Real time

The shop where I work closes at 5pm on Saturdays. Today, however, we locked the doors two hours early and routed incoming calls to the answering machine. We cranked up random blues on the sound system, adjourned to our small break room and feasted.

Alongside my pot of chili was a crock of pulled pork and another of baked beans. There were plates stacked with cheeses and fresh venison sausage. As if deer-harvesting was some sort of theme, one of my co-workers moved through the group doling out hunks of peppery venison jerky. Dessert consisted of pumpkin pie, cherry cheesecake and Christmas cookies, all homemade.

I ate too much. Everyone did.

Just eight of us, including the owner, keep this humble enterprise humming. Our ages range from 17 to 62. This afternoon we talked of family, farming, hunting, old cars, places we've lived, races we'd won and lost -- anything but work.

It was relaxed, friendly and inescapably real.

As the fete was winding down I said goodbye and walked out to my truck, carrying the empty slow-cooker under my right arm. (My chili was a hit.) In my left hand was an eight-pound ham, the shop owner's "Christmas bonus" to each of us.

I don't know if it's my age, an evolving perspective or something else, but compared to the high-flying, fine-dining, executive-suite-dwelling life I once lived, more and more I find myself reveling in days like this -- simple, right and real.