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I used to have a brother-in-law who was Texan in all the ways people who have never met men from Texas imagine them to be. The word “strapping,” which I don’t normally use, comes to mind. He dressed Texan, he talked Texan, he walked Texan. He favored Wranglers or, if it was a dress-up affair, khakis, worn above the hips and with razor-sharp creases. He had the lumbering gait of a man who had spent considerable time on a horse. For the eight years he was married to my sister, they lived southwest of Houston in a rural subdivision that backed up to a creek, which led to them occasionally finding rattlesnakes or cottonmouths near the house, something that chapped my brother-in-law. He once told…

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