I remember when I was a little tyke, and I do mean tyke because I couldn’t have been much more than three years old, I couldn’t wait until Sunday morning because I could go to church. I’m sure that sounds odd that child that young would want to go to church , but I did. Probably, not for the reason that it should have been. I wanted to watch the cowboys ride their horses down the hill behind the church.

My older brother and I would stand on the porch of the old church and wait with anticipation, knowing that any moment the band of cowboys would ride their horses over the hill and come into our sight. We would see the dust rising over the hilltop before the old truck surrounded by a band of cowboys on horseback came into our view. It was a sight to see and so exciting that I feared wetting my Sunday-go-to-meeting pants.

The cowboys were coming in from their ranches some distance past the foothills. The bed of the vehicle had been made into a handmade flatbed with several chairs mounted on it. The cowboys wives, daughters, and small children sat in the chairs, and the cowboys would ride along the side of them. The road was not paved and was more of a dirt trail than a road.

They would follow the old truck until it came to a stop out in front of our church Upon their arrival, they would tie their horses to the hitching rail which was off to the side of the old building. Then they helped their wives and children off the bed of the truck and went inside.

In awe, my brother and I would follow them inside. It was a ritual. Some had six-shooters on their hips and always took them off and hanged them on post-rack inside the foyer but outside of the entrance to the sanctuary. I’m sure it was scenes like this in our New Mexico town that inspired my brother to paint some of his western scenes.

Scenes as you see in these two painting present the old West with a very present feeling. It brings back the not to distant past in a comfortable way.