Not so very long ago, just south of the San Juan River, in the Navajo Nation, there came into being a badger. After a time the youngster was put out of the family den and began looking to settle a territory of his own. He bid his parents a sad but fond "ha'goo'nee" and trotted off in a westerly direction. After several days of travel across mesa and around monuments, the badger came upon a large expanse of metal objects. The accumulation included oil-encrusted and dirt-impregnated car parts of every description, heavy duty bed springs, bent and twisted patio furniture, appliances of most makes and models and office furniture in every state of disrepair. The collection seemed vast to the badger. What he saw as junk was spread across an expanse of aridly depressed and pebble-populated flat land. Smack dab in the middle of all the rusty implements and pitted iron rested a well kept hogan; a large lodge pole framework for a summer shade; a small and immaculately maintained, freshly painted stick-built home; and a 20' x 30' galvanized Quonset hut packed to the gunwales with tools. The badger was intrigued with the place, and fascinated by the cluttered-uncluttered contrast, so he decided to move in, post haste.
The badger located the stripped-down framework of a 1969 Mustang fastback, went inside to explore the possibilities and found them satisfactory. Through an opening in the floor pan he began excavating a burrow. The thoughtful creature figured the old car would protect him from sun and storm on the top side and in the burrow deep within the good earth he could escape the extremes of heat and cold. As the badger dug, he heard a ferocious growl just outside his door. Stepping out of the car, he came face-to-face with a junkyard dog. The dog was mid-sized and well muscled, his hackles were raised and he seemed ready to fight. The badger sank low to the ground and bared his teeth, as if to say, "Okay Buster, if you want it, come and get it!" Sensing the challenge, the dog lunged. The fight really didn't last long. As the dog shot forward the badger neatly side-stepped the oncoming animal and clamped down on its nose. With razor sharp canines and a fierce determination, the badger held firm. The poor mutt let out a mournful howl of pain, struggled halfheartedly, laid down and gave up. The badger shook the pup one last time for good measure and released the Curr. Turning his back on his outmatched opponent, the badger kicked dirt in the pup's face and returned to the vehicle. Realizing there was a new sheriff in town, the junk yard dog ran off licking his wounded snot box and never returned for a rematch.
The badger settled into a daily routine of cruising the yard for mice and prairie dogs in the early morning light. He slept during mid-day, and in the late afternoon and early evening hours watched the man and woman work around the house and in the shop. By listening to the many visitors the couple met with, the badger soon discovered the names of his new neighbors. The woman, Betty Shorty, was small and sturdy, with thinning salt and pepper hair which she pulled back tightly in a traditional bun. She had a habit of singing traditional songs in a loud, clear voice as she scouted for parts her husband needed to finish one job or another. She was quite a sight walking through that mess in her brightly colored velveteen blouse and satin skirt. Betty was quite fond of her man. In fact, she thought him the most generous and helpful human being in the Four Corners region. Most everyone else agreed, because Ben Shorty was a gifted mechanic and fabricator who freely shared his talents. He was known to his friends as "Old Ben". Old Ben was 70-something years of age, tall and lean, with a ready smile for all people. Ben was laid back and easy going. Ben and Betty were good together.
Ben and Betty had become widely known for their benevolent nature. They were often visited by people seeking help to keep vehicles running, repair broken-down equipment and . . . well just about anything to do with metal. If Ben did not have a needed part or piece in his yard, nine times out of ten times he could fabricate it on the spot. Betty was a fabulous "finder" and cook. Her mutton stew and fry bread were considered the best in the land. The badger found it fascinating to climb onto the cab of an ancient Mac truck and, with a bird's eye view into his shop, watch as Ben worked his magic. He also loved to see Betty search out parts and pieces in the yard. It was amazing how that couple loved people and how they shared their talents so freely. Ben and Betty soon became aware of the badger and discovered his new home. They steered clear of the Mustang, believing the creature was a brother to be welcomed into their world. Except for a nonexistent social life, the badger was content.
Soon the weather began to turn cold, and snow came to the high desert Southwest. The badger appreciated his hot rod hovel even more because the windows in the Mustang allowed the car to warm up nicely during the day. The badger could not resist watching Ben and Betty work, and was continually amazed at what the old man created with his hands, a torch and a little metal. One day Betty drove herself to town in their Dodge truck. When she returned, along with many bags of groceries, there was a spruce tree in the back. The badger thought that quite odd, but was even more confused when Betty dragged the tree into the house. Ben was working in his shop, but soon followed Betty inside. From his perch on the cab of the Mac truck, the badger watched contentedly as Ben and Betty decorated the tree. As the sun set they finished their chore, and when dusk settled onto their home the Navajo couple lit up their Christmas tree. The badger stayed up late into the night, bedazzled by the colorful, twinkling lights.
The badger must have fallen asleep there on the cab of the Mac truck, enchanted by the lights of the Shorty's Christmas tree. Sometime between midnight and morning, the badger was awakened by a loud scraping noise coming from the train rock monument located just east of the Shorty compound. It sounded as if something had ricocheted off the sandstone spires. The badger jumped up and turned toward the clamor, seeing an explosion of sparks and hearing the crunch of metal arising from the bottom of the nearby arroyo. Out of the ravine lurched a group of odd looking deer harnessed to a crumpled red and chrome sleigh. For a brief moment the team and sleigh seemed to pause in midair, then it plunged back toward earth. The deer dug in their heels and slowed the rig just enough to keep it from slamming into the dirt. In a spray of rocky soil and a cloud of red dust, the team made a quasi crash-landing right there in the Shorty family yard.
The badger stood there amazed. He heard a loud sigh of relief come from the sled and turned to look upon a funny little man dressed in red velveteen trimmed in white faux fur. The jolly elf sported a snow white beard and mustache. "That was a close call," chuckled the little man, smiling brightly and winking at the badger. Then he sprang from the sleigh and comforted the nervously prancing reindeer. In their night clothes Ben and Betty exploded from the house and into the yard to see what was the matter. "Santa Claus?" they said in unison. "Hello my good friends" said the man, "I am in dire need of help. Can I count on you?" The Shorty's nodded an acknowledgment, and Santa smiled in a bright and appreciative manner. "We will need to hurry," said Santa, raising his hand in the air and shooting what looked like a mini flare from his index finger. That tiny rocket flew about 20 feet into the night sky, exploded and descended in several slowly tumbling arcs. As the sparkling rainbow fell it created a vibrant dome over the compound. The badger lurched backward so as to avoid being scorched by the brilliant light, causing him to fall into the back of the truck. Regaining his footing, the badger looked through the rear window of the Mac, just where the now glowing canopy ended, and saw an amazing sight.
It looked as if a giant snow globe encased the house, shop and yard. Inside the dome's perimeter a magical thing occurred. As the badger watched, Santa and the Shorty's warped into super sonic speed. Visually it was hard to keep up with, but the badger saw Old Ben, Santa and Betty inspect the sleigh and shake their head side to side. Ben shot over to a tarp he had covering something in the shop and uncovered what turned out to be a 1962 Cadillac Coup de Ville convertible. Santa nodded happily and soon everyone was at work reconfiguring the classic car. As quickly as you please, they chopped that Cadillac down to size, welded it back together, painted and re-chromed the exterior and reupholstered the white leather interior. Ben and Betty crafted skis from four separate bumpers, made struts and welded them into place while the jolly old elf popped the hood and went to work adding a little extra lift. As Ben and the old man worked on the guidance system, Betty began polishing the "new" old model sleigh. Before anyone could say "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" the three had that modified convertible hooked-up to the dancing deer and ready to fly. Santa reached for the sky one more time and down came the time capsule. Santa then pointed at his new vehicle and shot it with a magical lightning bolt. The sleigh de Ville raised up off the ground and hovered, ready for a transfer of the numerous velvety bags of gifts contained in the crumpled sleigh. There were hugs all around, and Santa sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle and blasted off into the upper ozone.
As the badger climbed back upon his perch, Old Ben and Betty slid the wrecked sleigh into the shop and covered it with the tarp. The badger watched in envy as the satisfied couple return to the cozy house. When they walked inside there were presents of tools, cookware, clothing and sweet treats all around. It seems the Shorty's were well rewarded for their generous nature. As the badger climbed down from the truck and trotted back to his Mustang, he couldn't help be amazed at what he had just witnessed. "This Shorty estate was a wondrous place," he thought. As the badger turned the final corner to his abode, he pulled up short and sat back on his haunches in surprise. There, sitting near his front door, was the prettiest little she badger he had ever seen. The badger looked into the night sky and saw a brilliant flash of white light. "Now this", thought the badger, "will be a Christmas to tell the kits about."
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, December 23, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
Silent Night
At Twin Rocks Trading Post, Priscilla has hung the colored lights and assembled the faux tree. The Christmas cards have flowed out, and the responses are flooding back in. To say we are in the holiday spirit would be an understatement; we are like kids at FAO Schwarz.
With party after party beginning to crowd our schedules and holiday candy at every turn, Barry and I are beginning to look like Frosty the Snowman and the Pillsbury Doughboy. Priscilla just giggles, afraid to poke us in the ribs lest she puncture our distended hides and cause a rapid deflation.
At the risk of overdosing on holiday cheer, thus requiring sugar detoxification and family counseling, last weekend Jana, Kira, Grange and I traveled to Albuquerque for what Jana’s family refers to as “Thanksmas”. As one might guess, Thanksmas is an annual affair that occurs between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For the Kennedys, two holiday celebrations came up one short, so they invented another. The party generally combines of the best elements from both festivals; eating copious amounts of food, talking until you are hoarse and a “Yankee Swap”.
As it happens, I love the holiday season and am crazy about Christmas carols. Consequentially, once the Simpson family SUV got within range of an Albuquerque radio signal, I found an all carol all the time station. Now, I am no Ella Fitzgerald, but I can surely belt out a serviceable Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and when it comes to Jingle Bell Rock there is no holding me back.
Kira and Grange were patient for a time, but after a few songs, they began to demand I give them equal time for head-banger music. I, however, was adamant, no screamer was going to interrupt Little Drummer Boy while I had control of the knob. They argued, somewhat convincingly, that I was in fact out of control.
As Bing Crosby crooned White Christmas, I was transported back to the spring of 1979. At the time Craig and I were in school and on the wrestling team at Weber State College. Our roommate, Rob Wurm, was a talented wrestler from northern California who loved country music. He had developed a good style on the guitar and could sing well enough to enchant the young ladies. I was envious, but, aside from the more obvious handicaps, was irretrievably tone deaf.
At the time a South Korean all star team was touring the western United States and Weber State was on their agenda. The afternoon before the competition, Rob and I were assigned to entertain two team members. Deciding to take them to Salt Lake City for a few hours, we shoehorned them into the back of Rob’s well worn Datsun 240z and caught the freeway south. Despite being shoved into such a small space, the Koreans were in good spirits and spontaneously began singing in their native tongue.
It was not long before they asked Rob and me to sing for them. While that was not a problem for Rob, finding a song I would not annihilate was a real challenge. Thinking of the holidays not long past, I suggested White Christmas. In my musical ignorance I believed our guests would not recognize the tune. I had, of course, failed to realize the song was universal. After bursting out in laughter at the thought of Rob and me singing Christmas carols at that time of the year, the Koreans joined in and we caroled all the way to Salt Lake City.
From that point forward White Christmas has been a reminder to me that no matter what our differences we are all the same and whatever our beliefs we can celebrate the holiday spirit all year long.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
With party after party beginning to crowd our schedules and holiday candy at every turn, Barry and I are beginning to look like Frosty the Snowman and the Pillsbury Doughboy. Priscilla just giggles, afraid to poke us in the ribs lest she puncture our distended hides and cause a rapid deflation.
At the risk of overdosing on holiday cheer, thus requiring sugar detoxification and family counseling, last weekend Jana, Kira, Grange and I traveled to Albuquerque for what Jana’s family refers to as “Thanksmas”. As one might guess, Thanksmas is an annual affair that occurs between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For the Kennedys, two holiday celebrations came up one short, so they invented another. The party generally combines of the best elements from both festivals; eating copious amounts of food, talking until you are hoarse and a “Yankee Swap”.
As it happens, I love the holiday season and am crazy about Christmas carols. Consequentially, once the Simpson family SUV got within range of an Albuquerque radio signal, I found an all carol all the time station. Now, I am no Ella Fitzgerald, but I can surely belt out a serviceable Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and when it comes to Jingle Bell Rock there is no holding me back.
Kira and Grange were patient for a time, but after a few songs, they began to demand I give them equal time for head-banger music. I, however, was adamant, no screamer was going to interrupt Little Drummer Boy while I had control of the knob. They argued, somewhat convincingly, that I was in fact out of control.
As Bing Crosby crooned White Christmas, I was transported back to the spring of 1979. At the time Craig and I were in school and on the wrestling team at Weber State College. Our roommate, Rob Wurm, was a talented wrestler from northern California who loved country music. He had developed a good style on the guitar and could sing well enough to enchant the young ladies. I was envious, but, aside from the more obvious handicaps, was irretrievably tone deaf.
At the time a South Korean all star team was touring the western United States and Weber State was on their agenda. The afternoon before the competition, Rob and I were assigned to entertain two team members. Deciding to take them to Salt Lake City for a few hours, we shoehorned them into the back of Rob’s well worn Datsun 240z and caught the freeway south. Despite being shoved into such a small space, the Koreans were in good spirits and spontaneously began singing in their native tongue.
It was not long before they asked Rob and me to sing for them. While that was not a problem for Rob, finding a song I would not annihilate was a real challenge. Thinking of the holidays not long past, I suggested White Christmas. In my musical ignorance I believed our guests would not recognize the tune. I had, of course, failed to realize the song was universal. After bursting out in laughter at the thought of Rob and me singing Christmas carols at that time of the year, the Koreans joined in and we caroled all the way to Salt Lake City.
From that point forward White Christmas has been a reminder to me that no matter what our differences we are all the same and whatever our beliefs we can celebrate the holiday spirit all year long.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, December 9, 2011
Vintage Dresses and Immature Men
In their early years, our daughters Alyssa and McKale were typical girlie girls when it came to playing dress-up. As a family we spent nearly every Sunday in Monticello, visiting and eating dinner with Grandma and Grandpa Washburn. In Grandma's closets and basement storage boxes the girls discovered prom and party dresses left over from Laurie and her four sisters' high school years. The Washburn home was a treasure trove of satin and lace. In the beginning, the girls roped my young and impressionable son into their princess party plans. When his sisters tried to dress him in prissy pantaloons, however, Spenser became disenchanted and decided he had been led down the garden path.
As of late, my now strapping man-child and his eldest sister are engaged in furthering their educational goals in the hallowed halls of Brigham Young University, Provo campus. Only McKale and a few closely guarded photographs remain at home to remind us of those more carefree days of model mania. Although she is a junior in high school, McKale has not lost her zest for rummaging through Grandma Donna's back closets and cedar chests in search of fanciful fashions. Sunday dinner at the Washburn homestead allow McKale time to seek out, uncover and model vintage apparel, and she has recently discovered a few of her Grandmother's Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses that had been carefully packed away after being exchanged for maternity wear. Six children and 50 years of family life have caused those top notch toggeries to be long forgotten. McKale was thrilled.
McKale tried on two dresses that fit her beautifully. When she modeled them for us, memories of Harriet Nelson and June Cleaver flashed through my mind. The dresses were classics, straight out of the 1950s. Grandma Washburn and McKale decided they should be laundered and put back into service. After looking the dresses over carefully, our daughter came to recognize that wearing apparel from that period was made a bit differently; it was crafted to endure the test of time. What a concept! Not only was the material top quality, the tailoring was impeccable. McKale wore the dresses to school and church; she was flooded with compliments and became hooked on antique clothing.
When I returned home from work last night, McKale and her mother were making dinner and talking princess, party and prom dresses, so I sat down at the kitchen table to listened in on their conversation. I must admit that I am a bit disturbed by the prospect of my baby girl entering the dating game. When Alyssa turned 16, I argued vehemently that she was far too young to go out with one of those hyper-hormone-injected beastie boys! I once read an article that indicated girls do not fully mature until they are between 26 and 28 years of age. Boys . . . well, to be perfectly honest, boys never do." Because of this, it is my personal opinion that 30 is much more appropriate age to begin mingling. Laurie disagreed with me altogether, and argued that I was once just such a hormone driven creature. "Exactly!" I countered, "I know just what she's up against. It's a jungle out there, with fangs, claws and junk everywhere." As you might guess, I lost that argument; I usually do. But I digress, I was talking about dresses, quality and such.
Taking the opportunity to give McKale a little helpful advice, I told her, "Always buy quality products. Do not waste your money on throw away items!" That is the tack we take here at the trading post. We are forever on the lookout for artists who use the best quality materials and spend a little extra time on finish work. We are interested in individuals who reflect consistently high standards and an elevated degree of creativity. These qualities make for distinctively desirable artwork, the type that discourages criticism and withstands the test of time. That's what I'm talking about! As for McKale and me, we have found a new hobby: searching out great items of vintage clothing and developing a higher standard for her in all things . . . including young men. "Get back Honky Cat? Better get back to the woods."
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
As of late, my now strapping man-child and his eldest sister are engaged in furthering their educational goals in the hallowed halls of Brigham Young University, Provo campus. Only McKale and a few closely guarded photographs remain at home to remind us of those more carefree days of model mania. Although she is a junior in high school, McKale has not lost her zest for rummaging through Grandma Donna's back closets and cedar chests in search of fanciful fashions. Sunday dinner at the Washburn homestead allow McKale time to seek out, uncover and model vintage apparel, and she has recently discovered a few of her Grandmother's Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses that had been carefully packed away after being exchanged for maternity wear. Six children and 50 years of family life have caused those top notch toggeries to be long forgotten. McKale was thrilled.
McKale tried on two dresses that fit her beautifully. When she modeled them for us, memories of Harriet Nelson and June Cleaver flashed through my mind. The dresses were classics, straight out of the 1950s. Grandma Washburn and McKale decided they should be laundered and put back into service. After looking the dresses over carefully, our daughter came to recognize that wearing apparel from that period was made a bit differently; it was crafted to endure the test of time. What a concept! Not only was the material top quality, the tailoring was impeccable. McKale wore the dresses to school and church; she was flooded with compliments and became hooked on antique clothing.
When I returned home from work last night, McKale and her mother were making dinner and talking princess, party and prom dresses, so I sat down at the kitchen table to listened in on their conversation. I must admit that I am a bit disturbed by the prospect of my baby girl entering the dating game. When Alyssa turned 16, I argued vehemently that she was far too young to go out with one of those hyper-hormone-injected beastie boys! I once read an article that indicated girls do not fully mature until they are between 26 and 28 years of age. Boys . . . well, to be perfectly honest, boys never do." Because of this, it is my personal opinion that 30 is much more appropriate age to begin mingling. Laurie disagreed with me altogether, and argued that I was once just such a hormone driven creature. "Exactly!" I countered, "I know just what she's up against. It's a jungle out there, with fangs, claws and junk everywhere." As you might guess, I lost that argument; I usually do. But I digress, I was talking about dresses, quality and such.
Taking the opportunity to give McKale a little helpful advice, I told her, "Always buy quality products. Do not waste your money on throw away items!" That is the tack we take here at the trading post. We are forever on the lookout for artists who use the best quality materials and spend a little extra time on finish work. We are interested in individuals who reflect consistently high standards and an elevated degree of creativity. These qualities make for distinctively desirable artwork, the type that discourages criticism and withstands the test of time. That's what I'm talking about! As for McKale and me, we have found a new hobby: searching out great items of vintage clothing and developing a higher standard for her in all things . . . including young men. "Get back Honky Cat? Better get back to the woods."
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, December 2, 2011
Thoughts on Wrestling and Navajo Baskets
Not long ago Grange and I were sitting in a Mexican restaurant, having dinner and enjoying few moments together. Earlier in the day he and I had been to a wrestling match, which, as anyone who knows me will confirm, is one of my all-time favorite things to do. I am immensely proud of all my children. Since this is a wrestling family, however, seeing Grange on the mat fills me with a unique pride. Competing in a sport where you have nobody to rely on but yourself and have to accept sole responsibility for your success or failure seems exceptionally courageous to me; especially when you are eleven.
Grange, however, has been wrestling since he was five years old, so he has a great deal of experience. Over that time we have had good and not so good years. That particular day had not been a successful one for Team Simpson. In fact, it had been exceptionally difficult, so he and I were working hard to find the good in our endeavor. As we waited for our dinner to arrive, I noticed one of our Twin Rocks Trading Post customers sitting across the dining room.
Tom, like Barry, is addicted to turquoise, and comes into the store to see what Bisbee, Morenci, Kingman, Number 8 and Blue Gem stones we have. When he holds the cabochons in his hand, he gets genuinely nervous and you can see that they actually affect his judgment.
Aside from being fascinated by Tom’s addiction to Sky Stone, or maybe as a result of it, I have grown extremely fond of him. He arrives at the trading post each year attended by a herd of young people from the private school where he coaches and teaches. The kids obviously love him and he surely adores them. So, along with his own children, who are now in their mid to late twenties, Tom travels the Southwest with his students, visiting Anasazi ruins, running rivers, looking at art and studying local cultures.
Seeing Grange in his athletic gear, Tom inquired where we had been and what we had been doing. One thing led to another, and before long he was asking how the day had gone. Reluctantly we admitted it had been challenging. Having been an exceptionally talented coach, Tom was quick to advise Grange that failure is an important part of any endeavor, and that if he took the opportunity to evaluate what needed to be improved, he would likely look back at this as a positive experience and find that it allowed him to improve his skills.
Grange seemed to accept Tom’s premise, and dinner became a much happier affair. As Grange and I drove home, I began to realize just how many times I had seen Tom’s advice at work in the trading post, particularly in the realm of Navajo basketry.
Twin Rocks Trading Post has been open just over 22 years, and we have been collaborating with the local Navajo basket weavers from the very beginning. Over that time I have watched as Mary Black has gone from a vibrant young mother instructing her offspring in this traditional craft to an elderly weaver. I have also seen her children grow from inexperienced, uncertain basket makers to acknowledged masters in their field. The evolutionary cycle has been both exciting and frustrating. Along the way there have been soaring successes and a few colossal failures. Overall, its been a stunning experiment. It is my hope Grange and I will look back on his time on the wrestling mat with the same emotion.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Grange, however, has been wrestling since he was five years old, so he has a great deal of experience. Over that time we have had good and not so good years. That particular day had not been a successful one for Team Simpson. In fact, it had been exceptionally difficult, so he and I were working hard to find the good in our endeavor. As we waited for our dinner to arrive, I noticed one of our Twin Rocks Trading Post customers sitting across the dining room.
Tom, like Barry, is addicted to turquoise, and comes into the store to see what Bisbee, Morenci, Kingman, Number 8 and Blue Gem stones we have. When he holds the cabochons in his hand, he gets genuinely nervous and you can see that they actually affect his judgment.
Aside from being fascinated by Tom’s addiction to Sky Stone, or maybe as a result of it, I have grown extremely fond of him. He arrives at the trading post each year attended by a herd of young people from the private school where he coaches and teaches. The kids obviously love him and he surely adores them. So, along with his own children, who are now in their mid to late twenties, Tom travels the Southwest with his students, visiting Anasazi ruins, running rivers, looking at art and studying local cultures.
Seeing Grange in his athletic gear, Tom inquired where we had been and what we had been doing. One thing led to another, and before long he was asking how the day had gone. Reluctantly we admitted it had been challenging. Having been an exceptionally talented coach, Tom was quick to advise Grange that failure is an important part of any endeavor, and that if he took the opportunity to evaluate what needed to be improved, he would likely look back at this as a positive experience and find that it allowed him to improve his skills.
Grange seemed to accept Tom’s premise, and dinner became a much happier affair. As Grange and I drove home, I began to realize just how many times I had seen Tom’s advice at work in the trading post, particularly in the realm of Navajo basketry.
Twin Rocks Trading Post has been open just over 22 years, and we have been collaborating with the local Navajo basket weavers from the very beginning. Over that time I have watched as Mary Black has gone from a vibrant young mother instructing her offspring in this traditional craft to an elderly weaver. I have also seen her children grow from inexperienced, uncertain basket makers to acknowledged masters in their field. The evolutionary cycle has been both exciting and frustrating. Along the way there have been soaring successes and a few colossal failures. Overall, its been a stunning experiment. It is my hope Grange and I will look back on his time on the wrestling mat with the same emotion.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, November 25, 2011
Tapestry
At a young age William W. "Duke" Simpson and Roseline Marie "Rose" Simpson did their utmost to infuse a strong work ethic and clear sense of responsibility into their five children. By the time we were in our early teens, my siblings and I were adept at managing a small gas station and accompanying second hand store. Although, at the time, I suspected our parents might be running afoul of child labor laws, I am now forever grateful for their insistence that we learn small business administration from the ground up. Much of our time was spent pumping gas, changing tires, drinking grape soda and Pepsi packed with peanuts, filling propane bottles, loading and unloading used furniture, eating Twinkies and chips and interacting with customers. When we were not devouring the profits, we were actually working quite hard.
I recall that at the time Duke showed up with an antique Motorola phonograph neatly contained in a suitcase style container. It was to be to sold in the second hand store, but I coveted it. After an animated debate, I finally won my bid to own it. Although most of the revenues we obtained through our work related efforts were put toward growing the family business, we assistant managers were granted a small stipend for our efforts and almost always had a copper or two in our pockets. Once I obtained the player, the next logical step toward musical bliss was to amass a record collection. Rose, however, forbade me to join the Columbia House Record Club. I remember her saying something about responsibility and financial commitment.
No problem! The friend of a friend was willing to sell me an entire collection of used albums, at a discounted rate, just to help me get started. The Black Market! I blew my entire savings on that deal, and in doing so learned several of life's most valuable lessons. First, and most importantly, the term "used" is most often associated with "scratch and dent." It was also as a result of that deal that I realized it is usually best to pick and choose, paying a slightly higher price for the good stuff, instead of buying it all cheaply and winding up with a few good pieces and a load of unusable junk. The only good that came from that deal was the song Brandy from a one hit wonder band by the name of Looking Glass and the fantastic Carol King album Tapestry.
As far as I know, Carol King never released her interpretation of the song. She, like many great artists, left that to the imagination of the listener. The song is definitely mysterious and, to me, speaks of Christianity, the Father and the Son, the passing of time and the loss of innocence. It seems to speak of the tapestry of life, and the threads that combine to make it whole. Those threads often fray and have to be unbound and rewoven to make the creation a thing of beauty. It is a song of dreams and desires, and of living a life of promise. I believed it was a great message and I played that song and Carol's album until the record was completely woren out.
It was Tapestry, and my initiation to it, that popped into my head when I first heard of the passing of a dear friend.
Edith Martin was a believer, a wife, a mother, a weaver and an artist. Her heart gave out at the age of forty, and she will be greatly missed.
It is lucky for us that Edith's tapestries remain, are possible for her family and friends to hold, and will not be unraveling any time soon. Go forth Edith and worry not, you will be remembered well.
Sincerely Barry Simpson
I recall that at the time Duke showed up with an antique Motorola phonograph neatly contained in a suitcase style container. It was to be to sold in the second hand store, but I coveted it. After an animated debate, I finally won my bid to own it. Although most of the revenues we obtained through our work related efforts were put toward growing the family business, we assistant managers were granted a small stipend for our efforts and almost always had a copper or two in our pockets. Once I obtained the player, the next logical step toward musical bliss was to amass a record collection. Rose, however, forbade me to join the Columbia House Record Club. I remember her saying something about responsibility and financial commitment.
No problem! The friend of a friend was willing to sell me an entire collection of used albums, at a discounted rate, just to help me get started. The Black Market! I blew my entire savings on that deal, and in doing so learned several of life's most valuable lessons. First, and most importantly, the term "used" is most often associated with "scratch and dent." It was also as a result of that deal that I realized it is usually best to pick and choose, paying a slightly higher price for the good stuff, instead of buying it all cheaply and winding up with a few good pieces and a load of unusable junk. The only good that came from that deal was the song Brandy from a one hit wonder band by the name of Looking Glass and the fantastic Carol King album Tapestry.
As far as I know, Carol King never released her interpretation of the song. She, like many great artists, left that to the imagination of the listener. The song is definitely mysterious and, to me, speaks of Christianity, the Father and the Son, the passing of time and the loss of innocence. It seems to speak of the tapestry of life, and the threads that combine to make it whole. Those threads often fray and have to be unbound and rewoven to make the creation a thing of beauty. It is a song of dreams and desires, and of living a life of promise. I believed it was a great message and I played that song and Carol's album until the record was completely woren out.
It was Tapestry, and my initiation to it, that popped into my head when I first heard of the passing of a dear friend.
My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision of the ever changing view
A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold.
An everlasting vision of the ever changing view
A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold.
Edith Martin
Edith Martin was a believer, a wife, a mother, a weaver and an artist. Her heart gave out at the age of forty, and she will be greatly missed.
As I watched in sorrow, there suddenly appeared
A figure gray and ghostly beneath a flowing beard
In times of deepest darkness, I've seen him dressed in black
Now my tapestry's unraveling, he's come to take me back
He's come to take me back."
A figure gray and ghostly beneath a flowing beard
In times of deepest darkness, I've seen him dressed in black
Now my tapestry's unraveling, he's come to take me back
He's come to take me back."
It is lucky for us that Edith's tapestries remain, are possible for her family and friends to hold, and will not be unraveling any time soon. Go forth Edith and worry not, you will be remembered well.
Sincerely Barry Simpson
Friday, November 18, 2011
Winter
It was a quiet Sunday morning at Twin Rocks Cafe. But for the cooks, servers and dishwasher sitting together in one location, all booths and tables were empty. I stood at the easterly window, gazing out over the Jones farm, listening to the light chatter of the weekend employees and searching the highway for travelers. There were none; no mouths to feed and no patrons to engage.
The sandstone cliffs embracing the town were crowned with low-lying clouds, which reminded me of milk chocolate ice cream topped with Cool Whip. A light mist began to fall, leaving minute drops to accumulate on the large pane of glass. Winter had arrived.
The last crop of alfalfa had been harvested and the field’s short brown stubble glowed golden in the early morning, reminding me of the crew cuts Rose gave Craig, Barry and me when we ran wild during our early summers in Bluff. In fall and winter our unruly locks, cowlicks and all, were allowed to grow to a modest length, but once school let out, it was good-bye to any strand over one-sixteenth of an inch. After each shearing, we would run our hands over each other’s prickly mops for days, enjoying the wiry feel and taunting one another with epithets like,”cue ball,” “egghead” or “baldy.”
Winter came sooner than I had hoped this year. While it is already mid-November and I should have been prepared for its arrival, somehow I am not. I am not ready for hard frost on car windows and heavy blankets on the bed. Looking out over the lonely road, I wondered whether we had in fact skipped a few months this year, and whether it should actually be July or August. I reasoned there had been many times when I believed it was Friday, only to find it was actually Tuesday, Wednesday or even Monday. No such luck this time I concluded.
Turning to look back towards the still sleeping town, I thought I saw three toe headed boys with skin the color of our Navajo employees and patrons racing for the cliffs. The sun bounced off their closely cropped heads and their white T-shirts gleamed in the warm daylight. The three whooped and hollered as they approached Gaines’ Crack, a cleft in the rock that led to the Sand Cave located just west of the Twin Rocks. That must have been their intended destination.
I was reminded of a summer day a several years ago. I had taken a book out on the porch next to the house above Twin Rocks Trading Post to enjoy a little solitude. As I sat there bathed in light, reading the novel of the moment, I heard someone say, “Hey dad, look at me.” Glancing up at the base of the twin monuments, I saw six or seven year old Grange looking for all the world like someone who had just scaled Mount Everest.
Suppressing my fear, and telling him I would come join in the fun, I headed up the steep and rocky trail. In my youth I would have hastily scrambled up the rugged path, but I was not young anymore and my muscles and joints did not like the challenge. When I arrived next to him, I rubbed his own short wiry hair and together we surveyed our community. He, like Craig, Barry and I at his age had no fear of the land’s vertical characteristics. For me, that was no longer the case.
No, I am not ready for winter.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
The sandstone cliffs embracing the town were crowned with low-lying clouds, which reminded me of milk chocolate ice cream topped with Cool Whip. A light mist began to fall, leaving minute drops to accumulate on the large pane of glass. Winter had arrived.
The last crop of alfalfa had been harvested and the field’s short brown stubble glowed golden in the early morning, reminding me of the crew cuts Rose gave Craig, Barry and me when we ran wild during our early summers in Bluff. In fall and winter our unruly locks, cowlicks and all, were allowed to grow to a modest length, but once school let out, it was good-bye to any strand over one-sixteenth of an inch. After each shearing, we would run our hands over each other’s prickly mops for days, enjoying the wiry feel and taunting one another with epithets like,”cue ball,” “egghead” or “baldy.”
Winter came sooner than I had hoped this year. While it is already mid-November and I should have been prepared for its arrival, somehow I am not. I am not ready for hard frost on car windows and heavy blankets on the bed. Looking out over the lonely road, I wondered whether we had in fact skipped a few months this year, and whether it should actually be July or August. I reasoned there had been many times when I believed it was Friday, only to find it was actually Tuesday, Wednesday or even Monday. No such luck this time I concluded.
Turning to look back towards the still sleeping town, I thought I saw three toe headed boys with skin the color of our Navajo employees and patrons racing for the cliffs. The sun bounced off their closely cropped heads and their white T-shirts gleamed in the warm daylight. The three whooped and hollered as they approached Gaines’ Crack, a cleft in the rock that led to the Sand Cave located just west of the Twin Rocks. That must have been their intended destination.
I was reminded of a summer day a several years ago. I had taken a book out on the porch next to the house above Twin Rocks Trading Post to enjoy a little solitude. As I sat there bathed in light, reading the novel of the moment, I heard someone say, “Hey dad, look at me.” Glancing up at the base of the twin monuments, I saw six or seven year old Grange looking for all the world like someone who had just scaled Mount Everest.
Suppressing my fear, and telling him I would come join in the fun, I headed up the steep and rocky trail. In my youth I would have hastily scrambled up the rugged path, but I was not young anymore and my muscles and joints did not like the challenge. When I arrived next to him, I rubbed his own short wiry hair and together we surveyed our community. He, like Craig, Barry and I at his age had no fear of the land’s vertical characteristics. For me, that was no longer the case.
No, I am not ready for winter.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, November 11, 2011
Family Matters
The other day a long-time acquaintance walked into Twin Rocks Trading Post and said, "I have known you and your family nearly 20 years and have never, not once, been in this store." "What brings you in now," I asked. "Those stories you and Steve write," he replied. "I wanted to see for myself where those parables originate." We had a good laugh, and then, because our children are of the same age group and have grown up together, I asked how his kids are and where they are living. As we spoke of his offspring, I saw great joy and satisfactions in his eyes. I know he and his wife are focused and diligent when it comes to their children, and from where I stand they are top notch parents.
As we went down the list of his children, we came to one of his sons. This young man is attending college on the other side of the state and has recently married. At this point, I recognized a disquieting sadness in my friend's countenance. "Is your boy okay," I asked, concerned for his well-being. "Yes," he replied, "he's fine, doing well in school and happily married, though his new companion doesn't think much of my wife and me. She doesn't like where I live, how I live or how I make a living." "Sounds like an outspoken young woman," I quipped. "To say the least," was his reply.
Without knowing it, my friend had touched a nerve, uncovered a concern I have about future relations with my kids. My wife and I are extremely close with our children, and I will find it extremely disturbing if I lose that bond because of an uncompromising daughter or son-in-law. I have seen it happen much too often not to be aware of the possibility. None of our brood are married, but I often worry what it might be like if a future in-law finds me . . . unacceptable. Because of his close connection to his children, this man and his wife must be deeply hurt by this unfortunate turn of events.
Twin Rocks Trading Post Interior
Time and again over the last several days my thoughts have returned to that conversation, and it has caused me to reflect on my own humble beginnings. I clearly recall living in a single-wide trailer-house behind the Plateau gas station, which was located on the south end of Blanding. Even though that mobile home had been burned out and only partially refurbished, we found it quite manageable, even comfortable. Through our middle school and and much of our high school years Craig, Steve and I slept on the floor of the living room, while Susan and Cindy shared a room and Mom and Dad occupied the master suite at the far end. There were wool blankets for doors and one partially finished bathroom, where, because no one bothered to knock, you learned not to settle in too comfortably or too long.
My brothers and I thought we had moved uptown when mom and dad had a small 1950s trailer parked next to the larger model. We built beds into the new-old trailer and moved out. Our bathroom was 30 yards uphill in the gas station, which seemed a mile during the dead of winter. It was only later we learned the move was motivated by our sisters. It seems they were less than appreciative of us barging through the door flap when they were indisposed.
Along with the gas station, our parents ran a secondhand store. Through this outlet they bought items others no longer needed and sold them to those who did. Our parents worked extremely hard to better our situation, the harmony and balance of their young, veracious brood was their singular mission. Through those and successive businesses, our parents taught us a strong work ethic, the qualities of integrity and honesty, the value of education and, mostly, the strength and security of a tightly bonded family.
I wish I could say I was never embarrassed by our circumstances, but that would be dishonest. Because I knew mom and dad were devoted to us and would support us as far as the great beyond, and beyond, I do not recall ever regretting being born into this family. I will be forever grateful for the most valuable of lessons our parents taught us, to love and to properly and frequently express that emotion.
There are two lessons to be learned here: (1) I should probably maintain an educational outlook and enroll in the Atlas School of Manners and Proper Protocol; this might help me to get along with just about anyone, and (2) be careful of what you say and do while visiting Twin Rocks Trading Post and Cafe, you just may be mentioned in one of our missives. In this case I have sworn to protect the anonymity of my friend, so his daughter-in-law will not give him hell for sharing family secrets.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
As we went down the list of his children, we came to one of his sons. This young man is attending college on the other side of the state and has recently married. At this point, I recognized a disquieting sadness in my friend's countenance. "Is your boy okay," I asked, concerned for his well-being. "Yes," he replied, "he's fine, doing well in school and happily married, though his new companion doesn't think much of my wife and me. She doesn't like where I live, how I live or how I make a living." "Sounds like an outspoken young woman," I quipped. "To say the least," was his reply.
Without knowing it, my friend had touched a nerve, uncovered a concern I have about future relations with my kids. My wife and I are extremely close with our children, and I will find it extremely disturbing if I lose that bond because of an uncompromising daughter or son-in-law. I have seen it happen much too often not to be aware of the possibility. None of our brood are married, but I often worry what it might be like if a future in-law finds me . . . unacceptable. Because of his close connection to his children, this man and his wife must be deeply hurt by this unfortunate turn of events.
Twin Rocks Trading Post Interior
Time and again over the last several days my thoughts have returned to that conversation, and it has caused me to reflect on my own humble beginnings. I clearly recall living in a single-wide trailer-house behind the Plateau gas station, which was located on the south end of Blanding. Even though that mobile home had been burned out and only partially refurbished, we found it quite manageable, even comfortable. Through our middle school and and much of our high school years Craig, Steve and I slept on the floor of the living room, while Susan and Cindy shared a room and Mom and Dad occupied the master suite at the far end. There were wool blankets for doors and one partially finished bathroom, where, because no one bothered to knock, you learned not to settle in too comfortably or too long.
My brothers and I thought we had moved uptown when mom and dad had a small 1950s trailer parked next to the larger model. We built beds into the new-old trailer and moved out. Our bathroom was 30 yards uphill in the gas station, which seemed a mile during the dead of winter. It was only later we learned the move was motivated by our sisters. It seems they were less than appreciative of us barging through the door flap when they were indisposed.
Along with the gas station, our parents ran a secondhand store. Through this outlet they bought items others no longer needed and sold them to those who did. Our parents worked extremely hard to better our situation, the harmony and balance of their young, veracious brood was their singular mission. Through those and successive businesses, our parents taught us a strong work ethic, the qualities of integrity and honesty, the value of education and, mostly, the strength and security of a tightly bonded family.
I wish I could say I was never embarrassed by our circumstances, but that would be dishonest. Because I knew mom and dad were devoted to us and would support us as far as the great beyond, and beyond, I do not recall ever regretting being born into this family. I will be forever grateful for the most valuable of lessons our parents taught us, to love and to properly and frequently express that emotion.
There are two lessons to be learned here: (1) I should probably maintain an educational outlook and enroll in the Atlas School of Manners and Proper Protocol; this might help me to get along with just about anyone, and (2) be careful of what you say and do while visiting Twin Rocks Trading Post and Cafe, you just may be mentioned in one of our missives. In this case I have sworn to protect the anonymity of my friend, so his daughter-in-law will not give him hell for sharing family secrets.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, November 4, 2011
Blue
Blue bracelets, blue bolo ties, blue rings and even blue Navajo baskets and rugs; at Twin Rocks Trading Post we have lots of blue things. Recently I realized there was yet another blue item to take into account. This realization came last Tuesday as I sat in Stephanie’s barber chair.
Although the day dawned bright and beautiful, I did not. Thinking I might have a slower, more relaxing morning, I did not crawl out of bed as early as usual. I had been working late at Twin Rocks Cafe the night before, and thought I might sleep in a bit before heading down to the trading post. Unfortunately, the telephone rang at 7:00 a.m. Not much later my cell phone alarm began to chime. In spite of my reluctance to do so, I reached over to discover what I had overlooked.
Looking at the illuminated screen, I noticed it was time to get moving. I had forgotten my monthly hair cut, without which I would begin looking like the mop head I was in the 1970s. I had been forward thinking enough to set the notice 45 minutes ahead, so I had approximately 15 minutes to shave, shower and get on the road to Blanding; a 30 minute drive. That was cutting it closer than I thought prudent. Reasoning that I could look a little like Grizzly Adams until the following day, I forewent the razor and jumped directly into the tub.
Arriving at Stephanie’s salon a few minutes late, I slipped into the chair like I had full command of my schedule. Since my record was generously tarnished from prior mishaps, Stephanie knew better. I fully expected her to say, “So, you almost forgot again, didn’t you?” She is, however, kind and did not bring up my previous tardies and absences.
As she clipped my still damp locks, we talked about our children, the local sports teams and a variety of other topics. As the conversation continued, hair began to build up on the apron laid out in my lap. As the pile grew, I noticed something funny about the accumulation. It looked . . . well, blue; not dark brown like it had when I was young, not salt and pepper like it was when I was not so young, but blue.
Steve Simpson
Now I had heard of the blue hairs of Arizona; those older individuals who drive their Cadillacs slowly around Phoenix, Sun City and Tucson, causing freeway delays and pileups on an almost daily basis. Barry and I had even seen a few of them in the trading post. I had looked on in wonder as they paraded through the store, seemingly unconcerned about the shade of their tresses. I had even considered whether I would suffer the same fate. I had not, however, intended to be one of them so soon. What did this mean? How was I to act? What would I do? Like the moment I received my first AARP notice, there were so many unanswered questions, so many serious concerns to address.
For years after the divorce, when I arrived at her door to retrieve Dacia for our monthly visits, my ex-wife would offer to dye my hair. I had always assumed she was concerned that my appearance might somehow reflect poorly on her. Never mind that she is five years younger. Now, however, I knew the truth; she had anticipated this moment, she had foreseen how soon it would arrive and wanted to minimize the trauma.
Heading back to the trading post with my newly styled pate, I had yet another realization; I would surely have to hit Barry up for a raise. How else would I afford that Cadillac my new status required or find the additional time necessary to slowly drive around Bluff disrupting traffic?
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Although the day dawned bright and beautiful, I did not. Thinking I might have a slower, more relaxing morning, I did not crawl out of bed as early as usual. I had been working late at Twin Rocks Cafe the night before, and thought I might sleep in a bit before heading down to the trading post. Unfortunately, the telephone rang at 7:00 a.m. Not much later my cell phone alarm began to chime. In spite of my reluctance to do so, I reached over to discover what I had overlooked.
Looking at the illuminated screen, I noticed it was time to get moving. I had forgotten my monthly hair cut, without which I would begin looking like the mop head I was in the 1970s. I had been forward thinking enough to set the notice 45 minutes ahead, so I had approximately 15 minutes to shave, shower and get on the road to Blanding; a 30 minute drive. That was cutting it closer than I thought prudent. Reasoning that I could look a little like Grizzly Adams until the following day, I forewent the razor and jumped directly into the tub.
Arriving at Stephanie’s salon a few minutes late, I slipped into the chair like I had full command of my schedule. Since my record was generously tarnished from prior mishaps, Stephanie knew better. I fully expected her to say, “So, you almost forgot again, didn’t you?” She is, however, kind and did not bring up my previous tardies and absences.
As she clipped my still damp locks, we talked about our children, the local sports teams and a variety of other topics. As the conversation continued, hair began to build up on the apron laid out in my lap. As the pile grew, I noticed something funny about the accumulation. It looked . . . well, blue; not dark brown like it had when I was young, not salt and pepper like it was when I was not so young, but blue.
Steve Simpson
Now I had heard of the blue hairs of Arizona; those older individuals who drive their Cadillacs slowly around Phoenix, Sun City and Tucson, causing freeway delays and pileups on an almost daily basis. Barry and I had even seen a few of them in the trading post. I had looked on in wonder as they paraded through the store, seemingly unconcerned about the shade of their tresses. I had even considered whether I would suffer the same fate. I had not, however, intended to be one of them so soon. What did this mean? How was I to act? What would I do? Like the moment I received my first AARP notice, there were so many unanswered questions, so many serious concerns to address.
For years after the divorce, when I arrived at her door to retrieve Dacia for our monthly visits, my ex-wife would offer to dye my hair. I had always assumed she was concerned that my appearance might somehow reflect poorly on her. Never mind that she is five years younger. Now, however, I knew the truth; she had anticipated this moment, she had foreseen how soon it would arrive and wanted to minimize the trauma.
Heading back to the trading post with my newly styled pate, I had yet another realization; I would surely have to hit Barry up for a raise. How else would I afford that Cadillac my new status required or find the additional time necessary to slowly drive around Bluff disrupting traffic?
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, October 28, 2011
Mirror, Mirror
The other day a man and his wife, who were likely in their late 60s or early 70s, strolled into Twin Rocks Trading Post. The man had a pasty complexion; a wrinkled, bumpy and sparsely tufted top knot; and a raspberry mole in the cleft of his left nostril. Splitting up as soon as they entered through the Kokopelli doors, he veered right and she steered left. Before long, I heard the man making low, distressful . . . grunting noises. I could not immediately determine the source of his problem, but there appeared to be significant emotional suffering going on behind his dark brown eyes. His wife, who looked attentive enough, was either unaware of her husband's plight or was choosing to ignore him altogether. There were two other couples in the store looking over the silver jewelry and Navajo rugs, so I became concerned about the disturbance this man was creating.
Twin Rocks Trading Post
As he walked in front of the full length mirror located at the east end of the store, the man let out another low, mournful sound and I began to think he might be practicing Halloween scare tactics. At that point one of the other couples abruptly left the store, probably because the situation was becoming somewhat uncomfortable. "If he continues to run off customers, I will have to ask his haunted soul to depart," I thought to myself. The other couple, either oblivious to or unaffected by the situation, continued browsing. Watching the old guy closely now, I noticed he was approaching a small counter top mirror. At that point I thought to myself, "I wonder?" As he came upon the mirror, he paused, looked into its reflective surface and perceptively flinched. His hands went to his head and he briskly rubbed it all over, as if trying to rearrange things. Another plaintive sigh emerged. By this time the guy and his hairdo were both wildly askew.
Smiling uncomfortably to myself, I looked around the store to see if anyone else had realized what was going on. Sure enough, the other man was looking at me with questioning eyes. The last outburst had finally captured the attention of the man's wife. Standing there with his bowling ball belly peaking out from his striped red and white rugby shirt, which hung over his manpris and his off-white boat shoes, the man said out loud, "Oh man, I just can't stand to look at myself in the mirror any more." "Then don't," his wife, who was dressed in a surprisingly similar fashion, said in a matter-of-fact voice. They did not seem to care that the rest of us had heard the initial comment or the off-the-cuff response.
Now I knew for sure it was the mirrors scattered about the store that caused the man such grief; or more accurately, what he was seeing therein. Looking for a bit of solace, the man pushed his narrow hips and drooping shoulders through the swinging doors leading into the rug room. As he headed into the museum, because of several mirrored surfaces in there, I knew we were in for yet another outburst. Sure enough, I heard a gasp of grief echoing from the room of simulant surfaces. The man's wife followed him into the back room, gathered up her frail companion and led him outside. "Poor fellow," I thought.
Twin Rock Trading Post Rug Room
As I stood there reflecting on the occurrence, I realized the other man had come up next to me. "I have three suggestions to help that man on his way to feeling better about himself," said the New Yorker. "What might they be," I queried, looking after the departing couple. "Number one: Never wear a costume that makes you and your wife look like the Bobbsey Twins; that's unmanly! Number two: Diet and exercise. That's a beer belly if I ever saw one," he said. "And number three," I questioned. "Get a can of Freon." "Freon!" I exclaimed. "Freon!" he confirmed. "Okay, I'll bite, what does one do with a can of Freon," I asked. "Freeze and flick." he replied. "One can of Freon can help get rid of all manner of warts, skin tags and the like. I keep one at home at all times." "Humph," I said, pulling at a bothersome blotch that had come to roost on my neck. Freon, you say?" "Indeed." came his reply. "You a psychologist or a M.D.," I asked. "No," he replied "a mechanic."
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Twin Rocks Trading Post
As he walked in front of the full length mirror located at the east end of the store, the man let out another low, mournful sound and I began to think he might be practicing Halloween scare tactics. At that point one of the other couples abruptly left the store, probably because the situation was becoming somewhat uncomfortable. "If he continues to run off customers, I will have to ask his haunted soul to depart," I thought to myself. The other couple, either oblivious to or unaffected by the situation, continued browsing. Watching the old guy closely now, I noticed he was approaching a small counter top mirror. At that point I thought to myself, "I wonder?" As he came upon the mirror, he paused, looked into its reflective surface and perceptively flinched. His hands went to his head and he briskly rubbed it all over, as if trying to rearrange things. Another plaintive sigh emerged. By this time the guy and his hairdo were both wildly askew.
Smiling uncomfortably to myself, I looked around the store to see if anyone else had realized what was going on. Sure enough, the other man was looking at me with questioning eyes. The last outburst had finally captured the attention of the man's wife. Standing there with his bowling ball belly peaking out from his striped red and white rugby shirt, which hung over his manpris and his off-white boat shoes, the man said out loud, "Oh man, I just can't stand to look at myself in the mirror any more." "Then don't," his wife, who was dressed in a surprisingly similar fashion, said in a matter-of-fact voice. They did not seem to care that the rest of us had heard the initial comment or the off-the-cuff response.
Now I knew for sure it was the mirrors scattered about the store that caused the man such grief; or more accurately, what he was seeing therein. Looking for a bit of solace, the man pushed his narrow hips and drooping shoulders through the swinging doors leading into the rug room. As he headed into the museum, because of several mirrored surfaces in there, I knew we were in for yet another outburst. Sure enough, I heard a gasp of grief echoing from the room of simulant surfaces. The man's wife followed him into the back room, gathered up her frail companion and led him outside. "Poor fellow," I thought.
Twin Rock Trading Post Rug Room
As I stood there reflecting on the occurrence, I realized the other man had come up next to me. "I have three suggestions to help that man on his way to feeling better about himself," said the New Yorker. "What might they be," I queried, looking after the departing couple. "Number one: Never wear a costume that makes you and your wife look like the Bobbsey Twins; that's unmanly! Number two: Diet and exercise. That's a beer belly if I ever saw one," he said. "And number three," I questioned. "Get a can of Freon." "Freon!" I exclaimed. "Freon!" he confirmed. "Okay, I'll bite, what does one do with a can of Freon," I asked. "Freeze and flick." he replied. "One can of Freon can help get rid of all manner of warts, skin tags and the like. I keep one at home at all times." "Humph," I said, pulling at a bothersome blotch that had come to roost on my neck. Freon, you say?" "Indeed." came his reply. "You a psychologist or a M.D.," I asked. "No," he replied "a mechanic."
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, October 21, 2011
Listen to What The Man Said
Not long ago, a woman from one of the nearby communities stopped by Twin Rocks Trading Post to peruse our inventory of turquoise jewelry, baskets, folk art and Navajo rugs. As she browsed, we talked, and after a time I realized I knew her son and daughter-in-law. During our conversation she mentioned that, after several years in corporate America, her boy had decided “working for The Man” was not his idea of fun. At that point he quit his job, returned to southern San Juan County, bought a semi-trailer truck and begin driving for a living. Apparently he is much happier now.
Duke Simpson father of Barry, Susan, Cindy, Craig and Steve Simpson
Her comments brought back memories of my earliest encounter with The Man. My experience was not, however, associated with a big corporation. Instead, it was a matter of working for William W. “Duke” Simpson, my father and first boss.
During my ninth year, at the end of a 24-month stint in the Bay Area, Duke decided he’d had enough of Northern California and moved his young family back to Southern Utah. Not long after the relocation, he borrowed $200.00 and leased a filling station on the southern end of Blanding. Although the business was within the city limits, it seemed a long way from town; logistically and sociologically, rather than geographically.
Parking what we used to call a trailer, now referred to as a mobile home, behind the gas station, we established ourselves on the premises. That way there would always be someone available in an emergency. It was at this point Duke informed Craig, Barry and me that we had been drafted into the family business.
Every school day, the three of us, along with our two sisters, Susan and Cindy, walked the mile or so (uphill both ways, generally in the midst of a blizzard and always without shoes) to Blanding Elementary. After school Craig, Barry or I took over the petroleum operation, filling gas tanks, washing windows, checking oil levels and inflating or changing tires while Duke searched for additional sources of income. At nine, ten and eleven, we were not experienced in the ways of business, so Duke began to tutor us.
Looking out into the parking lot, Duke would say, “See that trash? Go pick it up. We have to keep this place clean. What kind of message do you think it sends to our customers when we don’t take proper care of things?” We never understood how he could spot the smallest bits of paper at 200 paces when piles of cans, bottles and other discarded items were universally invisible to us, or why it mattered when soon the garbage would blow onto someone else's property and become their problem, not ours. Duke was firm, however, so out we would trudge; even when it was raining, sleeting or snowing, which was most of the time, even in summer.
“Don’t eat all the inventory, we have to have something to sell” Duke would advise when he noticed our bellies distended from drinking Pepsi with salted peanuts or consuming too many packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. “Always be honest, nobody likes a liar,” he counseled when we were less than forthcoming about just how much Pepsi we had drunk or how many Peanut Butter Cups we had eaten.
“Always be on time, people are counting on you,” he admonished us when we showed up late for work, missed an appointment or caused our patrons to wait.
It was a long while before we realized Duke was teaching us the fundamentals of business and the skills we needed to succeed in life. Although we did not pay close attention to Duke’s advice at the time, decades later Craig, Barry and I find ourselves directing our children and employees to pick up the trash, keep the property clean, not eat the inventory, be prompt and always be honest. Maybe Paul McCartney was right when he sang, “Listen to what the man said,” and maybe The Man knows more than we ever thought possible.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Someone I Know
"BUS!" Priscilla called from the store. "Oh, crap a crayon!" I said to myself. I was in my office trying to meet a writing deadline for our website and it was not going well. Steve was away supporting Kira at the Region cross-country meet, so we were slightly understaffed. By my tone, one might guess that bus tours are not an experience I cherish. I do not hate buses, I simply disapprove of their tactics. Tour companies confine those poor people for hours and, unless it is an emergency, prohibit the use of on-board facilities. The bus companies have decided it is best to find an agreeable facility every 200 miles or so and turn those suffering souls loose for fifteen minutes, period; schedules must be met. In this time frame the travelers are supposed to find a bathroom, dehydrate, rehydrate, shop and reload. It puts them in a bad mood. For the tourists, and for us, this does not allow for the most satisfactory shopping experience.
So, when I heard Priscilla call out her warning, I figured we were in for a mad rush of toilet seeking torpedoes in a foul frame of mind. Happily, I was mistaken. Upon being set free, the group strolled about the parking lot taking pictures. They then meandered through the cafe, gift shop and trading post at a casual pace. The travelers were a mixed group of English and American nationals willing to make conversation and share their experiences. One middle-aged woman even showed me special attention, walking right up and talking as if we had known each other all our lives. When other people would interrupt with questions or comments, she wandered off and returned as soon as I was free. It was not long before the bus started its diesel engine, which is a sure sign departure is imminent. My new lady friend said good-bye and headed for the door, but stopped at the threshold as if contemplating. She then turned on her heel and came back. Walking right up to me once again, she said, "You look and sound exactly like my brother, it is absolutely uncanny." I laughed and said, "He must be a handsome devil." "Yeah . . . nnno, but I love him dearly." We had a good chuckle, then she gave me a hug, walked out the door, climbed back on the bus and departed for somewhere in middle America.
It must have been my month for look-a-likes, because a couple from Arkansas came into the trading post and told me I look just like their Baptist minister back home. "Don't get me started on religion," I warned, "I can deliver a sermon with the best of them." Luckily they chose not to call my bluff. Another couple told me I looked just like their neighbor. I guess he still owed them $500 from a short term loan proffered several years ago. Even I know you do not borrow money from family, neighbors or friends if you want to maintain good relations. Lastly, while attending a volleyball game in Richfield, Laurie, Alyssa, McKale and I were having breakfast in a local restaurant when a man came in, sat across from us and proceeded to stare in our direction. As we left the cafe, he followed us out, stopped us and said that I look just like his boss. The man was from Price, Utah, as was his boss. He assured us I had a twin. Either I was cast from a rather generic mold, or four of us were separated at birth. My dear, sweet mother swears this is not the case, but I wonder.
Navajo Large Handmade Yei Vase - Nancy Chilly (#25)
As it happened, the people from the bus spent a good 30 minutes with us and turned out to be a delightful group. I may have to update my opinion of tour directors, bus drivers and the like. Because we were given a little extra time we were able to send a very nice turquoise bracelet home with one man, a present for his daughter. A woman took a piece of Nancy Chilly pottery with her. Priscilla and I had the opportunity to meet and greet a bus load of extremely nice people. I also met a sweet sister I was altogether unfamiliar with, and learned of a pseudo brother. Laurie pointed out that in each and every case of mistaken identity I did not, not once, get the name and address of my "strikingly similar siblings." She claims that it is because I am afraid to face myself! I do not know where she comes up with all this psycho babble, but I am sincerely troubled by it.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
So, when I heard Priscilla call out her warning, I figured we were in for a mad rush of toilet seeking torpedoes in a foul frame of mind. Happily, I was mistaken. Upon being set free, the group strolled about the parking lot taking pictures. They then meandered through the cafe, gift shop and trading post at a casual pace. The travelers were a mixed group of English and American nationals willing to make conversation and share their experiences. One middle-aged woman even showed me special attention, walking right up and talking as if we had known each other all our lives. When other people would interrupt with questions or comments, she wandered off and returned as soon as I was free. It was not long before the bus started its diesel engine, which is a sure sign departure is imminent. My new lady friend said good-bye and headed for the door, but stopped at the threshold as if contemplating. She then turned on her heel and came back. Walking right up to me once again, she said, "You look and sound exactly like my brother, it is absolutely uncanny." I laughed and said, "He must be a handsome devil." "Yeah . . . nnno, but I love him dearly." We had a good chuckle, then she gave me a hug, walked out the door, climbed back on the bus and departed for somewhere in middle America.
It must have been my month for look-a-likes, because a couple from Arkansas came into the trading post and told me I look just like their Baptist minister back home. "Don't get me started on religion," I warned, "I can deliver a sermon with the best of them." Luckily they chose not to call my bluff. Another couple told me I looked just like their neighbor. I guess he still owed them $500 from a short term loan proffered several years ago. Even I know you do not borrow money from family, neighbors or friends if you want to maintain good relations. Lastly, while attending a volleyball game in Richfield, Laurie, Alyssa, McKale and I were having breakfast in a local restaurant when a man came in, sat across from us and proceeded to stare in our direction. As we left the cafe, he followed us out, stopped us and said that I look just like his boss. The man was from Price, Utah, as was his boss. He assured us I had a twin. Either I was cast from a rather generic mold, or four of us were separated at birth. My dear, sweet mother swears this is not the case, but I wonder.
Navajo Large Handmade Yei Vase - Nancy Chilly (#25)
As it happened, the people from the bus spent a good 30 minutes with us and turned out to be a delightful group. I may have to update my opinion of tour directors, bus drivers and the like. Because we were given a little extra time we were able to send a very nice turquoise bracelet home with one man, a present for his daughter. A woman took a piece of Nancy Chilly pottery with her. Priscilla and I had the opportunity to meet and greet a bus load of extremely nice people. I also met a sweet sister I was altogether unfamiliar with, and learned of a pseudo brother. Laurie pointed out that in each and every case of mistaken identity I did not, not once, get the name and address of my "strikingly similar siblings." She claims that it is because I am afraid to face myself! I do not know where she comes up with all this psycho babble, but I am sincerely troubled by it.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, October 7, 2011
Tales of a Trader’s Dog, Part 2
I arrived in Bluff on the 11th day of April, 2004. Unlike Mary Jeanette’s journey in 1913, the trip from Albuquerque to my new home was more or less uneventful. Georgiana, a small, willowy woman of approximately five feet four inches and just over 110 pounds, transported us in a large, chestnut colored Ford pick up with a silvery-gray fiberglass shell affixed to the bed. The size of the truck and its driver seemed incongruous, but the arrangement proved successful as we traversed the nearly 250 mile route.
Twin Rocks Trading Post
Being young and untested, I was not allowed to travel in the cab with Georgiana and her two offspring, Kira, age 7, and Grange, age 4. Instead, in order to avoid an unpleasant mishap, I was relegated to the camper. Although the back of the truck was comfortable enough, I, having already grown fond of them, longed for the companionship of my two young compatriots. That, combined with the uncertainty of what lay ahead, made me more than a little melancholy.
As I pressed my nose to a side window, wondering what the future held in store for me, we left the bright lights of metropolitan New Mexico and headed north. As the moon rose over the Sandia Mountains, we passed through Bernalillo, San Ysidro and Cuba. Turning west just outside the small agricultural community of Aztec, we nipped the corner of Arizona not far from Shiprock and arrived at the border of Utah, my new home state. Although I did not know it at the time, we had passed not too far north of Salina Springs, the destination of Mary Jeanette on her maiden voyage into this still untamed land.
Utah, I had been informed by the beagle living next door, was known as the Beehive State. Its motto is simply “Industry,” and the beehive is proudly displayed on its coat of arms to indicate hard work and diligence. I wondered whether this meant my new owners would hitch me to a plow or make me herd sheep, cows or other livestock. My breed was not meant for such activity I ruminated. I am a gun dog, bred to retrieve downed waterfowl and upland game birds during hunting and shooting parties. Menial labor is not in my DNA.
We sailed through Aneth, nothing more than a wide spot in the road, and navigated Montezuma Creek, with its thumping pump jacks and modern high school, eventually passing the Episcopal mission known as St. Christopher’s. In 1942 the Reverend H. Baxter Liebler of Greenwich, Connecticut, traveled through the Navajo lands of southeastern Utah. Stopping in the tiny settlement of Bluff, he learned the language and customs of these indigenous people and later built St. Christopher’s, which became the first Episcopal school for the Navajo.
Only two miles further west and we came to Twin Rocks Trading Post, which is located near the intersection of Utah State Highway 162 and U.S. Highway 191. In the moonlight I noted that the store, and the cafe immediately adjacent to it, were parked at the foot of a monstrous geological formation known variously as the Navajo Twins and the Twin Rocks. Perched on a slight promontory rising above town, these sandstone masterpieces are named for the mythical Hero Twins of Navajo legend. Sculpted by wind and water throughout many mellinea, these towers have stood guard over numerous civilizations, the earliest of which was established in approximately 650 A.D. These silent sentinels now watch over the trading post and the town of 250 modern day pioneers who choose to call Bluff home.
We drove to west entrance of the store, parked the truck and began unloading kids, packages, luggage and groceries. As I jumped from the tailgate to the concrete pad below, I noticed an inscription which read “Dacia Simpson 7-8-94.” That was a name I did not recognize, and it was not until I had settled into life at the trading post that I learned Dacia was yet another member of my family, a daughter from an earlier marriage.
It was at that point I heard a door squeak. Looking up, I spotted him, my new master, Steven P. Simpson, Steve as he is generally known, emerging from the apartment located on the second floor of the building. My heart pulsed. Was he kind? Would he take to me? Would he become this dog’s best friend? Those and many other questions raced through my mind as I stared at the tall, inscrutable figure backlit by the yellow porch light.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Twin Rocks Trading Post
Being young and untested, I was not allowed to travel in the cab with Georgiana and her two offspring, Kira, age 7, and Grange, age 4. Instead, in order to avoid an unpleasant mishap, I was relegated to the camper. Although the back of the truck was comfortable enough, I, having already grown fond of them, longed for the companionship of my two young compatriots. That, combined with the uncertainty of what lay ahead, made me more than a little melancholy.
As I pressed my nose to a side window, wondering what the future held in store for me, we left the bright lights of metropolitan New Mexico and headed north. As the moon rose over the Sandia Mountains, we passed through Bernalillo, San Ysidro and Cuba. Turning west just outside the small agricultural community of Aztec, we nipped the corner of Arizona not far from Shiprock and arrived at the border of Utah, my new home state. Although I did not know it at the time, we had passed not too far north of Salina Springs, the destination of Mary Jeanette on her maiden voyage into this still untamed land.
Utah, I had been informed by the beagle living next door, was known as the Beehive State. Its motto is simply “Industry,” and the beehive is proudly displayed on its coat of arms to indicate hard work and diligence. I wondered whether this meant my new owners would hitch me to a plow or make me herd sheep, cows or other livestock. My breed was not meant for such activity I ruminated. I am a gun dog, bred to retrieve downed waterfowl and upland game birds during hunting and shooting parties. Menial labor is not in my DNA.
We sailed through Aneth, nothing more than a wide spot in the road, and navigated Montezuma Creek, with its thumping pump jacks and modern high school, eventually passing the Episcopal mission known as St. Christopher’s. In 1942 the Reverend H. Baxter Liebler of Greenwich, Connecticut, traveled through the Navajo lands of southeastern Utah. Stopping in the tiny settlement of Bluff, he learned the language and customs of these indigenous people and later built St. Christopher’s, which became the first Episcopal school for the Navajo.
Only two miles further west and we came to Twin Rocks Trading Post, which is located near the intersection of Utah State Highway 162 and U.S. Highway 191. In the moonlight I noted that the store, and the cafe immediately adjacent to it, were parked at the foot of a monstrous geological formation known variously as the Navajo Twins and the Twin Rocks. Perched on a slight promontory rising above town, these sandstone masterpieces are named for the mythical Hero Twins of Navajo legend. Sculpted by wind and water throughout many mellinea, these towers have stood guard over numerous civilizations, the earliest of which was established in approximately 650 A.D. These silent sentinels now watch over the trading post and the town of 250 modern day pioneers who choose to call Bluff home.
We drove to west entrance of the store, parked the truck and began unloading kids, packages, luggage and groceries. As I jumped from the tailgate to the concrete pad below, I noticed an inscription which read “Dacia Simpson 7-8-94.” That was a name I did not recognize, and it was not until I had settled into life at the trading post that I learned Dacia was yet another member of my family, a daughter from an earlier marriage.
It was at that point I heard a door squeak. Looking up, I spotted him, my new master, Steven P. Simpson, Steve as he is generally known, emerging from the apartment located on the second floor of the building. My heart pulsed. Was he kind? Would he take to me? Would he become this dog’s best friend? Those and many other questions raced through my mind as I stared at the tall, inscrutable figure backlit by the yellow porch light.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Saturday, October 1, 2011
What are the Odds?
It was a Monday evening at the Twin Rocks Cafe, and the flow of diners was light but steady. It was my shift until Steve closed the trading post at 6:00 p.m., whereupon he would take over and I could go home. I was casually sweeping dust bunnies from beneath unoccupied booths and visiting with patrons as I moved about. The soft golden glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the interior of the restaurant in a warm, pleasant manner. As I worked, I enjoyed a low volume of easy listening music over the intercom and casual quips of soft spoken conversation surrounding me. Reaching the entrance of the cafe, I proceeded to clean the tile rug pattern inlaid on the floor. As I did, I noticed a cream colored Cadillac pull up near the front steps. A portly gentleman of approximately seventy years exited the vehicle. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair, wore a pink polo shirt snugly tucked into tan slacks and brown penny loafers, no socks. As I watched, the old boy limped his way up the steps and in through the glass doors.
Navajo Collage Basket - Peggy Black (#342)
Pushing his way inside, the guy spotted me and nearly shouted; "What are the odds I could get a menu?!" It was like a mini percussion grenade went off in the building. Our diners seemed to hunker down a bit, wincing from the impact of his amplified inquiry. "The odds are good!", I said handing him a menu. "Where are you from anyway, New York City?' "Close," he bellowed, "Brooklyn. How did you know?" "Lucky guess." I said, guiding him to a booth. "No, really," he queried, "how did you know?" "Well," I said, "Don't take this personally, but several people I have met from "the City" can be rather . . . loud. That, your accent and your license plate clued me in." The man guffawed hardily and said " Where I come from you have to be loud to be heard." "Well," I replied, "here people appreciate the sound of silence." The man laughed again, this time at a slightly lower decibel. He then settled into the booth and bent to study the menu.
A few minutes later, as I was brooming my way toward the back dining area, the man waved me over and pointed to a particular portion of the menu. In a hushed, almost conspiratorial, voice he asked a question. Because of his unexpected tone, I did not hear his query. I stood there looking at him, confused and wondering if he had taken my comment about his clamorous nature to heart. Had he made a life altering decision to change his boisterous ways right then and there? The man gave me a frustrated look and waved me closer. "What are the odds that these marinated steaks are tender?" he whispered, "I just got new teeth and can't tolerate a tough steak." "Oh," I said, " the odds are very good, I haven't had a bad one yet." "Excellent!" he boomed, making me and everyone around us jump. "Give me the 6 oz. marinated steak." I looked to Tara, our server, who gave me the "I got it" nod and began punching in the order.
The "New Yorker" kept up an amplified dialog all through dinner, dominating the atmosphere of the entire restaurant. The steak proved tender, and the guy was happy with his meal. The one good thing about his outspoken attitude was that everyone coming and going knew of his contentment. As he came to the register to pay the bill he leaned in close and whispered, "Thanks for that steak, one day you too will loose your teeth and need some tender vittles." "Not me", I told him, "I just visited the dentist and he assured me my teeth would go in the box with me. I worry about a few other body parts, but my teeth are sound." "What are the odds?" he boomed, making me and everyone around us jump again. "What are the odds?" I said as I waved him out the door.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Navajo Collage Basket - Peggy Black (#342)
Pushing his way inside, the guy spotted me and nearly shouted; "What are the odds I could get a menu?!" It was like a mini percussion grenade went off in the building. Our diners seemed to hunker down a bit, wincing from the impact of his amplified inquiry. "The odds are good!", I said handing him a menu. "Where are you from anyway, New York City?' "Close," he bellowed, "Brooklyn. How did you know?" "Lucky guess." I said, guiding him to a booth. "No, really," he queried, "how did you know?" "Well," I said, "Don't take this personally, but several people I have met from "the City" can be rather . . . loud. That, your accent and your license plate clued me in." The man guffawed hardily and said " Where I come from you have to be loud to be heard." "Well," I replied, "here people appreciate the sound of silence." The man laughed again, this time at a slightly lower decibel. He then settled into the booth and bent to study the menu.
A few minutes later, as I was brooming my way toward the back dining area, the man waved me over and pointed to a particular portion of the menu. In a hushed, almost conspiratorial, voice he asked a question. Because of his unexpected tone, I did not hear his query. I stood there looking at him, confused and wondering if he had taken my comment about his clamorous nature to heart. Had he made a life altering decision to change his boisterous ways right then and there? The man gave me a frustrated look and waved me closer. "What are the odds that these marinated steaks are tender?" he whispered, "I just got new teeth and can't tolerate a tough steak." "Oh," I said, " the odds are very good, I haven't had a bad one yet." "Excellent!" he boomed, making me and everyone around us jump. "Give me the 6 oz. marinated steak." I looked to Tara, our server, who gave me the "I got it" nod and began punching in the order.
The "New Yorker" kept up an amplified dialog all through dinner, dominating the atmosphere of the entire restaurant. The steak proved tender, and the guy was happy with his meal. The one good thing about his outspoken attitude was that everyone coming and going knew of his contentment. As he came to the register to pay the bill he leaned in close and whispered, "Thanks for that steak, one day you too will loose your teeth and need some tender vittles." "Not me", I told him, "I just visited the dentist and he assured me my teeth would go in the box with me. I worry about a few other body parts, but my teeth are sound." "What are the odds?" he boomed, making me and everyone around us jump again. "What are the odds?" I said as I waved him out the door.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, September 23, 2011
White Buffalo
Three or four times a week I can be found peddling my bicycle from Blanding to Bluff during the early morning hours. Jana and the kids leave for school around 5:00 a.m., and I usually tag along. After dropping Kira off at dance practice and a little speed training with Grange at the high school track, I climb aboard the bicycle and head south along Highway 191.
Great Pyrenees
About five miles into the ride I approach a small farm located just west of the road. Although I have driven past it countless times, until I began riding this particular route on a regular basis, I had not paid much attention to the property. On the first morning I road my bike past the parcel, I noticed two enormous white dogs inhabiting the property. Dog breeds are not my specialty, but these looked an awful lot like they might be of the Great Pyrenees variety.
Working hard to cover the distance from the intersection of Center and Main in Blanding to the porch of Twin Rocks Trading Post in under an hour, I did not notice the canines until they came thundering across the field. Mentally gauging my speed against theirs and the distance they had to cover versus my own, I assumed I would soon be doggie treats for these flashes of white lightening. My calculations did not, however, take into account the gate, which is about 30 feet from the pavement. So, as they crawled under the barricade I safely sped past, leaving them empty-handed.
After this same scenario played out with similar results over the next two weeks, I became comfortable in the knowledge that I could outrun the hounds. Once my fear subsided, I was compelled to name the largest and fastest of the duo, giving him the title “White Buffalo.” This was in honor of his size, color and the white turquoise of the same name that is found near Tonopah, Nevada.
Having successfully evaded the mutts for several days, I decided it was time to even the odds, so I began howling at them to signal my approach. I once again tried to gauge our individual speeds so their notification arrived just in time to allow for a safe margin of error.
Although my edge continuously declined, this contest continued successfully for about a week, with me avoiding their assault each time. Then one morning, I did not see the dogs milling about the outbuildings where they usually awaited my approach. As I came abreast of the gate, I noticed the tall weeds in the bar ditch along the roadway begin to sway. To my surprise, White Buffalo sprang from the tall grass, barking excitedly, but holding his position on the edge of the blacktop. I squealed out a horse note and cranked the pedals wildly. He just stood there as if to say, “I could get you, but I choose not to.” It was then that I realized he was enjoying our game of pursuit as much as I.
The next few mornings, I would bark out my signal and White Buffalo, far ahead of his companion, would come catapulting across their land in plenty of time to stride along side me a few paces before I pulled away. Never trying to nip my heals or upset my progress, he seemed to understand that we had forged a bond, dog and cyclist.
Determined to strengthen the tie we had developed, I decided I would stop and give him a pat on the head or scratch behind the ear during my next journey. As I approached the farm, however, there was no movement. When I arrived at the gate, I noticed a large white patch lying quiet and still about 15 feet from the roadway. “It was surely White Buffalo,” I thought, “His latest ploy.” I slowed my speed in anticipation of stopping to say hello. It was not, however, a trick. He had apparently been struck a fatal blow the night before, and our game was eternally over.
These days, as I ride past his deteriorating body I wish I had stopped before the great tragedy. While White Buffalo’s carcass rapidly returns to Mother Earth, I realize you can never predict where you will meet your next best friend, or how soon he or she will be lost. Best to let them know as soon as possible how much they mean to you.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Great Pyrenees
About five miles into the ride I approach a small farm located just west of the road. Although I have driven past it countless times, until I began riding this particular route on a regular basis, I had not paid much attention to the property. On the first morning I road my bike past the parcel, I noticed two enormous white dogs inhabiting the property. Dog breeds are not my specialty, but these looked an awful lot like they might be of the Great Pyrenees variety.
Working hard to cover the distance from the intersection of Center and Main in Blanding to the porch of Twin Rocks Trading Post in under an hour, I did not notice the canines until they came thundering across the field. Mentally gauging my speed against theirs and the distance they had to cover versus my own, I assumed I would soon be doggie treats for these flashes of white lightening. My calculations did not, however, take into account the gate, which is about 30 feet from the pavement. So, as they crawled under the barricade I safely sped past, leaving them empty-handed.
After this same scenario played out with similar results over the next two weeks, I became comfortable in the knowledge that I could outrun the hounds. Once my fear subsided, I was compelled to name the largest and fastest of the duo, giving him the title “White Buffalo.” This was in honor of his size, color and the white turquoise of the same name that is found near Tonopah, Nevada.
Having successfully evaded the mutts for several days, I decided it was time to even the odds, so I began howling at them to signal my approach. I once again tried to gauge our individual speeds so their notification arrived just in time to allow for a safe margin of error.
Although my edge continuously declined, this contest continued successfully for about a week, with me avoiding their assault each time. Then one morning, I did not see the dogs milling about the outbuildings where they usually awaited my approach. As I came abreast of the gate, I noticed the tall weeds in the bar ditch along the roadway begin to sway. To my surprise, White Buffalo sprang from the tall grass, barking excitedly, but holding his position on the edge of the blacktop. I squealed out a horse note and cranked the pedals wildly. He just stood there as if to say, “I could get you, but I choose not to.” It was then that I realized he was enjoying our game of pursuit as much as I.
The next few mornings, I would bark out my signal and White Buffalo, far ahead of his companion, would come catapulting across their land in plenty of time to stride along side me a few paces before I pulled away. Never trying to nip my heals or upset my progress, he seemed to understand that we had forged a bond, dog and cyclist.
Determined to strengthen the tie we had developed, I decided I would stop and give him a pat on the head or scratch behind the ear during my next journey. As I approached the farm, however, there was no movement. When I arrived at the gate, I noticed a large white patch lying quiet and still about 15 feet from the roadway. “It was surely White Buffalo,” I thought, “His latest ploy.” I slowed my speed in anticipation of stopping to say hello. It was not, however, a trick. He had apparently been struck a fatal blow the night before, and our game was eternally over.
These days, as I ride past his deteriorating body I wish I had stopped before the great tragedy. While White Buffalo’s carcass rapidly returns to Mother Earth, I realize you can never predict where you will meet your next best friend, or how soon he or she will be lost. Best to let them know as soon as possible how much they mean to you.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, September 16, 2011
I Remember It Well
The sun was resting on the western horizon as I exited Twin Rocks Cafe and made my way down the front steps. Soft raindrops gently touched my face as I dodged a bus and several other vehicles while crossing the graveled parking lot to my car. My ride was parked under the protective branches of a large cottonwood tree across the narrow strip of roadway at the edge of the Gaines property. It had been a long day, I was tired and focused on getting home to my wife and family. I opened the car door, dropped into the bucket seat, turned her over, pulled out and pointed her east. A French tourist, whom I had met earlier at dinner, jumped off the bus with a camera in his hand and sprinted to the middle of the road, right in front of my moving motor vehicle. Consequently, I very nearly picked up a Nikon hood ornament for my Nissan.
Navajo Storm Pattern Rug - Pauline Lee (#013)
The now wide-eyed tourist smiled apologetically, bobbed his head and held out his camera as if to say, "So sorry! But . . . I am in a great hurry to take a marvelous picture." He stepped from in front of my car, moved to the right side of the road and made his way toward the intersection of Highway 191 and Navajo Twins Drive. As I pulled past the man and rolled up to the stop sign, I looked up to the cliff tops and saw what had captured his attention. There, at the crest of Cow Canyon was a magnificent rainbow backed by a roiling and altogether angry dark purple storm cloud highlighted by the orange-red glow of the setting sun behind me. The view, I realized, was well worth the risk of an early demise. As I sat there in awe, the Frenchman caught up with me and, smiling brightly, pointed at the spectacular spectacle, gave me the thumbs-up and quickly began snapping images. I smiled in return and forgave the manic man his trespass, pulled out onto the highway and headed north.
In anticipation of the view I might have at the top of Cow Canyon, I picked-up speed. Reaching the top in no time what-so-ever, I was far from disappointed. To my right the rainbow remained as brilliant as a minute before. It arched over the textured landscape as if to bear witness that yes . . . this really was a magnificent place. The thunderstorm behind it was rolling rapidly across Recapture Ridge, like the raging waves of a turbulent ocean. I powered down my windows, heard the rip and tear of thunder and watched as lightning split the near darkness. The air was static with electricity. To my left the scattered storm clouds remaining from an earlier shower caused the setting sun to blaze like a bonfire fending off the night. As I cruised up the highway, I wished that I had clipped that Frenchman and made off with his camera. No matter, my spirit was reinvigorated and my mind refreshed. I will remember this scene well.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Navajo Storm Pattern Rug - Pauline Lee (#013)
The now wide-eyed tourist smiled apologetically, bobbed his head and held out his camera as if to say, "So sorry! But . . . I am in a great hurry to take a marvelous picture." He stepped from in front of my car, moved to the right side of the road and made his way toward the intersection of Highway 191 and Navajo Twins Drive. As I pulled past the man and rolled up to the stop sign, I looked up to the cliff tops and saw what had captured his attention. There, at the crest of Cow Canyon was a magnificent rainbow backed by a roiling and altogether angry dark purple storm cloud highlighted by the orange-red glow of the setting sun behind me. The view, I realized, was well worth the risk of an early demise. As I sat there in awe, the Frenchman caught up with me and, smiling brightly, pointed at the spectacular spectacle, gave me the thumbs-up and quickly began snapping images. I smiled in return and forgave the manic man his trespass, pulled out onto the highway and headed north.
In anticipation of the view I might have at the top of Cow Canyon, I picked-up speed. Reaching the top in no time what-so-ever, I was far from disappointed. To my right the rainbow remained as brilliant as a minute before. It arched over the textured landscape as if to bear witness that yes . . . this really was a magnificent place. The thunderstorm behind it was rolling rapidly across Recapture Ridge, like the raging waves of a turbulent ocean. I powered down my windows, heard the rip and tear of thunder and watched as lightning split the near darkness. The air was static with electricity. To my left the scattered storm clouds remaining from an earlier shower caused the setting sun to blaze like a bonfire fending off the night. As I cruised up the highway, I wished that I had clipped that Frenchman and made off with his camera. No matter, my spirit was reinvigorated and my mind refreshed. I will remember this scene well.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, September 9, 2011
Where Have all the Indians Gone?
Kira and Grange have recently returned to school, so the Simpson family is once again entangled in the helter skelter of another educational cycle. During this first term Kira has an American history class that is exceptionally challenging, so Jana and I have been closely monitoring her progress to ensure there are no catastrophes of historic proportion.
Priscilla
While reviewing her text book last week, I noticed the introductory chapters focus on Native America. Although at times I act as though I have extensive knowledge of all things Native, when pressed, I am quick to admit my reach is limited. In any case, it is interesting to see how the academic community represents this aspect of the American experiment.
As one might guess, when it comes to Native culture, my experience is strictly “on the job”, which is not likely to translate well in the classroom. Although I have a few good stories to tell, I should never be given the responsibility of instructing the nation’s youth on this particular topic, so Kira has not received the benefit of my wisdom.
Since Kira and I do not regularly attend services, we are usually assigned to work Sunday mornings at Twin Rocks Cafe; she as cashier and I as janitor, chief bus boy and manager. During our most recent shift, in order to stay current with her class work, Kira brought her history book to the restaurant. Leaving it open on one of the tables, she left to pursue her traditional activities.
Since it was a slow morning, after a time I noticed our two Navajo servers, Josh and Josiah thumbing through the text, skimming the initial chapters with great interest. Josh and Josiah are young and intelligent, and seemed amused with the book’s content. When I quizzed them on what they had learned about their Native brothers, Josh jokingly asked, “Aren’t they all gone?” Everyone had a good laugh, but Josh’s comment “started me thinkin’”.
On many occasions during my tenure as trader at Twin Rocks Trading Post, I have had travelers ask, “Where can we see Indians?” When I point to Priscilla and say, “Right there”, they protest vigorously. “No, no, no,” they say, “we want real Indians.” Apparently, they wish to see the half naked, feather wearing ones who sit astride a painted war pony whooping and hollering; movie Indians. Consequently, Priscilla does not fit their expectations. When I tell them we do not have any of those left, they are disappointed.
Although it is easy to write off these inquiries as cliché or trite, surely Native culture has changed in ways a large percentage of the population has not anticipated. As Josh’s joke points out, however, in many respects Native people are generally indistinguishable from the rest of mainstream society. One might rightly ask whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. My guess is that it is just a thing, neither good nor bad, or maybe, depending on the individual, both good and bad.
With their hats turned backward, baggy trousers and smart phones, you would not know Josh and Josiah from any other young person. As I have told our inquisitive visitors, running around half naked, whooping and hollering only gets you into trouble with the neighbors, so no one (except Barry, who is not Indian), does that around here anymore.
Funny Barry
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Priscilla
While reviewing her text book last week, I noticed the introductory chapters focus on Native America. Although at times I act as though I have extensive knowledge of all things Native, when pressed, I am quick to admit my reach is limited. In any case, it is interesting to see how the academic community represents this aspect of the American experiment.
As one might guess, when it comes to Native culture, my experience is strictly “on the job”, which is not likely to translate well in the classroom. Although I have a few good stories to tell, I should never be given the responsibility of instructing the nation’s youth on this particular topic, so Kira has not received the benefit of my wisdom.
Since Kira and I do not regularly attend services, we are usually assigned to work Sunday mornings at Twin Rocks Cafe; she as cashier and I as janitor, chief bus boy and manager. During our most recent shift, in order to stay current with her class work, Kira brought her history book to the restaurant. Leaving it open on one of the tables, she left to pursue her traditional activities.
Since it was a slow morning, after a time I noticed our two Navajo servers, Josh and Josiah thumbing through the text, skimming the initial chapters with great interest. Josh and Josiah are young and intelligent, and seemed amused with the book’s content. When I quizzed them on what they had learned about their Native brothers, Josh jokingly asked, “Aren’t they all gone?” Everyone had a good laugh, but Josh’s comment “started me thinkin’”.
On many occasions during my tenure as trader at Twin Rocks Trading Post, I have had travelers ask, “Where can we see Indians?” When I point to Priscilla and say, “Right there”, they protest vigorously. “No, no, no,” they say, “we want real Indians.” Apparently, they wish to see the half naked, feather wearing ones who sit astride a painted war pony whooping and hollering; movie Indians. Consequently, Priscilla does not fit their expectations. When I tell them we do not have any of those left, they are disappointed.
Although it is easy to write off these inquiries as cliché or trite, surely Native culture has changed in ways a large percentage of the population has not anticipated. As Josh’s joke points out, however, in many respects Native people are generally indistinguishable from the rest of mainstream society. One might rightly ask whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. My guess is that it is just a thing, neither good nor bad, or maybe, depending on the individual, both good and bad.
With their hats turned backward, baggy trousers and smart phones, you would not know Josh and Josiah from any other young person. As I have told our inquisitive visitors, running around half naked, whooping and hollering only gets you into trouble with the neighbors, so no one (except Barry, who is not Indian), does that around here anymore.
Funny Barry
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Wishful Thinking
Not long ago, I was sitting in my office at Twin Rocks Trading Post, bumping my head on the desk in an attempt to dislodge a thought or memory worthy of putting down on paper. This week's missive was due, and my creative well had run dry. As I sat there, I heard the door sensor announce a visitor and began to raise myself to discover their purpose. About the same time, I heard Steve greet someone and knew the guests were in good hands, so I sat back down and continued my personal assault. Half-listening in on Steve's conversation with the obviously German tourists, I heard someone say there was a hummingbird loose in the store. This is a common occurrence these days, so no one gets too excited about it. I heard Steve explain to our German friends that it was best to let the high strung aerialists calm down a bit, and that when they do we corner them, carefully execute our capture techniques and release them back into their sugar-saturated habitat.
In short order I heard the tourists take their leave. Shortly after they exited Steve began running through the store in pursuit of the hyped-up hummer. Before long Steve called out to me saying, "Come out here and look at this!" I reluctantly raised myself up again, thinking we would have to tag team the feisty little critter to be done with it. I walked into the trading post just in time to see the hummingbird fly into Steve's office. Before he closed the door to settle the debate, Steve pointed up and to his right saying, "Look at that!" Scanning the wall in question, I saw a small, brown, fuzzy thing, about the size of a Hot Wheels car, attached to the wall. It hung on the wood paneling, right next to our 1970s style cottage cheese and glitter ceiling. "A Bat," I questioned.
"A Bat!"
"This could be a windfall," I thought to myself, recalling what the Navajo people believe about these nocturnal beasties. Bats are some of the earliest recognized beings, they are of the first world of Navajo myth and legend. These flying fright-mongers are thought to be mediators, favored representatives of the "great gods". They occupy the humblest seat near the door of the ceremonial hogan, but their input is respected when it comes to matters of importance. "Humph!" I thought to myself, "I could use a little mediation, an intervention between me and the man upstairs". Steve came out of his office with the hummingbird in one hand and a small plastic bag of corn pollen in the other. We are in the habit of sprinkling each hummer we catch with pollen before we release it. This is because Priscilla tells us that will bring good luck. Although she refuses to adopt us into her clan, claiming the letting and joining of blood is no longer safe, she has let us in on a few minor secrets. Steve and I powdered the tired bird with the yellow substance, had Danny (our new internet manager and adjunct photographer) take images, said a little prayer and set the hummer free.
"Now for you my little pretty," I said to the bat. Steve had to run to the post office before it closed for lunch, so the deed was left to Danny and me. Danny found an empty, clear plastic CD container which I used to cover the flier. We then slid a piece of heavy card stock between the container and wall and gently dislodged the flittermouse. Realizing it was trapped, the hairy little beast let out a tiny scream of indignation. Steve must have taken the corn pollen with him and Priscilla denied having any, so I called Toni over from the cafe. Toni, I thought, would certainly have corn pollen, and she could use a little mediation of her own. My assumption proved correct, so, using Toni's stash, we powdered the bat's behind. When it screamed again we called another moment of silence. I then took the fanged one upstairs and let it loose in a deep dark area behind the building. "Mediate well," I said as I shook the bat from its containment. It screamed back at me one last time, as if to say, "Yeah, I'll do just that." As the bat disappeared behind a board, an ancient memory came to mind.
In the 1960s there were few street lights in Bluff. Those that did exist were situated on the curves of the main highway passing through town. Because of the sparse artificial illumination, it got dark quickly when the sun went down on southeastern Utah. Without those weak but effective street lights, the narrow, snake-like strip of asphalt would have claimed many an unfamiliar traveler. As kids, we discovered early on that those languid lamps drew bugs like moths to a flame, and where there were flying insects there were bats. On cool summer nights, the interaction between supersonic winged mammal and captivated creepers was too much of an attraction for my brothers and me to resist.
In an attempt to bring down those blood thirsty varmints, it became our habit to stand under the lights, scoop up hands-full of pea gravel and fling it at the bats. Either our aim was askew or our firepower under-funded, because I do not recall ever felling one measly bat. I do, however, remember having fallen behind on one summer's eve and coming up on Craig and Steve in full assault mode. As I approached, I could see them peppering the creatures flittering above their shaved heads. I also recall an incredibly dark blue evening encased by an over dome of magnificent points of starlight. From a short distance I viewed a solitary street lamp shining down a conical beam of soft yellow light. Two brothers, one dark like his mother, the other light like his father, aggressively tossing stones into the palpitating abyss. To me the scene was altogether singular, somehow set apart from the rest of my compressed understanding of the world. Time stood still, and I envisioned a real life snow globe. That scene remains with me, a treasured memory, to this very day.
Yup, I was sure that bat was going to do me proud.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
In short order I heard the tourists take their leave. Shortly after they exited Steve began running through the store in pursuit of the hyped-up hummer. Before long Steve called out to me saying, "Come out here and look at this!" I reluctantly raised myself up again, thinking we would have to tag team the feisty little critter to be done with it. I walked into the trading post just in time to see the hummingbird fly into Steve's office. Before he closed the door to settle the debate, Steve pointed up and to his right saying, "Look at that!" Scanning the wall in question, I saw a small, brown, fuzzy thing, about the size of a Hot Wheels car, attached to the wall. It hung on the wood paneling, right next to our 1970s style cottage cheese and glitter ceiling. "A Bat," I questioned.
"A Bat!"
"This could be a windfall," I thought to myself, recalling what the Navajo people believe about these nocturnal beasties. Bats are some of the earliest recognized beings, they are of the first world of Navajo myth and legend. These flying fright-mongers are thought to be mediators, favored representatives of the "great gods". They occupy the humblest seat near the door of the ceremonial hogan, but their input is respected when it comes to matters of importance. "Humph!" I thought to myself, "I could use a little mediation, an intervention between me and the man upstairs". Steve came out of his office with the hummingbird in one hand and a small plastic bag of corn pollen in the other. We are in the habit of sprinkling each hummer we catch with pollen before we release it. This is because Priscilla tells us that will bring good luck. Although she refuses to adopt us into her clan, claiming the letting and joining of blood is no longer safe, she has let us in on a few minor secrets. Steve and I powdered the tired bird with the yellow substance, had Danny (our new internet manager and adjunct photographer) take images, said a little prayer and set the hummer free.
"Now for you my little pretty," I said to the bat. Steve had to run to the post office before it closed for lunch, so the deed was left to Danny and me. Danny found an empty, clear plastic CD container which I used to cover the flier. We then slid a piece of heavy card stock between the container and wall and gently dislodged the flittermouse. Realizing it was trapped, the hairy little beast let out a tiny scream of indignation. Steve must have taken the corn pollen with him and Priscilla denied having any, so I called Toni over from the cafe. Toni, I thought, would certainly have corn pollen, and she could use a little mediation of her own. My assumption proved correct, so, using Toni's stash, we powdered the bat's behind. When it screamed again we called another moment of silence. I then took the fanged one upstairs and let it loose in a deep dark area behind the building. "Mediate well," I said as I shook the bat from its containment. It screamed back at me one last time, as if to say, "Yeah, I'll do just that." As the bat disappeared behind a board, an ancient memory came to mind.
In the 1960s there were few street lights in Bluff. Those that did exist were situated on the curves of the main highway passing through town. Because of the sparse artificial illumination, it got dark quickly when the sun went down on southeastern Utah. Without those weak but effective street lights, the narrow, snake-like strip of asphalt would have claimed many an unfamiliar traveler. As kids, we discovered early on that those languid lamps drew bugs like moths to a flame, and where there were flying insects there were bats. On cool summer nights, the interaction between supersonic winged mammal and captivated creepers was too much of an attraction for my brothers and me to resist.
In an attempt to bring down those blood thirsty varmints, it became our habit to stand under the lights, scoop up hands-full of pea gravel and fling it at the bats. Either our aim was askew or our firepower under-funded, because I do not recall ever felling one measly bat. I do, however, remember having fallen behind on one summer's eve and coming up on Craig and Steve in full assault mode. As I approached, I could see them peppering the creatures flittering above their shaved heads. I also recall an incredibly dark blue evening encased by an over dome of magnificent points of starlight. From a short distance I viewed a solitary street lamp shining down a conical beam of soft yellow light. Two brothers, one dark like his mother, the other light like his father, aggressively tossing stones into the palpitating abyss. To me the scene was altogether singular, somehow set apart from the rest of my compressed understanding of the world. Time stood still, and I envisioned a real life snow globe. That scene remains with me, a treasured memory, to this very day.
Yup, I was sure that bat was going to do me proud.
With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Friday, August 26, 2011
Tales of a Trader’s Dog - Part 1
My name is Buffy the Wonder Dog, but my friends call me Buffy. I am a seven year old Golden Retriever, and this is my tale.
Buffy the Wonder Dog
Some time ago I was introduced to a fine little book entitled Tales of a Trader’s Wife, which was published in 1965 by Mary Jeanette Kennedy. Mrs. Kennedy is the grandmother of Georgiana Kennedy Simpson, wife of Steven P. Simpson. Steve and Georgiana, along with their children, Kira and Grange, are my owners. Georgiana comes from a long line of Indian traders; Steve, not so long.
Having been exposed to Mary Jeanette’s memoir when I was just a whelp, I have recently become inspired to document my own experience, which, if successful, will be serialized in the well known and widely circulated literary column Tied to the Post. This weekly bit of fantasy, which some unkind individuals have from time to time referred to as yellow journalism, is written by my owner and his brother, Barry Simpson. Barry and Steve are the proprietors of Twin Rocks Trading Post.
Twin Rocks is a lonely outpost located in Bluff, Utah, just two miles north of the San Juan River. This watercourse, which forms the northern border of the Navajo Indian Reservation, is host to a number of extremely small communities in which residents attempt to scratch a living out of a desolate desert environment. My early experiences provided no indication I would eventually spend my days at a trading post in the wilds of southern Utah, but here I am.
I was born in Clines Corner, New Mexico during the winter of 2004, the offspring of purebred parents. My sire’s family, while of good stock, had fallen on hard times, and after my birth it was discovered that my mother’s bloodline was afflicted with hip dysplasia. So, while the trunk of my family tree is solid hard wood, my particular branch is not sterling.
Born the forth of eight, my parents assured me I was the pick of the litter, and that I, like Rocky Balboa, could be a contender. Early on I was encouraged to set my sights on the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Alas, with the discovery of dysplasia in my genetic code, and my somewhat crooked teeth, that dream was never to be realized. Instead, my breeder elected to convey me to an older couple living in Albuquerque’s North Valley.
My new owners, John and Georgiana Kennedy, had deep roots in the Indian trading business, but at 91 and 84 years of age respectively, they were in the twilight of their careers. John’s father, George Kennedy and Mary Jeanette had established a trading post at Salina Springs, Arizona in 1913.
John was the owner of Gallup Indian Trading Company, located in Gallup, New Mexico, for many years. Decades before I was adopted into the family, the business had been passed down to John’s sons and subsequently closed. He, however, continued to trade, and at 91 was still active in the business.
When John’s old blue Chevy van, which likely had 250,000 reservation miles on its chassis, was stolen, I was brought in to guard the Kennedy compound against further thievery. Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, however, quickly realized they had overestimated the extent of my security training, and discussions were convened that would ultimately land me a new position at Twin Rocks Trading Post.
To be continued.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
Buffy the Wonder Dog
Some time ago I was introduced to a fine little book entitled Tales of a Trader’s Wife, which was published in 1965 by Mary Jeanette Kennedy. Mrs. Kennedy is the grandmother of Georgiana Kennedy Simpson, wife of Steven P. Simpson. Steve and Georgiana, along with their children, Kira and Grange, are my owners. Georgiana comes from a long line of Indian traders; Steve, not so long.
Having been exposed to Mary Jeanette’s memoir when I was just a whelp, I have recently become inspired to document my own experience, which, if successful, will be serialized in the well known and widely circulated literary column Tied to the Post. This weekly bit of fantasy, which some unkind individuals have from time to time referred to as yellow journalism, is written by my owner and his brother, Barry Simpson. Barry and Steve are the proprietors of Twin Rocks Trading Post.
Twin Rocks is a lonely outpost located in Bluff, Utah, just two miles north of the San Juan River. This watercourse, which forms the northern border of the Navajo Indian Reservation, is host to a number of extremely small communities in which residents attempt to scratch a living out of a desolate desert environment. My early experiences provided no indication I would eventually spend my days at a trading post in the wilds of southern Utah, but here I am.
I was born in Clines Corner, New Mexico during the winter of 2004, the offspring of purebred parents. My sire’s family, while of good stock, had fallen on hard times, and after my birth it was discovered that my mother’s bloodline was afflicted with hip dysplasia. So, while the trunk of my family tree is solid hard wood, my particular branch is not sterling.
Born the forth of eight, my parents assured me I was the pick of the litter, and that I, like Rocky Balboa, could be a contender. Early on I was encouraged to set my sights on the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Alas, with the discovery of dysplasia in my genetic code, and my somewhat crooked teeth, that dream was never to be realized. Instead, my breeder elected to convey me to an older couple living in Albuquerque’s North Valley.
My new owners, John and Georgiana Kennedy, had deep roots in the Indian trading business, but at 91 and 84 years of age respectively, they were in the twilight of their careers. John’s father, George Kennedy and Mary Jeanette had established a trading post at Salina Springs, Arizona in 1913.
John was the owner of Gallup Indian Trading Company, located in Gallup, New Mexico, for many years. Decades before I was adopted into the family, the business had been passed down to John’s sons and subsequently closed. He, however, continued to trade, and at 91 was still active in the business.
When John’s old blue Chevy van, which likely had 250,000 reservation miles on its chassis, was stolen, I was brought in to guard the Kennedy compound against further thievery. Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, however, quickly realized they had overestimated the extent of my security training, and discussions were convened that would ultimately land me a new position at Twin Rocks Trading Post.
To be continued.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!
Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!
Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!
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