George's Strait discography has always been consistently good. This CD was never much in light, but it is excellent, with even a few gems like the cajun-flavored "Adalida", and the moving "Down Louisiana Way" which were not included in his fabulous box-set. Buy and listen. Paul LeBoutillier

The first thing I noticed was this was the first Strait album with lyrics included in the liner notes, which was nice of them to finally do.

My favorite songs on this one are Nobody Has To Get Hurt and I'll Always Be Loving You. Both have solid melodies and choruses that practically force you to sing along. Nice, creative idea on Nobody. Lead On is very The Chair-ish, as both do great jobs at examining the initial stages of a relationship. You Can't Make A Heart delivers an impressive and overlooked message, and I Met A Friend relates a realistic scenario to the meltdown of a couple.

Adalida and Big One are songs that start to get away from him a few times, with Adalida being perhaps the only substance-free song on the album. George's weakest songs have always been at least listenable and above average. This applies to What Am I Waiting.

Overall, this is a solid album, but lacks the one gotta-have, instant-classic tune that many of Strait's other albums possess.

I Like This Album. It Was Released In The Fall Of 1994. The Lead-Off Single "The Big One" Went Strait To Number 1. So Didn't "You Can't Make A Heart Love Somebody". The Title Track Is Also Another Love Balled. Buy This CD Today.

I really enjoy George Straits music and I do intend to get more of them as soon as I can

The adobe wall had been there for two hundred years, built by hands that knew the dirt’s name. It stood at the edge of Elena’s grandfather’s land, a thick, sun-baked spine of clay and straw, riddled with a geography of cracks.

The developer didn’t come back. The cracks in the adobe grew no wider. And every summer after, Elena would sit against the wall, close her eyes, and feel the slow, patient pulse of a thousand memories breathing through the fissures—watching her back, just as her grandmother promised.

Inside, the crack wasn't dark. It was a deep, honeyed amber, like looking into a jar of preserved sunlight. The walls of the fissure were layered—flakes of mica glittered like buried coins, bits of charcoal from some forgotten cookfire, a single white hair from a horse long dead. She saw time not as a line, but as sediment.

But sometimes, when she pressed her ear to the clay, she heard them whisper her name.

It was opening .

“At dirt?”