[Spoken — easy, conversational; acoustic guitar being handled in the background, faint screen door creak and evening crickets] "Sitting here under these live oak trees, listening to everybody trade songs, it got me thinking back to late 1985. Right after high school, I packed up a suitcase and headed down to my great-uncle's farm in a little Tennessee place called Bush Holler. We worked that tobacco farm six days a week—mending fences, checking the crop, sweating in the sun. But Sunday evenings? Sunday evenings were for the wrap-around front porch. Family, friends, guitars, and songbooks open wide—everything from old country to southern gospel. That’s where I learned that a song isn't just something you hear; it's something you live. This is 'The Wrap-Around Porch.'" [brief pause] [ACOUSTIC GUITAR — WARM, FINGERPICKED PATTERN BEGINS] [Verse 1] Packed my bag in eighty-five, headed south of the line To a little Tennessee holler where the air stayed pine Great-uncle needed a hand with the rows Mending the wire where the cattle would go Six days working till the sun went down Far from the noise of any highway town On that tobacco farm where the red dirt baked I learned the kind of music that a hard week makes [Chorus] On a wrap-around porch when the Sunday sun fell We’d trade off the stories we knew pretty well A little old country, a hymn from the choir Foot-tapping rhythm by a screen-wire door You didn't need a stage or a neon sign Just an old wooden chair and a clock that stayed blind Yeah, the best kind of singing is the kind that feels close On a wrap-around porch where we needed it most [Verse 2] My grandpa preached on Sunday morn In a church with a roof of corrugated tin By Sunday evening on that porch we sat back down With the kin and the neighbors who came drifting in Someone started a chord on a battered old box While the lightning bugs flickered across the rocks We sang about grace and the highway miles With tired hands and tired smiles [Chorus] On a wrap-around porch when the Sunday sun fell We’d trade off the stories we knew pretty well A little old country, a hymn from the choir Foot-tapping rhythm by a screen-wire door You didn't need a stage or a neon sign Just an old wooden chair and a clock that stayed blind Yeah, the best kind of singing is the kind that feels close On a wrap-around porch where we needed it most [Bridge] (Fingerpicking slows down, room gets quiet) Thirty years drift like smoke in the wind But I can still hear how it sounded back then A bunch of folks gathered with nothing to prove Just letting the music and the memories move [Final Chorus] On a wrap-around porch when the Sunday sun fell We’d trade off the stories we knew pretty well A little old country, a hymn from the choir Foot-tapping rhythm by a screen-wire door You didn't need a stage or a neon sign Just an old wooden chair and a clock that stayed blind Yeah, the best kind of singing is the kind that feels close On a wrap-around porch where we needed it most [Outro] (Guitar fades into a slow, relaxed pick, cicadas swell slightly) Just an old wooden chair... And a song that stayed.
