I was a Marine Corps brat, and in 1962, my family was stationed at Parris Island, South Carolina, where we got to know the Conroy family. Years later, Pat Conroy would write “The Great Santini” in a tiny office at my father’s law firm in Atlanta. He invited us to book signings and movie premieres and somehow found the time to come to the occasional dinner party or book club my sister or I would host. He always treated us to a series of self-deprecating stories or anecdotes that had us howling with laughter. Pat could work a dining room or a bookstore or a theater like no one else. And …
