Several years ago my father was killed in a tractor accident in Arkansas. He
didn't have much experience on a tractor. He was a military man. He'd seen
combat duty in World War II, Korea, and Viet Nam. For twenty-seven years he'd
worn the uniform of his country and it was decorated with a silver star, a
bronze star, and a purple heart. He was to be buried with full military honors
at the national Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia. Things like that don't seem to
matter to most folks these days.
The lot had fallen to my older brother to drive to Pine Bluff, Arkansas to pick
up the cremated remains of my father and return them to the family home for a
memorial service. My brother drove home on Interstate 30 with a plastic box
containing my father's remains and an American flag riding on the passenger seat
of his pickup. As he drove along, somewhere in east Texas, his emotions started
to get the best of him so he pulled on to the shoulder of the road to cry for a
while. He placed the plastic box and the neatly folded flag on the hood of his
truck, sat on the bumper and let the tears flow.
It wasn't long before a trucker stopped to see if he was all right. My brother
told him the story and showed him the flag. The trucker listened patiently,
patted my brother on the shoulder, and said, "Son, It's going to be all right."
The trucker disappeared for a minute and was soon back at my brother's side. In
a few minutes another trucker stopped to pay his respects and to listen to the
story of my Father's life and passing. A few minutes later two more truckers
stopped to lend their support. Within fifteen minutes there were more than
thirty rigs parked along the interstate. The truckers stood in a semicircle
around my Father's remains and quietly paid their respects. One of the truckers
took off his cap and said, "Let's have a prayer." All of the other truckers took
off their caps and bowed their heads as a prayer was spoken. After the prayer
each of the truckers had a word of encouragement or strength.
One of the truckers said, "Come on friend. Follow us into town." The truckers
all turned on their lights and escorted my brother the rest of the way into the
Metroplex. I owe a debt to those unknown truckers. Those men stopped to help
what they thought might be a stranded traveler. Instead they paid a deep honor
to a man who had done his duty. Those truckers understood duty, honor, and
sacrifice. And their kindness helped my family to deal with its grief over the
loss of our Father.
Sharon Paxton Btlfan910@aol.com
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