Car Show Classic: 1965 Mercury Park Lane Breezeway Sedan – The Old Neighborhood

My mom and I both live within about 10 blocks of the places that we first called home. Dad, the latecomer, showed up in our neighborhood soon before he married Mom. That was over 50 years ago. My sister, the wild woman in the family, lives about 15 miles away from the rest of us, and is therefore labeled the pariah of the family. Just kidding. This all may sound like a boring way to go through life, but we can’t all drop a Breezeway roof on a Mercury. We can’t all be astronauts or devil-may-care draftsmen.

The Breezeway window was a risk: It’s neither racy nor traditional. It bucks the reborn fastback trend of the mid-1960s because it was really a product of the mid-1950s, originating (in production) on the 1957 Turnpike Cruiser. Still, Mercury went all out with a splashy advertising campaign upon its rerelease in 1963, but unfortunately, the Breezeway wasn’t a blockbuster and it was relegated to second-thought status almost immediately.

But I love the Breezeway window. By 1965, it was only available on four-door sedan models (no more two-doors, let alone hardtops as in 1963). Is it the sense of mid-sixties give-it-a-go whimsy that makes me so fond of this somewhat-out-of-proportion piece of automotive architecture?

Picture found on oldhousesforsale.com.

 

I don’t think so. Call it the draw of home; on one of my walking routes is a well-kept neighborhood that sprung up in the 1950s when so many families in Middle America were moving to more suburban-like settings. Mainly populated with smaller catalog houses that are still well-kept, it’s a fun place to look at mid-century architecture and street planning. Aside from being clean and quiet, some of these houses have a breezeway between the garage and the house proper: A breezeway is a little room with a few small windows, a room that would be a nice place to read a book as the crickets shake off their downy sleep and the sun sinks languidly into the west. A small glass of bourbon with one piece of ice could sit on a small mid-century end table beside a mid-century chair. My ’53 Buick could sit in the garage. Ah, what a dream.

Although a little house with a breezeway in my old neighborhood sounds really nice, we have way too much stuff to make it work, so a dream it will remain.

But a Mercury with a Breezeway roof doesn’t have to be a dream, as they pop up for sale regularly. This top-of-the-line 1965 Park Lane is not for sale as far as I know, but it’s a nice example of a car (and a roof) I’ve always liked. The ’65 Mercury was all-new, but the breezeway roof was adapted to the new body for a last run. It sold reasonably well, but no better than the other four-doors in Mercury’s various series.

I’m prone to daydreaming, so it may be no surprise that I’ve sat starry-eyed at the inward image of a Breezeway Mercury. I test drove a rusted ’64 when I was in my twenties, and the hook was set: a warm August night, all the windows down, the steady drone of a big old Ford 390 under the hood, the faint glow of a set of spectacular ’60s instruments, a vague bounce to the speedometer needle as we drive back home to the place I’ve always lived. Ah, what a dream.

Unless I buy a bigger garage at home, a dream it will remain. My Tetris trials of old car ownership in the city have been well documented here for a decade, but it’s important to be an optimist about things like this. I’ve done pretty well for myself within the scope of living one’s dreams, so there may be a Mercury in my future. Will it be a ’63, a ’64, or a ’65 (I don’t like the similar ’66 as well)?

I truly love them all, so I don’t know for now. What I do know is that the standard roof was the future for Mercury and everyone else, and the experiment with the Breezeway window was superseded by air conditioning and, most likely, conformity. The Breezeway looked a little weird and the public spoke. Anecdotes about exhaust being drawn through the open window under the right conditions probably didn’t help much, and that seems plausible given my experiences in the Dart wagon.

None of that pessimism could possibly affect MY dream, behind that clean dashboard, eating up the miles, my girl at my side, my glass of bourbon and a breezeway at home. In the old neighborhood.