There’s a framed picture of Abraham Lincoln that sits atop the mantle behind the bar at Pembroke City Limits, our new venue down in the historic Suncook village.

Abe is there for reasons only those familiar with a particular old saloon in South Dakota would know, but he’s there – and rightly so – and that might be my favorite thing about the whole damn place.

One night over the past 30 days of ownership, we were closing and one of our very first customers was nursing his last beer, watching an MMA fight on the tube as Conway Twitty sang through the speakers.

I pointed up to Lincoln and asked “Z,” a hard-working, tall man from another country with two jobs who nearly every night after his second shift has a beer or two, then walks a couple blocks home.

I said to Z, “Z. You know who this guy is?”

I had money on Lincoln not being part of Z’s civic classes back home as a kid. Z looked at Abe without moving his head, like he was thinking of the word grandfather or something, then humbly said in his own way, “No. I don’t know.”

I laughed hard, not just because that’s the first time I have ever heard someone say that, but instead recognizing that somewhere in Z’s long journey to the United States, where he had to get here, settle, raise rent, fill this out, that out, probably move again, then work over 10 hours a day, Abraham Lincoln was not on his radar.

But Abe is now.

So, when people ask: Why did we open a bar? Because of people like Z. Because of those kinds of exchanges. Pretty simple.

Another night during our first week of 30 days, as we glistened with sweat, each of us moist to the touch because the AC kicked during a heat wave, during our Grand Opening. Not a good start.

Through a swampy trough of dampness, I spotted a little finger wagging in my direction. It was Cathy, Big Paul’s love of many years, and she was beckoning for a word. Cathy is local and all of five feet tall, and when she calls, you get moving.

Cathy, with her brow slicker than grease from the humidity, is telling me from one of the high-top tables, that the old yellow chair used as stage setting where the musicians play, could use a blanket thrown over it. And not just any old blanket. A handmade blanket. Lordy.

“What do you want it to say?” Cathy demands, as her task list that week just got a little longer. “I’m going to make one for you. What do you want it to say?”

“Pembroke, of course. Please.” I shouted over the Danny Savage Band or Dusty or Gary Smith having at it on stage. “Really?”

A couple weeks later, here comes Cathy and Paul back to PCL, a place, believe it or not, that was the town library at one time, a place where Cathy as a kid would come with her friends and read books right where the upper listening room is today. That’s pretty funky.

And the blanket Cathy made is sheer perfection – heavy, quilted, hand stitched, made with love, with the past, with the future. Beautiful to the touch and draped right where it should be, over the old yellow chair for many years to come.

So again, Why did we open the bar? Because of people like Cathy, because of her story and her follow-through. It’s that simple.

I could go on, and I will. But just for a quick nip. See, the best part about owning a new place is owning a new conversation, a new way of thinking, of collaborating, of sharing with respect.

Our crew is Local 101, townies, many born and raised within the city limits. Their parents too. And each of these new relationships were born out of this project, out of this need to feed stomachs and moods with sound and banter, with Sleazy delights and good beer, where the old-timers meet the new gamers, the young guns from the new neighborhood. And tell stories, and lies, and just, well, chill out and bathe in the music.

It’s a blessing to witness.

So, when they ask: Why did we open a bar? We did this for those reasons. For you, for us, for the village, for the music. For all of it.

Pretty simple.

Rob Azevedo can be reached at pembrokecitylimits@gmail.com.