Back before Political Correctness and Women’s Liberation, women mostly stayed home and raised the kids while their husbands provided the means to do so. Those who were successful drove new Estate Wagons, Country Squires, or Colony Parks. Those less so were consigned to used Country Sedans or Brookwoods. Such was the case in Fort Stockton.

Rex Hall, owner of Rex Hall Drug and the pharmacist in town bought Della, his wife, a new Pontiac wagon every three years. When he went down to Tomahawk Pontiac-GMC to trade in the ’66 Catalina wagon, Della talked him in to a Montego Cream and woodgrain Executive Safari. The color matched her hair, and she considered herself the Executive of the household. Raising the four Hall children was a lot like a dangerous Safari. It all just fit.

Her days were busy, volunteering at the Pecos Country Food Bank on Mondays, serving as Room Mother to her kids classrooms on Tuesdays, grocery shopping and cleaning house on Wednesdays. On Thursdays she went in and paid all the bills at the drug store for Rex. Fridays, though were hers. She played golf at the club in the morning, lunched with girlfriends afterward, and then had her hair done every Friday afternoon so she looked her best for the weekend.

One Friday in early November of ’67 she didn’t show up for lunch, instead swinging by Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern for a chat with Sister Thelma. Della parked outside the church offices and Sister Thelma came out and sat on the passenger side of the black vinyl bench seat.

“I used absolutely horrible language this morning, and I feel guilty about it, Sister,” Della told her.

“Tell me what happened,” Sister Thema said as she admired the wood-grained dash and what initially appeared to be two radios.

“I was on the seventh hole over at the club,” Della began the story. “I hit an incredible drive that looked like it was going to go 285 yards, one of my best shots ever. But then it hit a power line hanging over the fairway and dropped straight down only 90 yards away.”

“Is that when you swore?” Sister asked, admiring the translucent top half of the steering wheel.

“No,” Della told her. “A gopher ran over to my ball from the bushes, grabbed it in its mouth and ran away!”

“And THAT made you curse like a sailor!” Sister said. “Does this wagon have a third row seat?”

“FOCUS, Sister,” Della told her. “No, it’s a two seat model. Anyway, an eagle dropped out of the sky, swooped down and grabbed the varmint in its talons before it could make it into the bushes.”

“And that’s when you spoke in offensive terms that would cause you shame?” Sister asked, curious if the Safari was packing the 400 cubic inch engine.

“No!” Della told her. “The eagle flew near the green, shaking the gopher in its claws, causing it to spit out the ball.”

“And that’s what made you speak in such a manner that you felt the need to confess?” Sister Thelma asked her, noticing the rare vinyl top option on a station wagon and thinking there couldn’t be many of those around.

“No,” Della huffed. “The ball bounced off a rock, flew over the sand trap next to the green, and rolled right up to within six inches of the cup.”

There was nothing but silence as the two women sat in the Pontiac, one contemplating her sin, the other the luxury of a fine Pontiac Executive Safari.

“You missed the effing putt, didn’t you?”