Mr. Bluehouse, and Living in Beauty

As I drove from Blanding to Bluff last Monday morning, I greatly enjoyed the hint of fall in the air. I noticed that there was a puffy layer of fog over the San Juan river. That is a common sight in winter, but it seemed a little early in the year for such cover. There was a layer of clouds blanketing the great vault of sky. The sun was rising and it was resting just above the horizon and just under the slightly darkened cloud layer. The light was magnificent; the cliffs glowed a bright orange with dark highlights. The puffy white layer of fog against this spectacle exaggerated the overall effect. It had recently rained, at long last, so the sparse vegetation seemed much greener, and the red earth much warmer in tone. I pulled off the road and shut off the engine of my much used pick-up truck, rolled down the window and breathed in the beautiful sights and fresh smells. I must have been sitting there for a good five minutes, soaking up the radiant sight, when I remembered that I was late for work and noticed that a truck was bearing down on me from behind. The roar of the truck made realize that I was not quite far enough off the highway.

Quickly rolling up the window to avoid being pelted by small rocks and sprayed by the residual moisture, I let the truck pass and continued down Cow Canyon into the teeming megalopolis of Bluff, Utah (population 300, give or take a few, depending on recent births or deaths). Feeling revitalized by the vision I had just witnessed, and the effect of moisture after a long dry spell, I remembered the words of a Navajo man I had met the previous week. It was the morning of the Utah Navajo Fair in Bluff and people were gathering in our parking lot, preparing for the parade that would wind its way through town to the fairgrounds on the west side.

I was perched high on the porch, enjoying the commotion and the display of gaily dressed royalty; dancers; and bright eyed children, when a distinguished Navajo gentleman made his way through the crowd of cars, trucks and people. Up the steps he came. He firmly shook my hand and introduced himself as Milton Bluehouse. He said he was running for Navajo tribal chairman, and had come to Bluff to be in the parade and campaign for office. He had decided to forgo the entry fee and try to advance his grass roots support through one-on-one interaction. We sat there savoring the frenzied activity as people made final preparations for the parade. Mr. Bluehouse and I made small talk until the review made its way out of sight, whereupon this kindly gentleman asked permission to go inside and look through the trading post.

Wandering through the store, Mr. Bluehouse continually expressed his amazement at the diversity of the inventory. He said that he had never before seen such a varied selection. He seemed most impressed with the creativity of the local artists. It is always interesting to know what the Navajo people think of this trading post and the happenings that surround it. Watching Mr. Bluehouse react to the art, and the meaning related to each piece, I felt he truly was moved. He most enjoyed those pieces relating to Navajo legends. It was as if he was testing my knowledge and sincerity with his many and varied questions. He paid particular attention to how I related the stories, explanations of the art and information about the artist to the customers who came in while he was present. About that time our father (who art in Blanding) came into the store. I introduced him to Mr. Bluehouse, and they fell into lively conversation while I attended to other duties. They made their way back to the shade of the porch, seated themselves and continued their discussions for a good two hours longer.

As I went about my cleaning duties, I noticed that my father and Mr. Bluehouse seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their conversations. I caught brief snatches of their dialog as I passed from time to time. It seemed that they were spending a great deal of time talking about the area, the art and our association with the artists. Finally Mr. Bluehouse stood up, shook hands with my father and said, "Good Bye." Before he left he came back into the trading post and said that he had better get on with his campaign or give up completely. As we shook hands he looked me in the eye, made an expansive wave with his arm, and said, "You are very lucky to live with such beauty." Knowing how important it is for Navajo people to "Walk in Beauty," I greatly appreciated his statement. I thanked him for his enjoyable visit and wished him luck in the election.

As I drove up to the trading post after witnessing that glorious morning, I went in the back door and belatedly "opened up." Switching on the lights, I took in the art displayed throughout the store, and scanning the different pieces I was reminded of the stories and interaction associated with several of them. I went to the front doors and removed the heavy bar, swung them open and stepped out onto the porch. I took in the remnants of that memorable morning and, breathing deeply, I remembered the words of Mr. Bluehouse. As I turned to go into the trading post, I realized that I fully agreed with Mr. Bluehouse's evaluation. We are indeed very lucky to live with such beauty.

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