I’m not a Texan by birth, but by choice. I moved to Texas from Southern California a little over 10 years ago as part of a complete “life makeover.” It was quite a shock for a “city boy,” born and raised in the asphalt jungle of So-Cal, to move to the 6.2 acres of forested heaven outside of San Antonio. I was instantly enthralled. There were trees! There were birds! There were possums, raccoons, deer, coyotes, and armadillos!
My love affair with Texas was brief but intense. I instantly considered, and called myself, a Texan. I got myself a dog, a truck, and a couple of ponies, learned how to say “y’all” and “ma’am” and moved on in. It was simply wonderful. The air was clean, the scenery was gorgeous and the people were fascinating. I still remember the first time a complete stranger waved to me from his tractor as he was driving it down the street. Then something horrible happened.
