1989 was a foreign country; I go there often. A magical land where cell phones were still a distant threat, where McDonald’s still fried their hot apple pies in honest-to-God grease, and where every hamlet in America still had at least one conversation factory like LaGrone’s Drugstore. Among my fondest memories are those in which I am crawling headfirst onto the bench seat of my papaw's 88 Ford, blue with a white stripe, savoring its rich masculine bouquet accented with notes of leather, Old Spice, and Lucky Strikes. When the last bell rang, he would be waiting for me in the parking lot of Portis Elementary with his windows rolled down, blaring Hank Williams’s “Why Don’t You Love Me Like You Used to Do” and puffing on what must have been his 60th cigarette of the day. Then we would cruise the quarter-mile down Main Street over to LaGrone’s.  Though Fred LaGrone had been our town’s lone pharmacist since the Eisenhower administration, what made his store prominent was its reputation as …