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Although a Southerner born and bred, Charlton Lyons has deep roots in the far north of Wisconsin and a more than passing acquaintance with the East. Here you have a picture of the author’s pool taken from the grave where he buried his black dog, Scout, to whose memory this book is dedicated. It is just over there, at that pool house you see, that, in the process of reading this book, you will spend some thirty or more very pleasant early evenings with the author, as he talks with you about the past before going in for his supper. What is this past we are to hear about from this old man? Well, he tells us right up front that these are true tales we’re going to hear, but we won’t be hearing them in normal narrative order, only as they come to mind. Many will be stories about people of his own and earlier generations, most of whom it’s clear he regards as having been of a rather decent sort. These include stories about his own family and about himself. Not to mention a few very tall tales which he has made certain we will readily recognize as being the flim-flam they clearly are. And then there are those ruminations of his! The all of which he constantly assures us will be one day soon, if not already, long forgotten. Lastly, a cautionary note to you, the Reader: although not in the least licentious, this is an extremely personal book, perhaps as deeply and truly personal as any you’re apt to come across these days.
