I never knew her, she died when my mother was a little girl. All that I know of her are from stories. Stories my mother told me about how affectionate she was, in her childhood where she got little affection. Stories my grandmother told me of a woman who was clever, but didn’t speak English, learning how to barter and dicker in the USA for the things she needed to buy. The woman who could spin a tale from a time when the only entertainment after dark were stories told around the fire. She had several books memorized, and their hearth was a favorite in the neighborhood. She could sew, cook, raise vegetables and livestock. I wore a nightgown she made for her trousseau once, she was really good with a needle. She died when she was 62 years old, younger than I am now. Sometimes I wish she and I could sit down and talk.