Once upon a time there was one lonesome bar in my tiny hometown located at the end of the paved road. Sixty years or more ago a college friend had come up quail hunting during thanksgiving vacation. We dropped in the bar my dad ordered bourbon and water and i ordered bourbon and seven. My friend ordered a Beefeater martini shaken, not stirred. The ancient bartender/owner without a word unsteadily poured my father and I drinks then looked at my friend and said, “ if you have what they are having its on the house”. A few years later the saloon burned to the ground, never to be replaced. You now have to drive fifty miles to buy a bottle of whiskey.
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Another story centered around the old bar in my hometown. It loooked like it came out of an old west TV show, instead of bat winged doors it had an old screen door for air conditioning. You sort of expected to see Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke to appear from the back. It was conveniently located next to a corrugated shed housing the volunteer fire truck. One night we were sitting around the potbellied stove in my folks home when the fire siren went off a couple miles away in town. We leaped in dads battered old pickup and went to town for instructions. The fire was several miles even farther, a barn was aflame with men scurrying around to no avail. Afterward with the fire truck put away the old saloon owner always opened up and everyone went in for a libation. The same college friend was visiting and he was excited and agonizing over what we might have done to save the structure. An old rancher who looked like Walter Brennen told him not to take it so hard because we hardly ever saved anything on fire but, “it was a chance to have a drink with our friends. “