I’M A TEXAN THROUGH AND THROUGH. I grew up in Houston in a place that is now no longer, on North MacGregor Drive. The house itself was a beautiful white Colonial that sat way back off the street, so it had a lovely approach to it. It was on several acres of land, with a lovely gully that my brother, Robert, and I used to tumble, bicycle, and race up and down in. We loved this gully. The yard had a big barbecue pit in the back that my parents built far away from the house inside a covered, screened-in porch. We called it our party house; we had lots of friends, and we couldn’t wait until our parents would go out of town so we could go and steal some watermelons and come back and eat them cold.
When I was nine years old, my parents sent me all the way to Maine for summer camp. I’ll never forget when people would ask me where I was from, and I would say, “Texas,” very casually, like someone would say “Kansas” or “California.” But their eyes would get just as big as saucers, and they would say, “Oh, wow, you