For 38 years, Kathy Marcotte’s name echoed through the halls of the Starrett factory like a trusted melody. She wasn’t just a worker—she was the heartbeat of the precision tool line, the one who could coax perfection out of steel with nothing but her hands, her eyes, and a quiet kind of wisdom that only comes from decades of dedication.

Kathy started at Starrett in her early twenties, fresh out of trade school, with a fire in her belly and a love for craftsmanship. Back then, the machines were louder, the floors a little grittier, and the coffee a lot worse. But Kathy didn’t mind. She loved the rhythm of the factory—the hiss of the lathes, the clink of calipers, the hum of teamwork.

Over the years, she became the go-to for training new hires. “If you want to learn it right,” the supervisors would say, “stick with Kathy.” She taught with patience and precision, never raising her voice, never cutting corners. Her tools were always spotless, her measurements exact, and her advice—golden.

But Kathy wasn’t just known for her skill. She was the one who remembered birthdays, who brought in homemade blueberry muffins every Friday, who organized the Secret Santa exchange and made sure no one was left out. She had a way of making the factory feel like family.

As retirement approached, Kathy kept working with the same quiet grace. She didn’t want a fuss. But the crew had other plans.

On her last day, the break room was transformed. Banners hung from the ceiling: “Thank You, Kathy!” Photos from decades past lined the walls—Kathy in safety goggles, Kathy at the company picnic, Kathy holding a freshly machined micrometer with pride. There was cake, laughter, and a few tears.

Her supervisor handed her a custom-made caliper engraved with the words: “Precision. Dedication. Heart. Kathy Marcotte.” She held it like a trophy, smiling through misty eyes.

“I’m not sure what I’ll do without the sound of the machines,” she said, “but I’ll always carry this place with me.”

And with that, Kathy hung up her apron, clocked out one last time, and walked out into the afternoon sun—leaving behind a legacy measured not just in microns, but in memories.