In the 1970s and 1980s, you could identify a family by the vehicle they drove.

My family could easily be recognized by our red 1976 Chevy Impala. There was nothing cool about that old car that had Neil Diamond’s greatest hits stuck in the 8-track player.

My uncle Jerry D’Arcy, whom we call Shordy (for some reason with a D), drove a blue-and-white Ford truck that I thought was cool, and my uncle Al Hansen drove a tiny, silver Toyota car that was barely bigger than he was.

Grandma Mary and Grandpa Jerry drove a brown Chevy Citation. My grandpa Bill and Grandma Jean had an orange, rusty-looking early 1970s model Impala.

I always thought my aunt Carol Kocher drove the coolest vehicle in the family. It was a big, brown truck. I am pretty sure it was a Ford, and it reminded me of the truck driven by Lee Majors every Friday night on my favorite TV show, “The Fall Guy.”

I will never forget the time I finally got to ride in Carol’s truck. It was my birthday in the early 1980s, and Carol picked me up at Grandma Mary’s house. We took the long drive to JC Penny, which was in the building where Murdoch’s now resides.

Carol, who passed away at the age of 85 over the weekend, bought me a shirt and had my name put on it. I don’t remember much about that shirt, but I remember riding in the truck with my mom’s awesome older sister.

I had wanted to ride in that truck for a long time. It was so much cooler than our Impala. I felt like Colt Seavers as I sat in the passenger seat as Carol drove that truck and talked to me with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

I don’t know what ever happened to that truck, but it was long gone by the time the 1990s rolled around. Had she still been driving that truck into the 2000s, however, one of the biggest — and funniest — controversies of our family never would have happened.

It was probably 10 or 12 years ago when my now late uncle Al called a tow truck on Carol, his long-time sister-in-law. While she was in church, no less.

By this time, Carol was driving the same car as probably 200 other people in our town of 30,000. Nowadays, you cannot tell a family by a vehicle. Whatever you drive, you can bet that dozens of people in town drive the same make, model, year and color that you do.

So, Al did not realize that was Carol’s car blocking his driveway by St. John’s Church that Sunday morning. That was his story, anyway, and he stuck to it.

Carol parked there because the church parking lot was full, and she thought the Hansen family was out of town. She did not know Al was still home, by himself.

She also figured people in your family still knew you by your car. So, when Carol walked out of church and saw the tow truck at her car, she was surprised, to say the least. She was also not happy about it. She thought Al called the tow truck on her on purpose.

Now, a tow truck can be quite the comforting sight when you are stranded on the highway or you need your vehicle taken to the repair shop. But it can be the most enraging sight you can possibly see when it is not wanted. People immediately go from happy to furious when they surprisingly see their car being lifted by a tow truck.

That is why so many tow truck drives get screamed at as they simply try to do their job.

Now, I am about 93 percent sure he would not have called the tow truck if he had known it was Carol’s car. Carol, though, could not be convinced otherwise. Al, she thought, knew it was her car and he was having it towed.

She was livid, but the incident made the rest of us laugh. That Carol wasn’t laughing made it even more funny.

Being the instigator I usually am, I could not help but tease her about it every time I saw her. “Hey lady,” I would say. “You’re parked in my spot. I called the tow truck.”

Carol would smile and say, “Oh, you.” For the first few years, she would also get mad again thinking about the situation. She would again tell me that Al did it on purpose.

Eventually, she started to see the humor in the situation, and she would just laugh when I told her to move her car — even though I could not identify her car in a police lineup.

Luckily, I got to see Carol a lot during those years because her granddaughter, Jenna, competed in volleyball, swimming and softball for Butte High. Carol went to watch the competitions, and I went to all the home action to take photos and write stories about the Bulldogs.

Every time I would see Carol, I would tell her that she parked in my spot. When I saw her at a family function or the grocery store, I would tell her that her car was about to be towed.

On Sept. 27, my family held an 80th birthday party for Shordy at the East Side Athletic Club. Carol was the first person I saw as I walked in. I got to meet her brand-new great-granddaughter, and I got to inform her one last time that she was parked in my spot.

“Hey, smartass,” Carol said. “I haven’t driven in a year.”

Then we again laughed about that crazy situation. It was great to see her. She was on oxygen and needed a walker to get around, but I thought she looked pretty good. I did not think it would be the last time I would tell her to move her car.

Less than a week later, Carol passed away in her sleep, and we are all going to miss her so much. Carol was smart, quick and funny. She was also so very caring. That is what I will remember about her the most.

She worked for decades as a nurse at St. James Hospital, where she made the lives of sick and injured people much easier. She was always there to offer a soothing hand when it was needed the most.

Even after she retired, Carol was always there to offer care when needed.

When my cousin Jerry died in an accident at the age of 20 in 1988, our family converged on Grandma Mary and Grandpa Jerry’s house. We were all in shock, and nobody knew what to say in the midst of the unbearable sadness.

We were numb as we gathered in the kitchen of the old house. That is when Carol stepped up with some comforting words I will never forget.

“Teddy,” she said, “will show Little Jerry around Heaven.”

Teddy was Carol’s son and the cousin I never knew. He died a little more than a year before I was born.

In the darkness of the evening of Nov. 30, 1972, Teddy was hit by a car while he rode a saucer sled on the Oregon Avenue overpass, right at the intersection of Oregon Avenue and B Street. He was transported to Missoula, where he stayed until his death on Jan. 3, 1973.

He was only 7 years old.

While Carol was devastated by the tragedy, she continued her job of comforting others. She continued to make us laugh, even when she did not mean to. That, of course, is when we laughed the hardest.

Now, Carol is with Teddy. He can show her around Heaven along with Little Jerry, Grandma Mary and Grandpa Jerry, her sister Joanie, sister-in-law Laura a many other loved ones who have passed.

The romantic in me believes that right now Carol is parked in Al’s driveway, knowing there is nothing he can do about it this time.

There is no way they allow tow trucks in Heaven.

 — Bill Foley, who would kill to drive Carol’s old brown truck, can be reached at foles74@gmail.com. Follow him at twitter.com/Foles74 or Bluesky at @foles74.bsky.social. Listen to him on the ButteCast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you find your favorite podcasts.