Heritage Sandy Springs: Where the Water Rises

Lyrics

You come here for the quiet.
You stand before the little brick house.
You read the plaque.
But the story isn't in the bronze.

Before the survey lines were cut,
before the King's grant or the Georgia lottery,
there was a thirst.
The Creek knew the path.
The deer knew the path.
Down to the place where the earth gave up its cool, clear breath, day after day.
A constant temperature, a promise kept
in a language older than words.

Then came the Williams family, the Paynes.
They built their house, circa eighteen-sixty, close to the promise.
By then the post office had a name for the place,
stamped in black ink since '42.
Sandy Springs.
Just a simple description of a simple gift.
A name for the mail, a name for the maps that were filling in all the empty spaces.

And the water rises.
From the sand, from the red Georgia clay.
This is the source, the reason, the unerasable name.
You can build a city on a thousand acres,
but it all comes back to the water rising.

Then the twentieth century arrived, loud and hungry.
The roar of the engines on Roswell Road.
The house stood empty, windows broken.
The spring was choked with kudzu and forgetting.
Just another parcel of land waiting for a blade,
waiting for the concrete pour.
A footnote, almost erased.

But a city that forgets its own name is a ghost.
Eva Galambos knew that.
Nineteen eighty-five.
The meetings in borrowed rooms.
The talk of history, of legacy.
She said, "It is our past and our future."
And they found the money.
And they cleared the brush.
And there it was.
Still breathing.
Still cool to the touch.

And the water rises.
From the sand, from the red Georgia clay.
This is the source, the reason, the unerasable name.
You can build a city on a thousand acres,
but it all comes back to the water rising.

So now it sleeps inside its little brick house.
Protected.
Contained.
You can't drink from it anymore.
But you can stand here.
You can listen.
And hear the quiet truth that gave this whole big place its name.