I got a text last Friday.

“Eating at my place Monday.”

I sent back a simple thumbs up emoji.

I really didn’t need any more information than this to know that I would cross raging rivers and climb mountains through the snow on foot to get there if I had to.

Thankfully, this morning it was a cool 38°, clear skies, and by noon the sun had warmed things up into the low 60s. Plus there are paved roads most of the way.

As I turn on GA 18 heading east out of Pine Mountain, I’m going through the possible menu options for lunch at Brent’s place. Fresh angus burgers maybe. Could be he’s been down to the everglades and brought back a boat load of fish. I like his fried fish. I know there will be plenty of sweet tea and some kind of dessert on the table.

I try not to miss this lunch invite. It comes around only four or five times a year. About 20 men show up in pickup trucks, drive out across the freshly mown grass and park in the shade beneath the oaks. Most of them have some sort of long standing connection to the Pine Mountain community. Many of them are regulars at the table in the back room at the Whistling Pig in town.

But the Pig is not open on Mondays, which from time to time gives us a good reason to get together for lunch out here under the trees.

By the time I hang a left on the dirt road, I’m in Meriwether County. Not much here but dust and a handful of mailboxes with a slight lean to them. I turn right through the cattle gate that’s propped open. The shade of the large oaks feels cool. The sunglasses come off. I can see a group of men on the hill by the cabin. Some are seated around folding tables. Some are standing around the serving table fixing plates.

Brent doesn’t live here. This place is his version of a man cave, I guess. It’s his getaway from the busy life of Pine Mountain. Sometimes he comes out here just to take a nap in the hammock that hangs in the shade of the porch.

The cabin is half painted. It looks inhabitable but, in some ways, unfinished. I’ve never been inside. But he keeps a garden here. There’s a chicken coop and two other outbuildings. When I park at the far end of the line of trucks and get out, the rooster crows to accuse me of being late.

“Hey Yancey, how’re ya doing?”

He sets his fork down and we shake hands.

“Just fine,” he says. “ Good to see you.”

Most every guy here has a lot of snow on the roof. Only two or three have a job they have to get back to after lunch. The rest of us are free to linger as long as the food and conversation lasts.

The plates are on the side of the porch at about waist high. The napkins and plastic ware are in a box. There’s a fresh pound cake sitting behind the plates.

I ask Brent, “Will a fork do me or do I need a knife and spoon?”

“You might want all three,” he says.

Brent spends all morning getting ready for this lunch. There’s an outdoor rock fireplace near the porch, and a lot of the cooking is done there. I’m still three guys back from the serving table, but I know that whatever it is, the food will be over the top good.

When the bodies clear out of the way, I step up to survey my options. There’s a smoked pork tenderloin to my left. A pot of grits to my immediate right with a butter plate close by. In the middle there’s a colossal pot of collard greens cooked with pork. And on the far side of the table, a roaster full of venison in gravy.

I take a sample platter of everything on the table. The rolls are on a tray in the open “oven” cut out in the chimney above the fire box. Warm and a little bit toasty. There’s a cooler of ice on the ground surrounded by jugs of sweet tea.

What I like most about this lunch is that I have known so many of these men for a lot of years. Don put in my well at the house. Maxey sanded and finished my hardwood floors for me. I met David at Callaway when I came here in ’94. Mike worked at the bank in town. Chad owned and ran the general store. Brent used to be the superintendent of streets and utilities for the city. John and I helped build Habitat houses once upon a time. Terry and I went to church together. Sandy’s my neighbor.

And the ones I haven’t known so long, the more I get to know them, the more connection I find between us.

Mark says to me, “Hey. Don’t you have some family in Newnan?”

That kind of caught me by surprise.

“I do. My wife and all her family lives in Newnan.”

It sounds funny to say it that way, but most of these guys know my story.

“Well, my daughter lives in Newnan and I was telling her about the stuff you write on your blog, and she said that she had heard your name before. Or maybe she had met you.”

I’m looking completely lost.

“It might be through my grandson,” he says.

“How old is your grandson?”

“He’s nine.”

“Well, I have a grandson on Marion’s side that’s 9 and he goes to Brooks Elementary.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “That’s where my grandson goes to school. That’s got to be the connection.”

“Where does your daughter live?” I ask.

“They live somewhere close to Red…red…red something.”

“Redwine?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s inside what they call Happy Valley Circle. Marion lives not far from there.”

Crazy right? A few weeks ago I met a lady in Palmetto who went to school with one of my cousins. Today, I’m talking to a fella in Pine Mountain, and his grandson Ethan goes to school with Caleb all the way up in Coweta County. I found out later that the two are big buddies.

I said to myself a long time ago when I moved to this area that I wanted to stay put. I was tired of moving. I wanted to belong some place where you get to know folks. A place where your life has a chance to put down roots in a community. Where the stories you tell are woven into the same fabric that belongs to the guys you know sitting around the table.

My plate is clean. I have not overdone it because I’m saving room for a slice of pound cake, AND there’s a blackberry cobbler. Have mercy!

When the food is gone, a few fellas leave. The rest of us circle up the chairs. We’re catching up. Brent tells us about the snake that came out of the chimney when he lit the fire earlier this morning.

It was a fine lunch.

But the best part was the men who shared it.