The story behind this song
The garage still smells like cut pine, the radio still turned low the way he kept it. The table saw whined through Sunday mornings after church, and he'd blow off the sawdust and run his thumb along the grain — twice, always twice. The oak dining table, the porch steps, the birdhouse: half the house came out of those two hands. He never was a talker. He said it all in oak.
After he was gone, they found his handwriting on a length of lumber — measurements for something he didn't get to make.
For the family who grew up inside his furniture, and the kid plugging the old saw back in to finish the lesson.
Lyrics
Radio on, low
Just how you kept it
You'd blow the sawdust off and run your thumb along the grain — twice, always twice
The oak table in the dining room, the porch steps, the birdhouse
Half this house came out of those two hands
We grew up inside of yours
Pencil on your ear, the ballgame turned down low
Everything you built is still holding up this family
You never were a talker
You said it all in oak
Measurements for something you didn't get to make
I found your pencil in the pocket, worn down to a stub
Some men leave their mark in stone — you left yours in pine
We grew up inside of yours
Pencil on your ear, the ballgame turned down low
Everything you built is still holding up this family
You never were a talker
You said it all in oak
It started right up — of course it did, you kept it right
My boy held the flashlight steady, watching close
Twice along the grain, I showed him
Twice. Always twice.
Pencil on your ear, the ballgame turned down low
Everything you built is still holding up this family
You never were a talker
You said it all in oak
Sunday, Dad
It still smells like you're home
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