I must describe my emotions regarding this particular portion of God's creation at their foundation. That is, I must attempt to put forth a basic element that could serve as the cornerstone of the feelings I have for this land. When I'm away from this area , I have a sweet fondness for it Perhaps this will lead me to the root. How can it be articulated? Home is central to my emotional response to this region, and particularly to this land around my home. I cannot separate loving images of my parents from the core of emotion I feel. Having been blessed with a healthy and nourishing upbringing, the care I saw for myself must have its delicate fingers laced through all of my thoughts about and emotional responses to this country in some significant fashion. This is probably more true than I know. I have it: there is a deep sense of comfort in the forefront of any responses to this land I might have, and this very plausibly could be due to the fact that my family resides there.

Thoughts of this place fill my mind with a cool comfort. The geography pleases me in a way never verbalized before. Let it be known by all readers of this text that a treacherous understatement of what this land means to me follows this sentence.

One house in ruralesque suburb of sorts has served as my permanent address for over 17 very impressionable years. What was a smaller community situated around an old ranch house now is a small city of over 3100 inhabitants with a country club at its center. Located about 20 miles northwest of San Antonio off of Interstate Highway 10 sits the city of Fair Oaks Ranch, Texas.

Often until sunset would I sit and attempt to compose, and there was just an effect the view of the hills had on me that drew me to that spot over and over. I remember, having just learned any of a number of songs by a favorite songrwriter of the time, sittng out on the balcony and singing out over the valleys and hills off and below. The majesty of a hill country sunset stirred up wonder and inspiration early on as well. Oh, the beauty I would behold from the balcony! The amazingly intricate cloud patterns would cause an awe to rise up within me, and I would sing; I would pray.

I believe I at times may have even been lifting praise to the design in the sky instead of to the designer of the sky. But God has since lavished His grace upon me to the end of salvation, and has made me believe that He is indeed the Creator. Does not the whole of creation testify to the work of His hands?

With a guitar in hand and rough voice, I developed an extraordinary liking to play out on the porch, and to sing over the land. I would often follow the urge in my high school days in Boene to drive out to a special spot I had found, a bit away from the places I would come into contact with daily. At those spots I would carry out the same routine: with guitar in place and chin raised toward the clouds I would sing and play.

The land owns many characteristics that have grown familiar to me over the years, and they invoke a love or sincerity of some kind quite strong. The sight of live oaks unlock packed imagery for me in my mind. They are so familiar! I can smell the hot, dusty, July, hill country air upon sigt of them. There is a noticeable scent of cedar associated with them as well.Back to the oaks, though. Their small, stiff leaves, glistening in the sunshine take me still back to childhood. They make me think of Easters past, May, and of worn-out youth, tired from playing. And they remain the same in winter. And what they cause me to recall seems fixed even firmer in my thoughts than the

reality of their roots reaching through the thin layer of powdery Central Texas topsoil. I could almost jump in the middle of a small Spanish oak, as if I needed it to surround me, and cause me to remember more of what it means, more of what it has seen me discover throughout my youth. It is lonely. It is far-reaching. It is central to the imagery of this land. In the latter part of the extensive (and amateur) photography escapade I undertook for this project, my eyes found a small grove of Spanish Oaks and I was delighted with the idea to include its imagery and theme in the project. I do not know how to do so did not occur to me early on, for these trees are truly full of meaning to me.

I can hear my footsteps as a boy crunching down on dry grass and ceadar leaves, stumbling over rocks and fumbling over the limbstone in exploration outings. We would disappear over the rim at the back of our one-acre pasture into the heart of the small valley behind the hill our home was built upon. Either in blue jeans and sweating or in shorts and suffering from scrapes of wild bushes, the trails of deer were well-traveled by us. There was such mystery in Bobcat valley, as it was called. A limestone cave and a coral snake have their place in my memory.

I can even remember the feel of the rocks in my hands that were lifted in effort to construct a fort or two. First kicking or rolling over the rocks to protect myself from scorpions, I would lift larger ones for the base of the wall, and work my way up.It feels good to remember time spent there doing those things, even in the heat of a Texas summer. When our duties took us futher than walking would have liked, we would travel the hilly neighborhood on bicycles. There were tails to find, steep hills to soar down, and even wildberries to pick and have bleed on your hands and drip on the hot, dry grass.

There is a specific type of ground that is common throughout this area of the hill country. There is a particular type of grasscover that I can recognize instantly, with rocks naturally situated between trees and in clearings. Their is familiar detail all the way down to pellet-waste of sheep and goats that graze these areas and keep the country's face closely shaven.

I drive through roads where I know this terrain is visible from my car window. I drive by without stopping and try to behold the scenes long enough. Is it odd to hold such affection for a landscape? I would do right by pulling over, stepping out of my automobile, and walking over to the barbed fence line just to stand and look out. But for what? Do I look for something in particular? It's no search for anything I've heard of previously.

I would love to lie upon the surface of this particular earth, and smell the grass, the oaks, the cedar. The manure even would add to the pleasure of the aroma somehow. All of these details play a part, they all have key roles. Sometimes the area under the spread of a cedar tree, even the one in our front yard at home, appears a cool place to lie down. Did I do so as a child? I would do it now. I would make my bed in that cover, in that cool.