I love Houston. We’ve been into each other for more than 60 years. It’s a big town with big dreams. The place was always about tomorrow and overcoming the odds. It wanted to be a port city. It was fifty miles from the Gulf. No problem. Dig a ditch. Presto. It’s now the busiest port in the country. Houston gave shape and form to my life. It educated me. It fed me. It gave me a family. It entertained me. I found purpose there. We grew up together. I rode its old streets. I rode its new streets. I suffered the congestion. I enjoyed the freedom of movement.

I was reminded of this yesterday as I drove into town. There were scattered thunderstorms on the horizon. It was hot, but you knew the Gulf was right over there, a quick ride down the freeway. The freeway arteries were buzzing with traffic. The place was alive, and it felt good to be, once again, one of its denizens. I’m here to babysit for my daughter as she goes off to make her life, living in one of the many little towns that make up the sprawling Houston metro area. She’s on the south side. My oldest son and his family are on the north.

Of course, it helps that I grew up here, coming to the city as I did in my teenage years. I can imagine that transplants find the place too big, too sprawling, too incomprehensible. I understand that. Just the other day, in fact, I heard someone new to the Hill Country expounding on how glad they were to escape Houston’s traffic, overlooking all the big city did to help create the job that made their move away possible. I guess that’s just human nature. But it seems to me that mixing in a little gratitude might be a good thing and be something we might practice a little more.