A Highly Adaptable Culture

A few weeks ago I was standing in the cafe when a woman approached me and said, “So, are you the one who looks like a bee when you run?” Truth be told, I was a little unnerved, since I was not sure why the question was being asked.

The woman went on to explain that she was the author of the book about Baxter Liebler entitled A Highly Adaptable Gospel, and that she had read some of the stories Barry and I have written about Father Liebler and St. Christopher’s Mission; including the one where I said I look like a bumblebee in my winter running clothes. I greatly enjoyed the book, so I was happy to finally meet the author.

Later in the week I traveled to the Reservation, and was still thinking about the woman, her comments and the title of her book. I have often been told that the Navajo people are quick to incorporate new ideas and techniques into their lives. During the trip I once again saw how true this statement is, and started thinking that a good title for a book about these people would be A Highly Adaptable Culture. I have never been shy about “borrowing” good ideas from other people, so coopting the book's title didn't trouble me much.

As I drove across this land that is striated like the fibers of a hand spun Navajo rug, I noticed some movement in the road a mile or so ahead. I adjusted my speed to account for the impediment and, as I drew closer, realized the obstruction was a flock of sheep meandering across the road. The animals were so infested with cockleburs that they looked brown, in spite of their white wool. The sheep didn't seem to mind the thorny infestation, and contentedly commenced grazing on the sparse grass beside the road.

The flock reminded me of the many Navajo people I know who work so hard to scratch a living from this land where everything is in short supply except adversity and poverty. The Navajo people who come into the trading post at times seem much like the sheep; in spite of all the burrs that have adhered to them throughout the years, they maintain a positive outlook.

I thought of Etta Rock, who year in and year out makes a modest living selling her traditional pitch baskets. I have seen her in every corner of this county peddling her pots, and always with a smile. Even the famous Mary Holiday Black, who has almost single-handedly revived Navajo basketry, and won countless awards for her work, never seems to prosper in the way I expected.

The decomposing carcasses of dogs, cats, horses, skunks, raccoons, cows and the occasional trading post reminded me that there are certain things that do not adjust to this harsh environment quickly enough. As I contemplated that issue, I noticed a truck with a crucifix attached to its grill crossing the center line, testing my ability to change and threatening to send me to the dark side. I have little hope of going to the Promised Land, although Rose has consistently promised that there is a certain place reserved for me if I don't change my ways.

The radio was playing a song by the Seventies band Heart, and the words, “Just live in my memory, you'll always be there,” seemed an ominous omen. In my mind, I could see my shattered body lying in the bar ditch next to one of those poor decaying beasts. Luckily the truck driver changed his alignment in plenty of time, and I was not required to test my adaptive skills.

Since my gas gauge was descending toward the “E,” I pulled into Many Farms to refuel. When I went inside to pay, a man who had been drinking just a little too much sauce pushed his way to the front of the line and shoved $2.00 into the hand of the clerk, presumably for a pack of generic cigarettes. None of the Navajo people in line seemed concerned, although the only other light skinned individual fidgeted a little. This reminded me of our Navajo friend who always says, “I don't understand why you guys call yourselves white, because you're actually pink.”

Without even looking up, the Navajo clerk placed the bills on the counter, attended to the other people and took the teetering gentleman in the appropriate sequence. Her ability to effectively manage the uncomfortable situation confirmed that this is truly a land where people handle unusual situations extremely well.

As I drove back to Bluff, I saw example after example of how the Navajo people have adapted, and continue to adapt, to this red rock wilderness. The shepherd watching his flock on a four wheeler and the hitchhiker crouching beneath a sagebrush to shade himself made me wish I was more adaptable. The sun beating through my window also made me wish I was a little less pink; a trip to the beach may be what is needed. Maybe Barry will give me a weekend pass.

Copyright©2004 Twin Rocks Trading Post