“There, I’d gulp down icy Stag drafts, shoot a few games of eight-ball, and occasionally eat a pickled egg or two with old high school friends.”

Every year I make at least two trips to visit my parents in Ste. Genevieve (pop. 4,411), a predominantly Catholic, mining and farming town in southeastern Missouri. Until it recently closed, my favorite place to hang out while I was home was at the O.K. Corral, a local watering hole where proprietor Wally Bauman served up cold draft beer in chilled mugs and where fifty cents got you three plays on the jukebox. There, I’d gulp down icy Stag drafts, shoot a few games of eight-ball, and occasionally eat a pickled egg or two with old high school friends. Once in a while Flick Samples, looking for a little cheap entertainment, would bet Piss Schweiss a couple of bucks that he wouldn’t drink a glass of dill pickle juice from the three-gallon jar on the bar. If Piss was in a good mood, he’d get Wally to set him up with a tall one.