RIPPLES
Published 12:00 am Wednesday, March 22, 2000
Anna Monica / L’Observateur / March 22, 2000
I have a special thing for trucks. I am naturally drawn to them, alwaysattempt to yield to them because I know how difficult it is for them to change gears in many circumstances and, in general, have a great respect for them. Some people get aggravated because they feel trucks tear up theroad so badly. They probably don’t realize that trucks pay a tremendousamount of road taxes, which help us, too. And, don’t even think about theinsurance costs to operate a truck. Definitely, I sympathize with therising fuel costs they face.
Yes, I have a little information about trucks and even a special affinity for truck drivers. You see, I once loved one. He was my brother.Epifanio J. Monica’s name was synonymous with “trucks” to anyone whoknew anything about Fano. In his early years before he could drive, and hedid drive young, Fano drove play trucks providing the truck sounds by mouth. The sounds became real eventually as his love affair with trucksescalated, and a truck was the first purchase he made after dismissal from the U.S. Marines. It was a moment of great pride for him, and throughthe years that truck and others he had began to show wear and tear but were very much part of his identity.
My brother was a simple man, one who was mostly satisfied with his lot in life, especially if driving a truck was involved. He didn’t seek worldlytreasures, although he probably would have been happy to some day own a fleet of trucks, simply because he loved them and the fact that it was his way of making a living. A long time ago he tried to teach me to shift oneof those monsters, although I really can’t say I remember how today. I wasproud of him because he could drive anything with a steering wheel and a motor and had a license for it.
Fano was relatively large for being an Italian-American, but his heart was even larger. More than once he took care of sick relatives, stopping by inhis trucker’s clothes with food, making sure they had what they needed. Hewas also there for comfort in their final days. Fano’s work was rough andtumble, but he, himself, was kind and humble. However, like his fatherbefore him, when necessary, he was a sharp dresser.
Children loved Fano. Why not? When with them he was mostly their age,crawling on the floor and playing trucks, and when he blew smoke in their hair they thought that was the greatest thing ever! He really loved them.
When River Forest was building up, Fano and Slim Duhe, who worked with him, hauled dirt in each day. The neighborhood kids were probably dirty andexcited for weeks, as they couldn’t wait for the trucks to come in and unload. Their heroes, Fano and Slim, would come in blowing the horns andthe kids would run out yelling “Sim, Sim” and knew the two men very well.
It would be hard to say who enjoyed it more, Fano and Slim or the kids! To me, my brother was a rather innocent and unassuming man, one who could do no harm whatsoever, and he had a giving heart, even though he experienced considerable hurt. I could make a list of people he helped withthat truck with no charge. There was no spirit of the tough ex-Marine inhim, although the pride of the Marines was always with him as it is with his best friend, Brent Duhe. Brent has a memorial built to his buddy in hisyard, an act of friendship and love, which many felt toward Fano.
It has been almost five years now since a massive heart attack took him from us very suddenly. He would be having a birthday this week, March 22,the fourth of the eight of us, born after me. We all continue to miss himand his life filled with disappointments and frustrations, playfulness and caring. He had not finished dreaming his dreams nor had we completed ourvisions for him, either.
It’s in the blood, because my nephew, Neil, has taken his uncle and grandfather’s (my dad) place with a love of trucks. Neil has acquired Fano’stractor and truck as well as his passion for that kind of work, and it makes me sad, yet proud, a tribute to his uncle, my brother.
When you know how I feel about my brother, you can understand why I feel an attachment to the world of trucks. I could never be negative aboutthem. Now, and probably for the rest of my life, whenever I share the roadwith a truck, especially, a dump truck, I have a longing – a longing to see him once more in the driver’s seat. I know it can’t be real, but I would likefor it to be. Nonetheless, I experience an overwhelming desire to wave,and I do with my heart, to the driver that I wish was there.
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