Searching For My Lost Truck (The Friday Ficks S6 E22)

There I stood beside my brother, sister and maternal grandfather, Edward Fagan. At the time, it seemed like just another family photograph.

Today, it feels like a snapshot of legacy.

My grandfather owned and operated a regional freight company named Fagan Transportation. In the middle of the last century, his fleet of bright red trucks rolled up and down East Coast
highways from terminals in New Britain, CT and New York City.

He was proud of his business and the trucks which carried his name. And as a little boy, I was fascinated by them. I loved their sheer size and power. To me, they looked indestructible.

The company closed in 1971, around the same time that photograph was taken. My grandfather passed away in 1986.

For the last 40 years, I’ve been quietly searching for one of his old trucks.

I’ve scanned forgotten truck lots from Amtrak windows while riding between Connecticut and Washington, DC. I’ve searched along commuter rail lines in and out of Manhattan. I’ve peered
through rusted fences on long bike rides. I even wandered through an abandoned truck yard in the Florida Keys, hoping to spot a faded red cab carrying the Fagan name.

Nothing. Yet.

Maybe it’s my own version of Jimmy Buffett “searching for my lost shaker of salt.”

Truthfully, I know the search may be quixotic. Time and weather have likely reclaimed every last truck.

But some searches still matter. Not because they are practical, but because they tether us to the people and places that shaped us. They remind us where we came from. Of who we are.

And sometimes the act of searching itself keeps the people we loved riding alongside us a little longer.

So keep searching for the things that matter to you. Even if the world thinks the search makes no sense.

Own the day. Own the weekend.

Carl