The 14th Annual Adair Park Festival

Lyrics

The air gets thick in late May.
Thick with humidity, thick with the promise of something.
You can smell it before you see it.
Grilled onions. Sugar from the kettle corn truck.

The generator's parked by the big oak on Lillian again.
Same spot.
The bouncy castle, a great blue lung, sighs itself awake.
Kids are already lining up, barefoot in the grass.
The Adair Park Neighborhood Association has its folding tables out.
Sign's a little crooked.
Same sign as last year.
Same good intentions.

And for one Saturday, the whole grid comes out.
Not just the porches, the faces.
The fourteenth time they've called it annual.
Or maybe the fifteenth. Who's counting?
We're all here, blinking in the sun.
This is the neighborhood remembering it's a neighborhood.

The band kicks in on the flatbed truck.
A little loud for four in the afternoon, but nobody minds.
You see the family from 890 talking to the new guy from the corner flip.
They're pointing at the dog, finding the easy language.
The toddlers are sticky with something red.
It's a truce, for a day. A truce with the market rate.

And see that old payphone booth over there?
By the water fountain.
They dragged it here in 2009, said it was history.
Now it's the suggestion box.
Still takes a quarter, but only listens.
Doesn't promise to call you back.

And for one Saturday, the whole grid comes out.
Not just the porches, the faces.
The fourteenth time they've called it annual.
Or maybe the fifteenth. Who's counting?
We're all here, blinking in the sun.
This is the neighborhood remembering it's a neighborhood.

The sun starts dropping behind the bungalows.
The band is packing up their amps.
The grass smells green and crushed.
You can hear the BeltLine walkers, just a block away.
But here, it’s quiet again.
Just the hum of the generator winding down.
Yeah. Quiet again.