My late father, T. J. Newbury, was a grand story teller. Friends and neighbors in Early, TX, gave him high marks for joke-telling, and so do I. Usually, hearty “ho-ho’s” erupted when the punch line was unleashed, but on the rare occasions when silence hung heavy and listeners looked blankly as if ghosts had been seen, he had a back-up plan. At such times, he’d laugh at himself, contending that if he didn’t think the story to be worthy of eliciting considerable glee, he wouldn’t have told it in the first place. He’s been gone nigh onto 30 years now, having lived most ...