ABSTRACT
Growing up in the city of Fresno in California’s San Joaquin Valley, I knew “Chicago” mostly as the past, a place “back there” in both time and space, a thing of hearsay and memories. Yet even today, sketchy images of Chicago can come flooding back to me, triggered by a variety of small things, such as a train whistle, a word, or a song. Among other things, I think of shimmy and shake, people dancing the Charleston, and my young, pretty, flapper mother dressed up and eager to party in that wonderful toddlin’ town.
