My dad, Rex, was a World War II veteran, and one summer he and my Uncle Bob, who also fought in the war, took me along on a trip to visit my grandfather's farm in Wisconsin.

Somewhere along the way—we may have been in Brothertown, but I'm not sure—we stopped at a small-town tavern. To me, it was magical. There was shuffleboard, pinball machines, and plenty of room for a kid to run around and act like a fool while the grownups enjoyed a beer and visited.

I don't remember how long we stayed. It might have been one beer. It might have been several. What I do remember is the fun and excitement.

Looking back, one thing I've taken with me is an appreciation for a good dive bar—a place where conversation is honest, except for the acceptable BS. Laughter and backslaps come easy, and so do disagreements.

The bartender already knows what you're going to say before you say it. He's heard it all before. He wanders off pretending to clean glasses, stock the cooler, throw a few Old Styles on ice, or find something that needs doing in the walk-in refrigerator.

On a hot summer day, the air conditioner is redemption from the heat and the sweat of an old car that never had air conditioning. For a little while, the rest of the world stays outside the door.

You can even learn a new language there, filled with words and expressions that never seem to make it into the dictionary.

To those who appreciate such things, the smell of stale beer is almost a kind of perfume.