In late summer the sun doesn't set here until around seven or eight o'clock. To the left of Route 160 stretch field after field of crops, and on the right winds the Sacramento River. The lovely scenery would make it easy to drive past the lowlying little riverside town by mistake; fortunately, a building at roadside called Ping Kung Hall alerts us with its yellow glass tiles and flying eaves that Locke Town must be near.

Locke Town is a two-hour drive from San Francisco. Our Northern California guidebook gives it a few brief lines: . . . this little village, inhabited by around a hundred Chinese residents, seems like an adventure spot discovered on a Mark Twain river trip. The elderly Chinese people who walk toward you in the narrow alleys slip off suddenly into cross alleys as though they don't want to see you, while the dilapidated old wooden buildings exude a touching charm. . . . Locke is a nostalgic little river town that reminds old people of the days of their youth and makes youngsters feel like they've stepped into an old Western. . . .

Walking into one of Locke Town's narrow alleys truly is like entering a time warp. Turning a corner, we come upon several rows of wooden houses and storefronts with Chinese signs, but not a soul in sight. At the end of the street is a Chinese restaurant. A brass plaque hanging by the door summarizes the town's history in English: This city was founded by Tin Sin Chan in 1912. Before the great fire of 1915 it had 1,500 residents, a theater, a school, a church, nine stores, and six restaurants. . . .

Turning around, we see that many of the buildings are locked or boarded up, their paint peeling. There are a couple of gift shops selling Oriental souvenirs. Traces of past prosperity are hard to find.

The restaurant is empty. A little girl watching cartoons on television greets us in English. Her name is Linda. Five years ago she came here from Hong Kong with her parents and her brother. They bought the building and opened the only Chinese restaurant in town (the other one is Western). Business isn't good. Only around 75 people live here now.

When asked about the town, she replies, "I stay inside every day. I really don't know."

We had heard that most of the Chinese in the town come from Kwangtung Province and speak only Cantonese, but there's a Reverend Huo who knows Mandarin Chinese and English as well. He visits the elderly of the village and has taken in six or seven of the mentally disturbed.

The minister is out, but his son Noah, back from Los Angeles for a visit, is excited to learn of our interest in the town's history. "Well, what can I say about this place?" he says, spreading his hands. "The people who live here are mostly social dropouts, and there are just a couple of stores."

As he speaks, an old man in an undershirt and slippers comes up to us with a smile and prattles what seems to be a greeting, although we can't understand his dialect. His surname is Fang and he's in his seventies. No one knows when he came to the U.S., but he must be one of the workers who couldn't return to China after the Central Pacific railway was finished. He doesn't know any English. When Reverend Huo found him in a shelter for the homeless in San Francisco five years ago, he hadn't spoken a word for twelve years. Now he's friendly and voluble. They call him "Captain Fang."

In a moment Reverend Huo arrives. When he learns about our tight schedule and the purpose of our visit, he grabs his hat and takes us out in the setting sun to visit the villagers.

Sitting on a bench in front of another wooden house is a wizened old man whom Reverend Huo hails as "Uncle Pao!" Uncle Pao is ninety this year. He came here from Kwangtung 69 years ago to work in the pear orchards, when he was 21.

We had heard that Dr. Sun Yat-sen had come to Locke to raise funds for the Revolution so we asked, "Did you know Sun Yat-sen?"

"Did you say Sun Yat-sen? Why shouldn't I?" Uncle Pao's answer surprised us. "We came from the same county, neighboring villages. Gave him some money for the Revolution."

Uncle Pao, like most of the old people here, lives alone. He never married, having sent home all the wages he earned as a young man. The walls of his little room, in which the sole "modern" conveniences are a gas stove and an electric fan, are covered with Chinese calendars dating back to the fifties and sixties, their dusty, yellowing pages displaying pretty young film stars from Taiwan and Hong Kong in outmoded hairstyles.

Next stop is Uncle Huang's, the village celebrity. It seems that a couple of years ago the California government held an exhibition at the state capital to honor the contributions made to the economy by Chinese workers, and Uncle Huang, dressed in his agricultural clothes of sixty years ago, was invited to cut the opening ribbon.

Compared with Uncle Pao's place, Uncle Huang's is rather luxuriously appointed, equipped with a refrigerator, carpet, television, and videotape player.

Uncle Huang eagerly pulls out a videotape of his ribbon-cutting ceremonies and is somewhat disappointed when we tell him we don't have enough time to see it.

"How long have you been here?"

"I came here in 1921!"

"Why did you come?"

"To make money!"

Of course. On the wall hangs a family group portrait. Huang points to a shy young lad in the middle that he says was himself when he left home. As we're musing over the picture, he rummages about in some boxes and dumps a heap of papers on the table.

They're all calendars. From 1926 until now. Around each date of each month are scribbled all kinds of numbers and figures in faded ink.

It turns out that Huang, like the other farm laborers who couldn't speak much English, relied on his foreman to figure his pay for him when he first came here. When his Chinese foreman was replaced by a Japanese five years after he arrived, he decided to keep a running account of his work and his income so he wouldn't get the short end of the deal. And he also kept detailed records of his expenditures. In fact, his calendars are an excellent source of history. They were displayed at the state exhibition, and some people offered to buy them at high price, but Huang refused. "I can't bear to part with them," he says.

Huang is frugal. He never used all his ration cards during World War Ⅱ. In 1969, after he had saved up enough money, he returned to Kwangtung and brought back his wife, but she was killed in an accident eight years ago. Now he lives alone.

The sun had set and darkness had fallen when we left Locke. When we got back to San Francisco, the dazzling night scenery before us, picture-postcard beautiful, made Locke seem like a faded dream, not quite real.

In San Francisco most of the people who have heard of the town call it "Lucky Town."

Is Locke "lucky"? The question isn't one for a tourist to answer. As to whether writing "Lucky" for "Locke" causes difficulties for the postal service, it's really no problem. Locke doesn't have a post office, and the postman never comes.

[Picture Caption]

Sunset in Locke is like an old rerun, repeating the same story day after day.

Especially fertile? A modern convenience put to a new use.

A narrow passageway in Locke Town. What kind of future lies ahead?

This docking area on the Sacramento River is only a road away from Locke, but the look of the place is entirely different.

Old wooden houses and elderly Chinese are Locke's chief features. This is Uncle Pao.

The little girl in the Chinese restaurant, daughter of the owner, adds a touch of vitality to the town.

Signs in both English and Chinese are common in Locke.

Huang provided excellent historical materials for an exhibition on Chinese laborers held two years ago by the California government.

Uncle Huang's entire life is recorded on these calendars.

Especially fertile? A modern convenience put to a new use.

A narrow passageway in Locke Town. What kind of future lies ahead?

This docking area on the Sacramento River is only a road away from Locke, but the look of the place is entirely different.

Old wooden houses and elderly Chinese are Locke's chief features. This is Uncle Pao.

The little girl in the Chinese restaurant, daughter of the owner, adds a touch of vitality to the town.

Signs in both English and Chinese are common in Locke.

Huang provided excellent historical materials for an exhibition on Chinese laborers held two years ago by the California government.

Uncle Huang's entire life is recorded on these calendars.