest in it. Blame the three-on-three-tree, lack of power steering and these shot-to-pieces front seat covers that, I have to imagine, are impossible to find anything close to OEM for. My father's car's front seats were split like this as well. Note the lack of head rests; who's up for some whiplash?
I do love its patina which I hope whoever buys it keeps.
Nope, I'll pass on this one and simply bask in the very mixed, bittersweet memories I have of my father's Ranch Wagon. Even to this day and at my age, I vacillate, either laughing or coming to near tears reminiscing about the misadventures my parents put my brothers and I through in their Ranch Wagon.
As far as cars go from back then, the Ranch Wagon was fairly reliable. Sure, it had its issues, but it was no lemon. If I recall, though, forgive me, it's a been a minute, my mother believed the Ranch Wagon "beneath us"; ironic since she didn't drive. After seven-years of "slumming it" (her words), she put her foot down demanding my father buy her a Cadillac. Took a while but dutiful husband he was, more like a sycophant, he eventually did.
