There was a club across the river on old Hwy 224 outside Lexington. One of those picturesque country bars set back in the trees, neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign in the window. A ‘good ole boy’ place where wives weren’t invited to go. I laughed every time I drove past it. The glow from the sign lit up the entire parking lot. Welcome to the ‘Peckerwood Club’. I told my dad once that I had never been there. He said, “Sure you have, you just never got out.” It was the first joke I heard him tell. I was 25.