Raising Texas

My daughter is a Texan.

That’s a strange thing for me to think about, let alone write.

But she is.
She was born here.
She’s from The South.
A Southerner.

And no amount of Marshmallow Fluff brainwashing…

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Or dressing her like we’re waiting on the ferry out of Hyannisport…


will ever change the fact that she’s from Texas.

She’s going to grow up calling all soft drinks, “Coke.”
Mistakenly believe that Whataburger sells items that are edible.
Be interested in things like homecoming mums.
And even own clothing items that have the Texas flag on them.

The potential for FFA jackets, Clint Black, Justin boots, the omnipresent stench of livestock manure, and even, God help me, a southern drawl, are all distinct possibilities.


Nope, nope, nope…

We’re going to need to start scheduling some trips to New England on the regular…


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