Chicago author Nelson Algren said, "A writer does well if in his whole life he can tell the story of one street." Chicagoans, but not just Chicagoans, have always found something instructive, and pleasing, and profound in the stories of their block, of Main Street, of Highway 61, of a farm lane, of the Celestial Highway. Tell us the story of a street, path, road-real or imagined or metaphorical.
When I was five, every Saturday, my mom would put me on the back rack of her bicycle and take me to my dance class. I put my arms around mom's waist and lean my face on her back while her bike bumped up and down along the narrow and rough road. The small rinky-dink shops lining the street moved backwards and I saw slovenly shop owners sitting on small stools by the side of the street, moving their rush-leaf fans back and forth idly while bathing in the lovely morning sun.
Then, I would chant the names of the shops loudly to my mom (in Mandarin of course): "Changlai Eating Joint" "Weihaomei Restaurant" "Malan Noodles" "Jinpai Food Junction"- that was how I remembered the route to the dance studio. Mom would then call me "a little glutton" with a soundless laughter sent down her spine and captured by my ear flattened on her back.
I always called that street the "Snack Street". My mom would then say that I had a selective eye because there were many other shops besides food stores. I guess in those days, when I rarely saw meat on our dining table and when candy was considered a luxury to me, food stores left a particularly deep impression in me.
Occasionally, my mom would stop by at one of the shops and buy me a bowl of wantan on the way back from the dance studio. Then she would look at me gulp down the wantan with a gratified smile on her face. But most of the time, she would tell me that the wantan was unhygienic, with horrifying stories of how they actually made them. Although, at that age, I never distrusted my omniscient mother, on the rare occasions when she did buy me wantan, I secretly doubted how much truth there was in her stories.
No matter it rained or shone, every Saturday, my mom and I would be jolting on the road. I couldn't remember when I stopped repeating the names of the shops, as I no longer needed them to remember the route. I had also outgrown the age when food seemed particularly attractive. And the "snack characteristic" of the street was getting less obvious as the snacks I once craved for had become table norms. The "Snack Street" gradually blurred out of my life.
Years had past since the last time I went past the snack street. My family moved to a new house in a better neighborhood and I quitted dance class after I told mom "my bones were aging" and therefore couldn't do the split well.
A year ago, when my mom drove me past a bustling commercial street lined with the glittering glass doors of high-class department stores, she turned her head to me at the backseat of her car and said:
"Do you remember this street? Your snack street?"
I looked out of the window and was shocked.
The street in no way resembled the snack street in my childhood memory. But suddenly, the indolent shop owners and their rush-leaf fans, the white lies about wantan, the bike that almost fell into pieces because of the rough road and the warm Saturday morning sun all flashed back, so vividly like they just happened yesterday.
"Changlai Eating Joint" "Weihaomei Restaurant" "Malan Noodles" "Jinpai Food Junction" subconsciously, I started chanting to mom at the front seat again. They were still so familiar, so familiar to me, but I knew the street and my distant childhood had irreversibly faded into memory.
Could someone look thru the grammar and expressions? Any other comments are also welcome! Any idea on how to revise the last sentence of the essay? It doesn't really make sense...Thank you
Mom would then call me "a little glutton" with a soundless laughter sent down her spine and captured by my ear flattened on her back.this is great, you are a good writer!
Rain or shine, every Saturday, my mom and I would go jolting down that road.
Years had past since the last time I went past the snack street. My family moved to a new house in a better neighborhood and I quitted dance class after I told mom "my bones were aging" and therefore couldn't do the split well.
A year ago, when my mom drove me past a bustling commercial street lined with the glittering glass doors of high-class department stores, she turned her head to me in the backseat of her car and asked,
"Do you remember this street? Your snack street?"
I looked out the window and was shocked.
Great essay and nice story. Good luck in school!
:)
