Farewell Pete – BETWEEN THE TRACKS

I never knew Pete until this morning.

I learned about him while waiting in line at the post office. A man ahead of me peered toward the window and asked why six bright-orange Kentucky Department of Transportation trucks were parked at our village’s lone stoplight.

I’d noticed them myself, their flashing beacons pulsing in the late-summer haze. The postmaster shrugged, but the sheriff, leaning against the counter, offered an answer in a low voice: Pete died.

Pete—who’d just traded his hardhat for retirement, who’d not yet seen his first pension check—had taken his final drive.

I had worn a government badge for nearly twenty years, and I’ve heard every lazy-bureaucrat joke under the sun.

But I’ve also known the grit, dedication, and pride of public servants, state and federal alike. So when that fellow sized up the six “good old boys” at the light, I understood his skepticism—and the sheriff’s quiet correction.

In about twenty minutes, Pete’s funeral procession would roll through that intersection of highways—the same stretch he’d surely driven a thousand times. Gravel trucks, maintenance rigs, plow trucks: he’d been behind the wheel of them all, fixing potholes in rain and shining sun. Today, though, he wouldn’t be the one waving from the cab.

There’s a bond among government crews—like soldiers and police officers—that binds them in respect. I’d felt it during my own service, at ceremonies that made my collar feel tight with pride.

Down here in the South, it’s second nature to pull off the road when a funeral passes. My granddaddy made us hop out of the pickup and doff our caps, and I still straighten my posture every time.

So it made sense why half a dozen KYDOT trucks had lined the intersection, men in neon vests gripping STOP signs, boots echoing on hot pavement. No suits or polished shoes—Pete was a field man to the end.

I rolled into the service station across the street, filled my tank, then settled on a patch of cracked concrete. The engine’s hum faded as I climbed out, hat in hand, waiting in silent salute.

First came the sheriff’s cruiser, lights dimmed. Then the DOT trucks, one after another, their orange lights blinking like heartbeats. I stood at parade rest, hat pressed to my chest, as Pete’s hearse glided past, windshields reflecting that clear blue sky.

I watched grown men—calloused hands white on steering wheels—switch on their flashing emergency lights, step from their cabs, and lift their hats. Their eyes glistened. My own throat tightened.

I wondered, as the procession dwindled down the highway, if anyone would do that for me one day. But today wasn’t about me. And even in death, Pete was surrounded by the respect his colleagues had earned him.

Jimmy Buffett’s words drifted through my mind: “Some of life was magic, some was tragic, but I had a good life always.”

I slid back into my truck, laid the Stetson on the seat beside me, and glanced back just in time to see a grizzled foreman slip into a DOT cab and brush away a tear.

Men don’t often show their hearts so openly. But for Pete, they stopped their trucks, saluted their friend, and let the tears fall.

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