Memoir peek

I have been diligently working on a memoir about how my mother died. Here's a little piece of it:

The Veterans of Foreign War Hall is a lonely, sad, quite literally backwoods wooden building. We travel up a winding driveway to get to the practically hidden location. Opening the doors to the modest place, there is a long bar to the left, a bartender who looks about 65ish with a baseball style cap on, and a withering chin under a huge mustache. The floor is wooden but not waxed or painted. The room opens into other rooms, all dimly lit with smokey, yellowish light. We inquire about our parents and are told they are in the next room. My uncle is walking around the pool table with a cue in his hand, looking for a shot. My mother is sitting in some man’s lap that I have never seen before, and I doubt she has either.