Voices

Recently I was running west toward St. Christopher’s Mission, marveling at the pumpkin orange sunrise caused by smoke from the California wildfires, when I realized that I was hearing voices, again. When they come, these voices flood in from all sides, and are often strange and incomprehensible.


Buddy, the Burro - the picture says it all!

This particular morning, as I slumped down the stairs from the house above the trading post to begin my stretching routine, I heard the braying of the Burand burro. I first noticed this strange and wonderful beast a few years ago as Robin Burand and Sam Cantrell led him through town on a tether. At that time, he was just a baby and nipped at my fingers, rather than voicing his opinions. Since then, I have run past his corral countless times and listened to his hee hawing as it floats across the valley; always wondering, and never knowing, just what he is trying to say.

As I began my jog out to the mission, I was confronted by my Cow Canyon canine companion; Grover, the massive blond Labrador Retriever. Whenever he sees me out on my morning runs, he barks loudly and ambles out to the highway. His owners were initially concerned when this pattern began, but have since become aware that the barking is congenial, not confrontational. I fully understand Grover, and he understands me. He is just telling me that I should scratch him behind the ears, pat his sides and tickle his tummy. Once those tasks are accomplished, he waddles back to his home, satisfied that his needs have been accommodated.

Having pacified Grover, I continued westerly and heard the honk, honk, honking of the Canada geese which inhabit the Jones hay farm every winter. The geese had recently returned from the north, and were circling the fields looking for a suitable place to land. Two years ago, one of their members was a white goose, who spoke to me of patience and understanding. When several white geese babies arrived on the scene, we at the trading post became convinced that the gaggle of geese knew more about getting along with group members who are different, than we did. We also decided there was a lot to learn about tolerance and compassion from this flock.


(Etta Rock - Etta creates water-tight baskets traditionally used by the Navajo people. Not many artists...)

I passed the farm and noticed a small group of mule deer in the next field. Their soft eyes and straight ahead stare spoke to me of caution. Caution for this unexplained being who frequently plods along the highway in the predawn. Their silence spoke volumes about an existence on the fringes of human habitation.

The voices in my head are not only animal, however; humans also invade my consciousness. Many of my friends, family members and associates patiently try to explain what is required of me. I frequently find their voices as confusing and incomprehensible as the braying of the burro. They are convinced that this confusion has something to do with the thickness of my skull and the density of my eardrums. As you may guess, this tonal deficiency gets me into trouble on a regular basis.


(Mary Holiday Black - Mary single-handedly brought about a Navajo weaving revolution...)

Then there are the Navajo people who frequent the trading post. Shortly after we opened the store, Priscilla Sagg came to us. Priscilla has been my salvation, and I frankly don’t know what I would do without her. Pricilla has helped me survive 13 years of running this disorganization, and it frightens me when she mentions retirement.

Early on, I realized that I needed to speak Navajo to understand the native voices directed at me every day. I therefore put the bite on Priscilla to help me, and she reluctantly agreed; probably realizing it would be a monumental task to teach me anything. We never really got past numbers, greetings, partings, exclamations and a few swear words before she realized her tutelage was not paying significant dividends. So, I have been consigned to asking Priscilla and Natalie to interpret when Etta Rock tells me she needs to sell her pitch pot because her truck is broken, when Mary Black explains the design in her latest basket, or when Julia Deswood tells me how difficult it is to prepare and spin the wool used in her hand-spun rugs.

Oops, there’s that other voice telling me to stop writing silly stories and do some real work. Barry can be such a tyrant.


Julia Deswood - Julia spins her own wool from her own...

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