Cigar salutations from the Old Glory Society*
Within hours of moving into a new house, less than a mile away, I discovered a bar owned by an Irish immigrant. In a pretty soft town, it had a hard reputation. Dudes were known to get cracked across the skull with pool cues and drunks would sit shoulder-to-shoulder in this place waiting for the sideways glance or the smug remark that would start the night’s fisticuffs. Still, a man needs a place to go.