By Dave Crehore
As a tender boy, Dave Crehore moved along with his mom and dad from northern Ohio to the shipbuilding city of Manitowoc at the shorelines of Wisconsin’s Lake Michigan, the place the Germanic population punctuate their conversations with “enso,” the neighborhood radio station interrupts Beethoven for advertisements, and the outside are a wellspring of enlightenment. Crehore’s tales of his early life in Nineteen Fifties Wisconsin are peppered with enticing characters and a quiet wit. A grouse-hunting excursion is going awry whilst an eccentric British businessman luggage an escaped bantam hen with a touchdown internet. Crehore's great-grandfather will get in difficulty one Christmas whilst he sneaks a whoopee-cushion below a guest’s seat. The aged Frau Blau will get trapped in an outhouse through a shady auctioneer in the course of a farm sale. via the entire adventures—and misadventures—in a small city and within the nice open air of Wisconsin, relations is usually on the heart. This lightly funny glance again at a baby-boomer’s awakening to maturity may be liked by means of contributors of any generation. Honorable point out, Kingery/Derleth e-book size Nonfiction, Council for Wisconsin Writers Finalist, Humor, Midwest booklet Awards
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Extra info for Sweet and Sour Pie: A Wisconsin Boyhood
I swallowed hard and felt the aching throat that comes before tears. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was eight years old and had to take the rough with the smooth. “Let’s see if we can catch a bigger one,” Dad said. And so we ﬁshed through our full battery of lures: the Chugger, a Bass-O-Reno, an Al Foss Oriental Wiggler with a pork frog on it, a Shannon Twin-Spin, a Creek Chub Pikie Minnow, a Jitterbug, a Flatﬁsh, and a Pearl Wobbler made of genuine Ohio River clam shell. But by ten o’clock it was obvious that the bite was over.
Then he tooted the horn and headed east. We all stood on the porch and watched until the old Chevy disappeared down East Erie. It was quiet around the house after that. “Stille Nacht” But before long it was time to get dressed up and go to the Maryland Avenue Methodist Church for the Christmas Eve pageant. We all got into Grandpa’s Packard and headed downtown through heavy snow that was blowing in off Lake Erie. It took a while to ﬁnd a parking place big enough for the Packard, and by the time we got into the church all the pews in the sanctuary were full.
But I had faith in Puppa, so I dug into a plate of frosted cutout cookies Grandma had put on the table. I preferred the Santas and snowmen, because they were the largest, and I was on my fourth snowman when a pair of yellowish headlights pulled up the driveway. ” Grandma cried. “Henry, go and look. ” “It’s him,” Grandpa said. ” Puppa came in through the kitchen door, stamping his feet and brushing his sleeves to shed the snow. His mustache and felt hat were frosted with it. “Hello, hello, hello,” he said.