Sunday morning coming down.

Something about early Sunday morning. I remember my sister’s hat, a white yellow-frilled straw boater; maybe because it was incongruous on her 13 year old head outside the mid-century-modern 1960s yellow stain glass windowed church in the pale Sunday sunshine, a kind of dress-up that was thrown to the floor once home again. 

But that early amber reverence still remains. Last Sunday, no one else was up and Magic Carpet, the 6am to 9 set before the gospel show, floated soft and clear from the speaker and the first coffee was liquid communion. The music was out of some lost treasure trove of triumphant, doleful R&B tinged with Hank Williams tears and guitars that cry. The announcer played two Mickey Newbury songs in a row, then back-announced them; and added with a note in his voice that sounded like the innocent Chandler character caught with someone else’s gun under his pillow, that a listener had texted him during the first track to chide him because the material was no longer acceptable.