I’ve always found bars comforting. A refuge where a hard- edged world is numbed and softened by alcohol and dim lighting. I tend to be drawn to the ones that seem to be from an earlier era. Humble, solitary structures that evoke a sense of loneliness and isolation blended with a noble self-sufficiency; a stubborn ember still smoldering along string of boarded up storefronts in a discarded small town. Defiant vestiges of the past, the bar always seems to be the last to go. When the grocery store, the lumberyard and the barbershop all surrendered to the future and locked their doors for the final time, the bar stayed on. Slumped alone in the rubble, its neon spills out onto the asphalt of a forgotten stretch of highway, burning through the darkness. The beer is cold, and the jukebox stocked with George Jones and dirges from an irretrievable past.