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Can you give me the full story of Scent of Apples by Benvenido Santos?

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Can you give me the full story of Scent of Apples by Benvenido Santos?

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reidalot's profile pic

Posted (Answer #1)

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Actually, to clarify a few points, "Immigration Blues" is one short story from Santos' collection of short stories called Scent of Apples. In this collection, Santos, a Filipino author, focuses on the theme of exile and the hardships his people faced while acculturating themselves to the United States.

There is no one summary for all the short stories, but I invite you to explore Santos' website and other enotes sources!

valerie23's profile pic

Posted (Answer #4)

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Scent of Apples
Bienvenido N. Santos

When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still on. Gold and silver stars hung on pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red cottages. In a backyard an old man burned leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her red hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising above the elms, both of them thinking the same thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war: where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind?
        It was a cold night when I left my room at the hotel for a usual speaking engagement. I walked but a little way. A heavy wind coming up from Lake Michigan was icy on the face. If felt like winter straying early in the northern woodlands. Under the lampposts the leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled on the pavements like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the boys left for faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter early in the air, lands without apple trees, the singing and the gold!...

http://www.bensantos.net/

jaygz26's profile pic

Posted (Answer #5)

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Scent of Apples
Bienvenido N. Santos

When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still on. Gold and silver stars hung on pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red cottages. In a backyard an old man burned leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her red hands quiet on her lap, watching the smoke rising above the elms, both of them thinking the same thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war: where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind?
It was a cold night when I left my room at the hotel for a usual speaking engagement. I walked but a little way.... 


 

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