It was a pleasant dinner.

Over sixty-five people crowded into a room which had a sign listing maximum occupancy at 57.

A peaked ceiling supported by wooden beams, with a moose mount hanging on one side, a bighorn ram on the other. Light coming from six chandeliers made of huge deer antlers. Paintings of western wildlife or western scenes scattered on the walls.

The wife pointing out the painting of a man saddling up for an autumn ride could easily be of our outfit. All the man needed was the patch on the shoulder.

The food was excellent, if tardy. Shrimp came out first, and looked delicious. The chicken marsala, based upon a taste or two off the wife's plate, was excellent and tender.

The prime rib was perfect.

For me, anyway. Oddly, those that arrived last at the tables were the rarest. Practically raw and bloody. Not sure why the blacker pieces came out first, but I'm glad I got one.

But the high points of the evening were the stories.

The young mother relating how they found their third son to be autistic. Tearing up as she explained the joy of hearing him simply ask his father how his day was.

And actually listening to the answer.

Her voice cracking again as she told of having to explain to another young mother why she was crying.

Just because her son was playing with that woman's daughter in the McDonald's ball pen.

The young man losing his voice as he read the letter of thanks from the young mother who escaped to our community. Starting over without a job, without a home, and of necessity, without an identity. And nothing but $20 to protect her and her children from the cold.

And finally, our local publisher. Who promised not to tear up, and failed. More than once. Relating his own tales of times of need.

It was something like 12 degrees when we drove home.

But it was a warm night.