Our heros were cowboys

Justin and I posing on the front steps of the Johnson's home the day she bought us the cowboy outfits.



In 1954 our dad landed a job running a small Church of the Nazerine in Ellensburg, Washington.  We moved down from Ephrata, 50 miles to the northeast.  As a kid you are not so much aware of the parents business, but the  Ellensburg parsonage, was much bigger than the tiny Ephrata house,   and I don't think either of the folks had to have a second job, so the salary probably topped he thirty five dollars a week he made in Ephrata.

Justin and I were more interested in cowboys, and Ellensburg had cowboys.  Seemed like every time we drove up the main street in that town, we saw at least one cowboy.  Hanging out on a corner, long bow legs, worn dusty boots, felt had broke in from hard work and summer heat.

In those days the family media center was a beautiful wood cabinet floor model radio. Taller than a kids head, green tuning tube in the middle of the front, brown Bakelite knobs, deep humming sound from a huge speaker in the front.  Justin and I snuggled so close it seemed as if we were inside the sound.   AM radio programs, True but Strange sent chills up our spine.  Les Paul and Mary Ford, and our favorite,  Sons of the Pioneers.   Soulful songs of the old west sung in clear, crisp harmonies that the vagaries of AM radio transmission often caused the voices to sound as if they were coming from somewhere out on the high plains in the eighteen eighties.  How often I heard Justin opine, "wish I lived in them days."

Jack Morrow, very active  member of the Ellensbuurg church community was a real live cowboy.  Justin and I hung on his every word. Ran some kind of ranch up a canyon not far out of town, rode horses, hunted deer with beautiful 30-06 rifles, probably cussed and spit tobacco when the preacher wasn't around. 

And he was tough.  Proved it one night, potluck out at the ranch everyone milling around the spacious kitchen and dining area.  Probably just a large single room cabin, rough board floors where a guy didn't have to kick his boots off to walk in the house.

As everyone found a place around the huge makeshift table, a hush fell over the room.  During prayer someone had slipped a large dead crow, feet curled toward the ceiling onto the middle of Jack's plate*.  Silence broke as he casually brushed the bird onto the floor and reached for the large bowl mashed potatoes in the middle of the table and began to load up his plate for dinner. Now if that ain't tough, two boys age 6 and 9 just don't what tough is.

Dads gig in Ellensburg only lasted a year, and we were off to another little church down in Walla Walla.  No cowboys there that I remember.  One biker and a few bullshitters, and wasps buzzing overhead in the sanctuary during hot weather, and a sheep rancher among the congratulation.  But those are stories for other days.

*The bird rested on crumpled tinfoil on the plate

Justin and I are on the right side in the front row.  I remember the kid sitting on the end, next to Justin and the folks with the dogs.  If Jack is in the photo, I can't quite bring him up from memory.

Photo:  Fiftieth Anniversary Northwest District - Church of the Nazarene 1904 - 1954. Book compiled in commemoration of fifty years of progress.  Dr. E.E. Zachary