Probably one of our most pleasant meetings ever. Last of the public left around six-thirty, so we had naught to do but visit with neighbors, most of whom we hadn't seen since last fall.

And no, the fact that neither of the bosses could make it, since their highway was closed by the spring blizzard, didn't have anything to do with it.

Around seven-ten I happened to look at my watch.

Hey guys, you know this was supposed to end at seven.

We can go home any time now.

"You trying to get rid of us?"

Well, no, but I'm not the one who has eighty miles to go to get home. I'll be home in eight minutes, and they never close that highway.

So, tables and chairs stowed away, coffee pot emptied and cleaned, and the floor spot-mopped, and we were off to dinner.

Before the food arrives, the wife calls. Just to let us know the north highway is now closed. By the time I get back to the table, the interstate west is closed.

So, two of our six are stranded here for the night. You'd think the other two out-of-towners would be eager to leave, but no, they linger after dinner with the rest of us. The waitress gave up on our crew, and waited patiently by the register.

And the stories flew. The years of experience around the table ranged from over thirty, to under three.

The story about the two fellows who went hunting for elk in the wilderness, where the buddy spent the night standing alone in a blizzard with two horses under a tree on a mountain, whilst the hunter spent the night in a warm bed in the warm cabin in the valley?

I've heard that story three or six times over the years.

But never before from the point of view of the fellow who left his friend standing all night with the horses to go sleep in the cabin.

And no, his version doesn't exonerate himself. In fact, his behavior looks maybe even a little worse from his point of view. But we learned a few new things.

How his hunting buddy was so mad the next morning that he left their cabin to share a cabin up the valley with another hunter from the outfit.

And sheepishly moved back down the next day. As inconsiderate as the first fellow was, bunking with him was better than listening to the third hunter bitch and moan all day and night.

There were other stories, too many for the telling. Even one on me, that has become somewhat embellished over the years. But as I explained midway through them all...

You know, Ron, almost all the good stories told in this outfit begin with "Ron and I were drinking one time, and..."