She was always the storyteller. She could make them up on command. Anytime. Anywhere. I remember one summer afternoon in 1968, we were waiting in the car while Mom was in the grocery store. It was warm and the windows were down, letting in a cool south Seattle breeze. “See that man right there?” she asked me. “The sweaty one with the blue shirt and the frown?” “Yeah,” I said. “He just came to the …