Sunday morning in East Tennessee is a magical time. I imagine that it might be just as special in big cities or on the Great Plains or the High Desert, but when you live where you want to live for three decades that place must be special in and of itself.
See, early Sunday mornings are quiet, and for the most part, solitary. Time to contemplate each shot without other humans around is a rare and treasured gift. No conversation, no interruptions, no voices. Just the camera, the film, and the light with which to have a conversation.
My wife was a flight attendant for 18 years, and she said the worst passengers were groups of golfers. I would contend that it is actually groups of photographers. Every shot looks the same, from the same vantage point, with similar focal lengths, and as much bokeh as the photographer can afford. And do not get me started on chimping, and then INSISTING that everyone else MUST see what they just shot.
Sunday morning is none of that. And so I prefer to visit our local communities as the sun first comes up. When frost may be on the ground, or the dew is just beginning its return to the atmosphere. Sunday morning is warm pecan pie on a cold winter night. It is to be savored.
Everything here is just the ice cream.