Friday was my last day of work for 2006. Not that much actual work got done, of course. The office closed at noon, and the staff was more eager to get to the company-sponsored Christmas luncheon than to finish up any last-minute projects. I do plenty of grumbling about my job — the hours, the stress, the clients, the sometimes ridiculously bad prose that I as a proofreader must try to make readable — but when it comes down to it, I think I work for a pretty cool company. I’ve had employers in the past who thought that bringing in a couple of five-dollar Hot ‘n’ Ready pizzas from Little Caesers was the height of holiday generosity; I’ve had other employers who didn’t do a damn thing for their employees around Christmas time. My current employer, however, rented out one of the hottest new clubs in Salt Lake City and provided a catered turkey-and-ham dinner, complete with an open bar and presents for everyone on the staff — genuine, useful presents, not just gag gifts or a coupon for a free slice of pie at some greasy spoon somewhere. Yes, I thought as I sat at a table with my fellow proofreaders, I have somehow managed to land myself a good job. After years of wandering in the wilderness, I found an oasis.

Or maybe I was just feeling good from all the Irish whiskey I drank. Did I mention there was an open bar?

Kidding aside, Friday was a good day. Lunch was tasty and plentiful, my surroundings were stylish and cool, spirits were high, and I was still coasting from the ego boost I’d received the previous day, when I learned that I was nominated for several “Salties,” my company’s internal awards for outstanding work. I was one of only two nominess for Best Proofreader of 2006 (I lost, but to an excellent colleague and genuinely sweet woman, who also happens to be a good friend, so I didn’t mind); in addition, my name was attached to several group nominations for projects that I worked on during the past year. I was thrilled and honored to share a win for one of those, in the category of Best Campaign of ’06. I’d love to elaborate about what the campaign actually was, but I’m not sure how much I can say without breaking confidentiality, so let’s just leave it at that.

I don’t want to make too big a deal about winning the award — it consisted only of a certificate and some bragging rights — but I’ve never won anything like that before, and I have to admit that it felt really good to be recognized for my efforts. There have been moments over the past year and handful of months that I’ve worked for this particular employer when I have questioned whether I made the right decision in accepting the job. I’ve wondered if I fit in around the place, if working there was worth the inconveniences and irritations, if my co-workers even knew my name. In short, I’ve experienced all the usual insecurities that creative-type people seem to suffer. Being handed that silly little certificate and shaking hands with one of the company executives, having the rest of the team who won along with me give me the thumbs-up… it sounds lame, but I finally felt like I belonged at this company. And that feeling carried over to the big lunch party the next day.

The good feeling persisted after lunch, as well. Again, my mood was probably being helped along by my old pal Mr. Jameson, but I don’t think that was all of it. The sky was close and gray, feeling more cozy than gloomy in my current state of mind, and icy particles that weren’t quite grandiose enough to be called “snow” were drifting down through the air. I could see Christmas lights glowing in some of the trees around the Gateway shopping district. The crowds thronging the sidewalk and light-rail platforms were cheerful, and I was looking forward to the start of a whole week off. And then there was the family I encountered on the train on the way home.

It was a small family, the parents and a single daughter, African-American (which is still something of a novelty in these parts). I’m not very good at judging children’s ages, but I’d say the girl was about eight, a pretty little thing in a pink coat. Her parents were around my age; their clothes were inexpensive and a little frayed, but clean and well-maintained. My impression was that they were hard-working, blue-collar people who appreciated what they had, even if it wasn’t much.

The girl was cold; she had wet feet from “kicking over snow,” as she happily explained to me. I smiled at her and said she ought to put her feet near the heater that ran along the floor of the train car. I glanced at her father to make sure he didn’t mind this mildly inebriated stranger talking to his little girl. The guy smiled back at me and encouraged his daughter to do as I’d suggested. She turned sideways on her seat and stuck her feet over the metal grill. She closed her eyes and revelled for a moment in the warm air blowing across her toes.

She then told her dad that she was hungry, and the two of them started talking about the turkey that was waiting for them back home, and how they’d make turkey sandwiches with lots of mayo. I jumped into the conversation with my opinion that turkey sandwiches are best if you put them on soft dinner rolls with the aforementioned mayo and a little salt and pepper. Rather than telling the drunken white guy to mind his own damn business, the girl’s father said, “Oh, yeah, doesn’t that sound good?” I found myself liking this man, this total stranger with the cute little girl.

Moments later, we reached the family’s stop. They all stood up and gathered in the train car’s doorway, waiting for the doors to roll back, just like all the other passengers who were disembarking. But unlike everyone else who boards and leaves these trains everyday without saying a single word to another human being, this family turned to all the people who were still in their seats, lost in their books and newspapers and iPods and the solitude of their own thoughts, and they shouted out, “Merry Christmas, everyone!”

Any other day, I probably would’ve reacted to this gesture with a hearty “bah, humbug.” But as I’ve said, I was feeling good on Friday. I believed this little family was sincere and not trying to be treacly. And to my surprise and pleasure, the other passengers returned their sentiment. And they meant it, too. There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm to be heard, and nobody that I saw rolled their eyes or turned away. And like winning that silly little certificate, I found that this one sweet, genuine, uncynical gesture of good will from a trio of less-than-wealthy strangers on a train, felt really good. Whoever they are, and whatever the true circumstances of their life, I hope they do, indeed, have a merry Christmas.