Not long ago as I parked myself behind the wheel of our 1995 Chevrolet pickup, it took me back to the days when our three children all fit in the back seat.

And all at the same time, no less.

Those days are long gone. Oh, they might still fit back there — but their legs would look like human spaghetti as they searched for a place to bunk for the duration of a ride.

And with all those feet involved, I’m guessing it wouldn’t smell as good as spaghetti.

When I think of that pickup, I’m reminded of the time we were all coming home from a very late night of animal preparation for the sheep show at our county fair the next morning.

There became a smell in the truck so powerful, and with the kids (and us) exhausted — yet still carrying on — I asked my husband, “What reeks in here?”

He answered tiredly, “I think it’s us.”

Well that was not the answer I thought to be truth.

From time to time as I see and drive that pickup, its war wounds take me back to the time when our children were young and just beginning to be pretty good help around the farm.

They had baled one day, and that night the full racks were all home and a couple of them had been unloaded into the barn. That meant empty racks were in the yard and needing to be moved out of the way, so my husband asked one of our sons to hook them onto the four-wheeler and move them. They had done this many times before, so it was a simple task.

Until it wasn’t.

It was dark out by now and I was in the machine shed doing whatever it is moms do when it’s summer time, dark outside, and no one has eaten supper yet. Suddenly, one of our sons came running into the shed, said nothing, but grabbed my hand and started running.

When we stopped running and he let go of my hand, we were standing by this very same red pickup, and pointed to the fresh, minutes-old dent that was now in the door.

He looked at me with fright on his face and told me what happened — somehow the hay rack had come unhooked and ran into the side of the truck.

“I suppose we better tell Dad about this, huh?” I asked. He nodded reluctantly, and with that same constipated look I had when Dad figured out it was me who put the hole from the cigarette lighter into the seat of his Oliver 1750 — the only tractor he ever bought new.

It was just so inviting.

We hung around a bit, and when my husband made his way over to us, we showed him the dent. And to our surprise, he said simply, “Well, the first one hurts the worst.”

Then, in a startling move, he just walked away.

I looked at our son, and he stood there looking at me as if some miracle had just occurred right before us. Because the truth was, it was as miraculous as no blue jeans to resuscitate on mending day.

He expected to be lectured about being responsible and paying attention to what he was doing — with a few expletives tossed in there for staying power. Instead, he was greeted with what appeared to be tolerance and understanding.

It was like we didn’t even know this man who stood in front of us.

Perhaps the heat and length of the day with its hot and heavy activities lent my husband to just not care at the moment; at least not until he had consumed a hop-based beverage.

Whatever the case, our son was given an unexpected stay of punishment. Perhaps his fear was enough.

That truck went on to become the source of another tale involving our two sons who drove (as farm kids do) at a very young age, but that’s a story for later.

A mother can take only so much trauma at a time.

Karen Schwaller writes from her grain and livestock farm near Milford, Iowa. She can be reached at kschwaller@evertek.net