Brick & Bungalow: Echoes of Edgewood

Lyrics

Hello, old frame.
You can tell me. I'm listening.

One room wide, straight on through.
They called you a shotgun house.
A straight shot from the front door to the back.
But I hear a different word… to-gun.
A place to gather.
Your walls are simple planks, your floors are heart pine,
sawn from trees that are gone now.
No pipes in the walls back then.
Just the sound of hammers at dawn, and Solomon Luckie's calculations.
A roof for the working man, on an unpaved street.

It’s in the bones.
The red clay in the brick, the sap in the pine.
From the narrow shotgun hall to the bungalow eaves.
Every stud, every joist, every window pane on Edgewood Avenue…
It’s the story you tell without speaking.
You just stand here and breathe.

Down on Auburn, you stand taller.
Two stories of brick and glass.
The Atlanta Constitution wrote about your wealth in 1917.
Inside, the ring of a cash register.
The smell of paper and ambition.
Solid. Built to last longer than the men who built you.
Your mortar holds the dust of a century.

It’s in the bones.
The red clay in the brick, the sap in the pine.
From the narrow shotgun hall to the bungalow eaves.
Every stud, every joist, every window pane on Edgewood Avenue…
It’s the story you tell without speaking.
You just stand here and breathe.

Then the twenties came.
That big Sears building went up in '27.
And you… you stretched out.
A wide porch, tapered columns, a low-pitched roof against the Georgia sun.
A Craftsman's dream.
Room for a family to grow.
Room for the evening breeze to find you.
A different kind of promise.

And now… new paint on the old wood.
New wires behind the plaster.
But the floor still creaks in the same place.
The heart pine still holds the light.
You're still breathing.
Still telling.