How The King Lost His Tail

As Barry and Priscilla will readily affirm, in my world there is, and always will be, one and only one “King”. Forget about King George, Henry VIII, King Abdullah or even Larry King, for me Elvis is the one true King. When Jana and I got serious about teaming up for life, I worked hard to convince her we needed to get married in Las Vegas. I harbored a secret hope that we would be wedded by Elvis masquerading as an Elvis impersonator. Like my good friend Austin Lyman, and many others, I am convinced Elvis lives.


Tailless King Collard Lizard

So, when Barry recently wrote his article about the King of Twin Rocks Trading Post I was excited. When I discovered the story was about a reptile, I was dismayed. It was only after Barry assured me he did not mean any disrespect and Priscilla played Elvis’ Greatest Hits on the trading post stereo that I consented to its publication. From that point forward, however, I kept an eye on Barry’s so-called King. I would see him from time-to-time lounging on a rock or skittering across the porch and always looked upon him with disdain. “King, my . . . kiester,” I thought every time he appeared.

So it was until recently, when Monday morning dawned hot and humid. On Sunday the mercury had skyrocketed to 105, and all indications were there would be no break in the temperature for a day or two. Kira is working on her goal of running 200 miles during the summer break, so we were on the road early that day, trying to beat the heat. As we exited the House Above the Trading Post, I noticed him, Barry’s King, peeking out from under a large rock. “Look at that,” I sneered to Kira, “reptilian royalty according to your uncle.” “He looks pretty majestic to me,” she replied. “Bah,” was all I could say.

Over the years, Barry and I have discovered the only way to efficiently catch the lizards that scurry across our porch is to spray them with a garden hose. The water freezes them in place and you can then simply reach down and pick them up. We have, however, rarely imparted this knowledge to the little ruffians who inhabit the trading post property during summer vacation. Consequently, our resident reptiles are rarely in jeopardy of being captured and packed off to far away lands.

On this particular day, however, the tide seemed about to turn. As I walked across the landing to Twin Rocks Cafe to secure a glass of iced tea, I noticed a posse of French children beginning to form. I could hear them scheming in a language I was ill-equipped to decipher. It was easy to see, however, something was up, and it did not bode well for Barry’s King. As he clung cockily to the side of the Sunbonnet Rock, the Franco hoodlums closed in, inching cautiously closer.

During their first attack they misfired and the large lizard easily burst out of reach, circumnavigating the rock and stopping only when he was confident the children had been evaded. All would have gone well, except for the large cup of icy soda one of the attackers held in her unsteady hand. As the group lunged a second time, this young woman stumbled, splashing the cold, sticky liquid onto the Lizard King, freezing him in place. In an instant, her brother seized the lizard, grasping him by his thick tail. Screaming and shouting, he hoisted the reptile aloft.

Finally regaining his composure, the lizard began to wriggle and snap his jaws, causing the children to shout even louder and dance about as though they were performing a war dance. After a few moments, that must have felt like an eternity for the creature, the King liberated himself. The cost, however, was dear. As he tumbled to the sidewalk and beat a hasty retreat, his detached tail remained in the hand of his captor and continued to wave back and forth as though it were still attached to its owner.

Realizing what had happened, the exhilarated assailant released his grip on the severed appendage and let it fall to the ground. As if to fully and finally terminate its life-force, the group began stomping on the royal tail. Once that task was accomplished and the severed part ceased to pulsate, the hoodlums faded off towards their RV, leaving the ghastly remains of their hunt ground into the cement. In deference to Barry, I retrieved the tail and gave it a proper burial, concluding the brief ceremony with my own tortured rendition of Crying in the Chapel. And that, my friends, is how the King lost his tail.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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Stink!

Shirley was not happy, in fact she was rather put-out, and her disdain was finely focused on me. Earlier that morning Shirley had called from Pinon, Arizona and talked with Steve. She had just finished weaving a large storm pattern rug and was ready to sell. Steve explained that although we were not, not buying rugs, we were being hyper-vigilant concerning quality of weave, symmetry and color; the rug had to be first rate before we could even consider buying it. I overheard Steve reiterate this point several times, saying "Please do not make a special trip unless your rug is fine and well finished; otherwise it will be wasted time." As Steve hung up the telephone and walked past my office, I gave him my, "You know she is going to drive over here no matter what" look. Steve countered with his, "You heard me tell her not to come unless it is a great rug" look. Because Shirley puts her heart and soul into each and every rug she creates, she feels they are all good. Unfortunately, as we have learned the hard way, not everyone agrees. It was my bet Steve was about to get his proverbial teet in a ringer.


Navajo White & Red Ganado Rug - Clara Toney (#2)

Two hours later, in walks Shirley, followed closely by her man. Shirley was packing a rug, which had been folded and placed in a white plastic bag. My heart sank, because Steve was across the street helping Craig and Jeremy (the driver of Le Pew's septic service truck) pump out our exhaustively active and overly-supplied system. "Stink!" I said under my breath. I looked to our long-time associate Priscilla for help, but she moved off several paces as if anticipating what might occur. What ran through my mind was that Shirley can weave exceptional rugs, many of which we have bought and sold through Twin Rocks Trading Post. On the other hand, Shirley can also weave, let me put it delicately, rugs of a lesser standard. Those have not been bought and sold through the trading post. I figured the odds of a nice weaving coming from that bag were about 50/50. Through the years Shirley, Steve and I have had several thoughtful discussions. During those conversations we have informed Shirley that there is a good market for high quality American Indian art, but no market for the mediocre. For some reason, which still baffles us, she often times chooses to disregard our comments. Some lessons are hard to learn.

Thus, when they walked through the Kokopelli doors, Shirley spotted me, stopped in her tracks and said, "Where's Steve?" "Ober dere." I said, pursing my lips and pointing them in the direction of the clean-out crew. Priscilla gave me the, "Reservation slang humor might not be appropriate at this point" look. I guessed she was right, but I was attempting to keep the mood light. Shirley stalked toward me, pulled the weaving from its wrappings and unfolded her prize as if it were the most beautiful rug in the world, and she was daring me to contradict her. Over the last 40 years I have been working in this business, I have developed what I consider buyer/seller triage. I can look at something a seller brings in and quickly decide if we can use it in the store or not . If interested, I go into discovery mode and begin to look ever so closely at the offered product in order to determine quality, desirability and value. If I am not interested, I do not waste the artist's time, and let them down as easily and respectfully as possible. Most artists we do business with consider me more . . . opinionated than Steve; he is an easier mark. My thoughts were that this particular rug was not well made.

The problem was that I know Shirley, I like Shirley and I want to buy her rugs. I knew there were months of hard, meticulous work represented here, and I knew she, and the guy staring me down, had just driven that worn-out primer gray and grass green Ford Focus two hours to get here. I was hating life about now. Just to be sure I had not made a critical error in judgment, I went into discovery mode. I spread the rug on the floor behind the counter, got down on my knees, said a brief prayer, dropped to my hands and knees and began to look the weaving over as carefully as possible. To my great dismay, I found that the rug was wider at one end than the other, the symmetry of the pattern was off, warp was poking through in several places and the weave was loose and uneven. My original diagnosis had been correct, unless I wanted to throw $1,200.00 out the door, this rug was a goner! I sighed inwardly and looked up, directly into the face of dear Shirley. She had been hunched over the counter, inspecting me just as closely as I had been inspecting her rug. Apparently she could read my body language and facial expressions. Shirley had not liked what she had seen any better than I. Her right eyebrow was raised, her left lowered and there was a look of consternation in her big brown eyes.

I did not want to do this; be the one to turn her down. I got up off the floor and looked across the road to where Steve was cleaning an underground tank with a high pressure hose. "I'll be back," I said, coming around the counter and heading in his direction. I was intent on bringing Steve back into this equation. After all this was his baby. When I arrived at the offensive opening, Steve was hunched over the tank looking into its detestable depths with a scowl on his face. Seeing me approach he looked up and said, "My Ray Bans just fell in there!" I could tell Steve was experiencing a purgatory of his own. By the look on his face, and the malodorous aura surrounding him, I suspected he was also feeling inconvenienced by the shallow minds and clouded vision of those responsible for our ongoing sewer woes.

"What's up?" Steve asked, sitting back on his haunches and placing his hands on his thighs. "Your buddy Shirley showed up with her rug," I said accusingly. "Good or bad?" he asked, trying to remain focused while kneeling in front of that grand, offensive opening. "It's a stinker!" I told him. "That's unfortunate", he said shaking his head sadly. I am sure the loss of his sunglasses played into that statement as well. "Well", he continued, "we can't be throwing good money down a black hole can we," he said, looking into the septic tank. "You heard me tell her we were only buying great rugs. We should pass on it," he continued. I wasn't going to get any help here, so, in a foul mood, I walked back to the trading post.

Shirley was waiting for me. I pointed out the reasons for the unwelcome rejection in hopes it would help with future negotiations. Shirley and her man were upset indeed when I told them I could not buy the rug. They even drove across the parking lot and confirmed the negative response with Steve before driving away in the worn out Focus. As they went, I was feeling terrible about the entire encounter, as, I was certain, was Steve. I hoped the next go-round would prove more beneficial for everyone involved. Shirley, on the other hand, would probably rather have shoved us both into that nasty tank, replace the lid and been done with it. Surely, in her mind we were the stinkers!

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!

Turquoise Mosaic

Jana, Kira, Grange and I recently attended a wedding held at the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Gallup, New Mexico. Posted over the entrance to the sanctuary is their mission statement, which begins, “We the members of the Roman Catholic Community of Sacred Heart Cathedral . . . like a mosaic, will blend our individual talents and multiple cultures to form a unified, working parish.”


Turquoise Mosaic

That statement started me thinking about mosaics in general, and specifically about a turquoise encrusted cow skull purchased not long after we built Blue Mountain Trading Post. It was the 1970s, and the Indian art business was booming. High quality turquoise was both plentiful and inexpensive. Artists and traders frequently combined resources to make squash blossom necklaces, bracelets and concho belts set with enough turquoise to exhaust the supply of a small mine. Stones from all major deposits; Morenci, Bisbee, Kingman, Cripple Creek and even Lander Blue were readily available and widely circulated.

Although much of the jewelry produced at the time was too large and heavy to be worn any appreciable length of time, the industry was not concerned with that particular complication. Nor were the customers, every woman had to have a set. Some of those monumental pieces can still be found hanging on the walls or residing in the display cases of trading posts that have survived the economic vicissitudes of the last forty years. They are a sight to behold. I recently saw a necklace fashioned during this phase that was large enough to fit an Amazon . It would have hung down to the knees of any ordinary woman, and there was enough blue in the stones to illuminate the sky.

As traders and artists exhausted their portfolio of concepts for over the top wearable art, they began scratching around for new ideas. One of the most interesting things I remember seeing during that period was turquoise inlaid skulls. I believe the original was a buffalo head featured on the cover of the January 1974 issue of Arizona Highways magazine. Once the idea caught on, however, there were cow, horse and even goat heads decorated in a similar fashion. That is when we aquired ours.

What fascinated me most about the skulls, and the mission statement of Sacred Heart Cathedral, was the concept of blending so many individual elements to form an unusual and intriguing outcome.

I often think of Twin Rocks Trading Post as a mosaic, with all the artistic personalities forming tiles of different colors, shapes and sizes, and its most interesting aspects becoming apparent only when the pieces are inspected independent of each other. Whether it is the calm, teacherly characteristics of Mary Holiday Black; the helter skelter nature of Elsie Holiday; the differing shades of Joann Johnson; the maticulous, steady pace of Allison Lee; or the wildly unpredictable creativity and madness of Lorraine Black, each segment of the trading post mosaic is fascinating in its individuality. Like that turquoise buffalo scull, our trading post mosaic is a striking, and strikingly complicated, work of art.

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 Kitseallyboy Rug Affair

Working in the office at Twin Rocks Trading Post, I heard the door chimes announce a new arrival. Pushing back my rolling chair, I peeked into the store. Although I could not see who came in, I noticed Priscilla near the cash register. She greeted the guest in Navajo, so I assumed she must be speaking to an artist, or maybe one of the many locals who frequently visit the store to peruse our parlor of particulars. In an attempt to finish the project I was working on, I quickly rolled the chair back to my desk. In short order Priscilla poked her head through the office door and said, "Parnella has a rug to show you." "Parnella," I thought to myself, "who the heck is Parnella?" Seeing the confusion on my face, Priscilla continued, "Kitseallyboy." "That helps a great deal," I replied. I could not recall having bought a weaving from Parnella Kitseallyboy. I am, however, more forgetful all the time, so it was possible I had forgotten something.


Navajo 1950's early 60's Red Mesa Rug - Mary Kitseallyboy (#01)

"Curiouser and curiouser!" I said to myself as I got up and went into the store. As I navigated past her, Priscilla chuckled at my confusion. As though she was trying to help me make the connection, Priscilla said, "She drives the Red Mesa school bus for my grandkids." Emerging from my space, I looked into the large brown eyes of a pleasant, less than middle-aged Navajo woman. Her husband was standing nearby. We greeted each other, and she asked if I wanted to see her rug. Only an hour earlier Steve, Craig and I had discussed cash flow and burn rates, so I hesitated. In these times of economic uncertainty, we have tried to adhere to a strict financial plan. Needless to say, since we are moved more by emotion than common sense, we have been wholly unsuccessful in that respect. "Well, you are already here", I said, "so let's see what you have."

I gave Priscilla a questioning glance, which she ignored. I suspected Priscilla of having advised Parnella to bring the weaving in without first telephoning to find out whether we were buying rugs. For us, it is easier to say no over the telephone than face to face, and more and more artists are becoming aware of this weakness in our character. Consequently, I suspected Priscilla knew more about what was happening than she revealed. As it turned out, the weaving Parnella rolled out on the counter was an eyedazzler, one of my favorite styles, and it was truly impressive! As I inspected the rug, I realized it was of an earlier vintage, 1950s or 60s. The weaving was hand-spun of native wool, with a wonderful combination of browns, grays and creamy whites. There were two vegetable dyes of a tan/yellow that I attributed to rabbitbrush and wild carrot. The weave was gorgeous; smooth, even and symmetrical. I was more than impressed.

By this time the rug had been spread out on the floor and we were all sitting around it cross-legged. Inspecting the weaving closely, I realized I was loving it more and more all the time. "Please, tell me about it," I said to Parnella as I stroked the weave. Priscilla sat on the stool behind the counter, smiling knowingly. Everyone knew I was in trouble! Parnella explained that the rug had been created in the 1950s by Mary Kitseallyboy. Mary had passed away three years ago at the age of 103. The rug has been closely held by the family and passed down from mother to daughter over the last 60 years. Parnella, Mary's granddaughter, was the third to inherit the rug. She brought the weaving to us because she needed to address certain pressing family needs. It saddened me to hear she had to sell the rug, but Parnella assured us Mary would be happy to know she had helped in a time of crisis.

I struggled with my desire to buy this weaving. I would be breaking a vow of cash flow celibacy if I allowed myself to give in. My mind worked furiously, looking for loopholes and backdoor strategies. All of the sudden I came upon a plan . . . Traders in Training! This was an idea Steve's wife Jana had come up with a few years back that allowed our children to learn about the trading business. By allowing them to invest in art that is sold through the trading post, we give them a chance to expand their horizons and earn money for college. Surprisingly the kids bought into it. Silly children! I went into my office and withdrew the sacred envelope from my desk drawer. "Would there be enough," I wondered out loud. Parnella said there was, so we struck a deal. My children now own Mary's (Parnella's) rug, I am safe from chastisement and the trading post has an exceptional piece of art on display. Nuts to cash flow, I love a win-win situation.

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!

You Gotta Know How to Shear the Sheep

Once the trading post is closed and all the turquoise jewelry, sand paintings and Navajo rugs have been sold, Monday nights find me managing the affairs of Twin Rocks Cafe. No, there is no Monday Night Football for me.


Twin Rocks Feathery Escape Rug by Lucy Yazzie

The employees next door have long since arrived at the conclusion that I am a softy, so they pay little attention to my managerial directives. On one recent evening, the servers moved from table to table, delivering food, checking drink levels and picking up empty plates. As they did so, I toured the mostly empty back dining room, searching for wayward crumbs and French fries that had fallen to the floor; anything to appear busy. The staff was experienced and it was an exceptionally quiet evening, so everything was comfortably in order.

At a back table, a family enjoyed crispy rounds of fry bread and bowls of homemade beef stew. The mother and father were well turned out; scrupulously clean and well manicured. From their speech and the way they addressed their offspring, I could tell they had been well-educated and were experienced in the ways of the world.

The two daughters, likely in their early twenties, were also attractively dressed and well spoken. The young ladies each wore nicely crafted turquoise bracelets and their mother’s strong hands indicated she was, or had been, a rug weaver. From all this, I concluded they must be Navajo.

Although I knew it was impolite, that Mother Rose would be disappointed in me and that I had been better trained, I could not help eavesdropping on their conversation. So, acting like I was straightening catsup bottles and wiping marks from the tables, I lingered; engrossed in their dialoge.

What caught my attention was their animated discussion of intertribal marriage. Having spent the majority of my life as a white male in a mostly Navajo community, I have always been fascinated by how minority groups relate to each other. At times I have been absolutely astounded by the bias I have seen in those who have themselves felt the sting of discrimination. Rather than being more patient with, and tolerant of, individual differences, those comprising minority groups can be less understanding. That has always confounded me.

As the conversation continued, the family discussed social and societal differences, personal choices and lifestyle diversity at length, ultimately concluding that one must seek a partner who has had similar experiences. Race and ethnicity, they decided, was an issue, but not necessarily the determinative one.

As I moved away, sure I had overstayed my welcome, I heard the mother admonish her children, “Remember, we are a family of weavers. You gotta know how to shear the sheep.” The girls nodded in approval, acknowledging that their mother was reminding them to always remember their roots.

As the matriarch of the family stated, surely we must remember who we are and where we came from; never losing sight of our history. Just as surely, we should remember that others have equally important histories that help make us a diverse society. Variety, it is said, is the spice of life. So, in addition to the sheep, maybe we should also understand how to shear the llama, the goat and the alpaca.

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!