My father was a storyteller. He was born before radio, much less TV. He grew up when many homes had pianos and parlors, when there was time after the evening meal to listen to stories. I recollect my father’s stories, told at our table after the dishes were cleared, with a little vino in each glass. One story started like this: “I remember an old sharecropper named Ned and his mule Alphonse.” To this day, I might give that story a fair rendering but that was then. The times have changed. Anyway, it wouldn’t be the same without the vino.