ethnography rough draft

This is what i have so far:


At eight a.m., two brothers meet in the gravel-filled back lot of the store that their father, my grandfather, opened over 50 years ago. The cast iron grate that covers the door at night is unlocked and removed, followed by the two locks on the door. There is silence at this early hour, but this won’t last very long.

As a child, I spent many hours with my Dad at the Store, as we call it. I loved to help out, whether I was peeling potatoes, spooning “secret sauce” into cups, or working the register, I would do it all. I used to live right down the street from the Store, which made it very convenient to take a walk and spend the day there. When my grandfather was alive, he would sit in the back room, where the ovens are, and break apart bread for stuffing. I would join him often, and sneak a few pieces for myself. I would wear the oversized aprons that would practically touch the floor on me, but fit perfectly on my Dad and Uncle, but I didn’t care.

The light chains click as they turn on the lights on their way to the front. They don’t waste time, and get right to work. My Dad unloads boxes of whole, raw chickens that will soon be spinning around in the rotisserie machines. He could do this with his eyes closed; he’s done this his whole life, two chickens on one rod, with special picks that hold them together. He definitely has a rhythm. Meanwhile, in the back, my Uncle gets to work on the rest. From Portuguese style rice simmering in one pan, to spicy potato bits and beans bubbling in the oven, he is making it all.

The morning starts off slow, with only a customer here and there, coming in to buy the newspaper or maybe a gallon of milk. But Al, an older man with a friendly face, he comes in every morning. He’s been a family friend for many years, and everyone enjoys his company. Over a cup of coffee, they will chat about what’s been happening since they last saw each other. When afternoon rolls around, business picks up. There’s always the regulars, the ones who come in the same day every week to buy a chicken, or a pound of barbeque ribs. For the most part, they’ve seen the customers before. They have either been a customer for years, or they live in the neighborhood.

Although you may not always hear the hustle and bustle of customers, there is a noise that is persistant; the whistling of my dear old Dad. Usually Christmas tunes are what you hear coming from his lips, even on the hottest day of summer. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is one of his favorites. The reaction of customers is usually the same, and completely understandable: “Christmas carols?!” Now on the counter in front of the chicken rotisserie , sits a jar that reads: “ Will Stop Whistling for Tips,” unfortunately that only lasts about 10 seconds. Along with the little show you get while visiting the Brightman Street Poultry, you will also be hassled. In other words, if you can’t joke around, this place isn’t for you. Although they won’t let up until you leave, it’s all good natured fun, and it will surely brighten up your day.


* i still plan on putting more description of my dad and uncles appearance, but i dont really know what else to add. any ideas???