Maybe it began after my mother died and I knew there would be no more stories from the past unless they came from me, and I didn't really know a thing, just things she told me, or maybe my father, or one of the seemingly endless supply of aunts and uncles who were always handy, spilling out the past over highballs and pinochle played with fury and great passion. Or maybe it began with myself, my own eagerness to tell stories about them, and if I had none, to make them up. So it became my passion, my quest to find out where it all fit in, or maybe where I fit in.

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