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!

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!

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!

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!

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!