HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM THE TEAM AT TWIN ROCKS TRADING POST

 

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Deseret News Article

This week Barry and I thought we would give our readers a gift; a well deserved break from our personal musings. Instead of the yellow journalism we regularly distribute, we are sending you the link to a story that recently ran in the About Utah column of the Deseret News. Its author, Lee Benson, stopped by the trading post a few weeks ago and we started talking. At Twin Rocks Trading Post, talking is one thing we do well. This story is the result of our conversations.

Just as our mothers always advised us, if you brush your teeth and bathe regularly, wear clean underwear and be nice, good things will happen. While I have always hoped that advice would bring a different result, the article is nice. We hope you enjoy Lee’s work and the reprieve. Barry and I will be back next week with all the humor and wisdom you have come to expect from Tied to the Post.

Here’s the link: http://www.deseretnews.com/article/765617431/Internet-saves-the-day-at-the-Twin-Rocks-Trading-Post.html

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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Double or Nothing

It was early morning at Twin Rocks Trading Post and a fifty-something year old woman with a pit bull attitude stood across the counter giving me the evil eye. Doggedly clutching a basket by Navajo artist Peggy Rock Black, she stuck out her lower lip and declared, "That's too much!" I could tell she badly wanted the weaving. She did not, however, want to pay my asking price.

Peggy Rock Black Baskets

Only ten minutes earlier I had taken a beating from Peggy while negotiating to buy the darn thing. Between Peggy and this determined female, I was beginning to feel like a rooster at the annual chicken pull. I looked to her husband for assistance, but he just leaned against the counter with his arms folded across his chest and smiled like the Cheshire cat. I could tell I would find no relief there and guessed these two had played the game before.

The day started well enough. During my drive from Blanding the morning had been bright, beautiful and uneventfully calm. It was Saturday, Steve was in Moab running a 10k with Kira and Priscilla would not arrive until noon. Kathy was next door managing Twin Rocks Cafe and preparing for a Navajo Santa catering that evening. Therefore, at least for the time being, I was handling duties at Twin Rocks Trading Post alone. When I arrived at the store Peggy's pickup truck was idling in the parking lot and she was rattling the Kokopelli doors. "Your late!" she said as I walked up the steps. It was 9:02 a.m. and I was two minutes late. As far as Peggy was concerned, that was two minutes too many. She was not pleased with my tardiness, and her discontent usually translates into more strident bargaining.

As I opened the trading post doors Peggy went to her truck and retrieved a package. When she entered the store I was relieved to see it was a 12" ceremonial basket. I figured this would be easy bargaining compared to what happens when she brings one of her large and elaborate collage baskets. Those can take hours to negotiate. I was, however, wrong! Peggy started-out three times over the price she normally asks for with similar weavings. When I questioned why, she said that by opening late I had scuttled her hopes of getting to Farmington at a reasonable hour. Peggy expected me to pay for what she considered an inexcusable indiscretion. Twenty minutes and several, "That's not enough!" proclamations later we settled on a price. The day was going downhill and it was not even 10:00 o'clock.

As Peggy walked out, the couple strolled in and went straight to the basket. I had been rummaging under the cash register for a price tag, so the weaving was still resting on the glass. The woman picked up Peggy's basket and asked if the weaver who made it had just left. "Indeed she did", I replied. The woman began questioning me about the meaning behind ceremonial baskets, their origin, history, construction and materials. I explained all that and more, describing how the baskets were used by medicine men for healing purposes and how important they are to Navajo people. The woman seemed impressed, and looked questioningly at her husband. There seemed to be an unspoken communication between them and the woman turned back to me, asking, "How much?"

That was when we arrived at, "That's too much!" The woman argued her point admirably, but I was determined to stand my ground. Somewhere deep inside I believed I could win this battle of wills. All the while the Cheshire cat lounged in the background, smiling smugly. Eventually my adversary and I reached an impasse. We were locked in a stalemate and neither of us was willing to budge. I looked from the woman to her husband and back again, all the while considering my options. Having what I thought was an epiphany, I asked the woman, "Are you a gambler?" Looking at me cautiously, she responded, "I have been known to drop a dime or two in the slots." "Alrighty then", I said, "I'll flip you double or nothing for that basket." "Done!" she said.

The Cheshire cat's continence changed in an instant. Pushing himself away from the counter, he stumbled toward his wife. "Wait a minute," he said haltingly, "do you realize what you just agreed to?" "Yes," she stated unemotionally, "I do. If I lose the toss I will pay twice the price. If I win, however, it will cost us nothing." "And you are willing to take that chance?" he asked incredulously. "I am indeed!” the gambler replied enthusiastically. "Well I'm not," exclaimed her man. He then reached for his billfold, took out a credit card and handed it to me, saying, "Ring it up for the regular price please." I ran the card and wrapped the basket. At this point the disgruntled husband left the post mumbling about a bad bet and someone not playing by the rules. As he exited the Kokopelli doors the woman turned to me and said, "Shall we flip just for the fun of it just to see who would have won?" Reaching into my pocket for a coin, I said, "You call it."

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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What They Didn’t Teach Me in Business School

Now, I am a reasonably well-educated man; I graduated high school with adequate marks, made it through college with defensible grades and even finished graduate school without too many notable academic mishaps.

The Case of The Indian Trader: Billy Malone and the National Park Investigation at Hubbell Trading Post Book

There are, however, many individuals in southern San Juan County who are better trained than I. My friend Bill Boyle, editor of the San Juan Record and graduate of Stanford Business School, and Kira and Grange come immediately to mind. I have always been impressed with Bill’s general knowledge and clear vision. Additionally, I had to quit poking my nose into Kira and Grange’s homework years ago, lest they ask questions I was unprepared to answer.

Despite my inadequacies, I have generally pictured myself as a good businessman. I have been “successfully” plying my trade in the Navajo basket, rug and turquoise jewelry business for many years and have yet to file bankruptcy. After all, didn’t the U.S. Small Business Administration name Twin Rocks Trading Post and Cafe the Jeffrey Buntland Family-Owned Business of the Year for 2012?

Okay, I have to admit Craig, Barry and I have wondered whether the Business Gods were playing an unkind joke on us or whether there simply was no other candidate for the award. No matter how nice the trophy or how often we inspect it, trying to convince ourselves we are competent, we still, for good reason, describe ourselves as “traders on the edge”.

In spite of my overall entrepreneurial optimism, I have never been able to fully comprehend the Indian trading business. Barry and I frequently comment that it does not fit the standard model and scratch our heads in confusion, wondering at its complexities. We cannot, for example, understand why we continue to loan money to artists who will likely never compensate us for the advance; we question our reasons for purchasing from local craftsmen even after our bankers have notified us our accounts are overdrawn; and we often purchase things we do not need, simply because it is, “the right thing to do”.

Late last year, our friends Tim and Carol gave me a copy of The Case of The Indian Trader: Billy Malone and the National Park Investigation at Hubbell Trading Post. Although I began reading it last Christmas, Jana also became interested and the book went missing. It is only recently that I discovered it among her belongings and recommitted myself to finishing what I started over a year ago.

The book contains an excellent history of Hubbell Trading Post specifically and Indian trading in general. At one point it discusses the nature of this unusual commercial endeavor and, citing a letter written by Laura Graves, professor of history and author of Thomas Varker Keam, Indian Trader, states, “One cannot successfully understand the trading post business with its very complex and convoluted human relations . . . from the perspective of Accounting 101 or Management 101 - the business does not work like any ordinary business and those who try to force it into post-modern business management practices will do two things: Suffer from a profound misunderstanding and destroy the business . . . .”

Barry and I have discussed the book at length, and take a great deal of comfort from its descriptions of Indian trading. We are even considering it as a gift to our financial advisors and partners, many who have clearly concluded we are either uninitiated or simply crazy when it comes to implementing basic business principles. Crazy is the likely explanation. Anyone in this industry as long as we have been must be insane.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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A Turkey Story

It was early evening as I walked out the Kokopelli doors and onto the wide, iron-red porch of Twin Rocks Trading Post. The day had gone quickly, and I hoped to savor the golden autumn sunset before closing the store. In Bluff, fall generally stretches into late November and, at times, early December. In our small, well-protected high-desert river valley we are blessed with four distinct seasons, and this is my favorite.

Flying Turkey

Like overprotective guardians, at this time of the year the gnarled and twisted limbs of our cottonwood trees stubbornly cling to their bright yellow leaves. Eventually a frosty north wind dips into our sheltered cove and tears the foliage from their grasp. Not today however. With just a hint of crispness, the circulating current of air was mild, exhilarating and unusually refreshing. Breathing deeply, I sat on the sunbathed concrete steps and looked south. Backlit by the rosy red cliffs, the cottonwoods with their heavily textured trunks and bouquets of yellow were lit up with an intensely rich glow. The slanting sunlight filtered through the semitransparent leaves and put on a light show that dazzled my visual senses.

At times like these, I tend to go "mind-blind"; my brain blocks the stress of everyday life and allows the pleasure sensors free reign. As I sat there thinking of nothing at all, I sensed movement to my right. Near the layered and stacked base of the Twin Rocks, something had flushed a Merriam turkey and the wild thing was beating a hasty retreat. The bird was flying at a high rate of speed about ten feet off the ground, diagonally across the parking lot. It was a large, full-bodied turkey with heavy plumage, so I guessed it was a tom. Its head was bright red and stretched out, far ahead of its much larger body. The dispersed sunlight washed over the bird, highlighting its mostly dark brown plumage. The white tipped tail feathers pointed straight back, looking like the rear of a lighted rocket. I could hear the turkey's wings beating furiously, and in a flash the creature was across the highway, through the Jones hayfield and into the undergrowth bordering the river.

After a time my mind reset and I remembered how the Navajo view turkeys as a savior of sorts. When the people were forced from the previous world by Water Creature's great flood, it was Turkey who was forward thinking. Making his way to the granary, Turkey carefully arrayed a pair of each seed type on his feathers. Thus burdened, Turkey proceeded to the growing reed; the escape route provided by two men who eventually becomes the Sun and the Moon. The foaming waters lapped at Turkey's tail-feathers as he scurried along, staining them forever white. This would serve as a constant reminder of his heroism. Because of his heavy load, Turkey was the last into the reed, narrowly making his escape. The seeds Turkey exported allowed the Navajo people to grow and prosper after emerging into this world. Turkey had saved the day and ensured their future.

As I sat on the steps, the sun dipped lower on the horizon and the shadows grew longer. Taking a deep breath, I sighed contentedly to myself. It was time to head north, up the highway to my warm, comfortable home and family, thus ensuring my own future. Life is good at the base of the Twin Rocks, good indeed.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

 

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Roots

“This is the desert after all”, I thought to myself as Grange and I sped along Interstate 70 towards Salina, Utah. He and I were heading for a wrestling tournament, the first of the season, and to get there we were traversing Utah east to west. My competitive period has long since expired, but Grange’s is just blossoming, so these days I am coach, cheerleader, driver, financial backer and emotional supporter; dad.

Bluff, UT Cottonwood Tree

Central Utah’s undulating, split, broken, up and down, rust-colored landscape was spectacular in the early evening. Asymmetrical rock castles, fortresses and temples emerged at every turn. Sandstone barricades pushed hundreds of feet into the air. Clouds raced across the skies, casting billowing shadows that cascaded across the land and painted an ever-changing, spectacularly visual, panorama. It was easy to see why landscape artists found this geography so inspiring. This is enchanted ground.

It has been dry in this part of the country, painfully dry. Parched is a term that comes to mind. Vegetation, always in short supply along this route, is almost unknown. A large front was, however, moving in. Snow would blanket the middle band of Utah before the night was over and I was hoping to miss the messiness by arriving at our intended destination before the surge. Icy pavement and storming semi tractor-trailers are a combination I avoid whenever possible.

At that point, however, the road was smooth, dry and well maintained, so we sailed through deep canyons and broad valleys with ease. “Like a bobsled on ice,” I thought to myself, and then hoped the analogy would not prove accurate. As we made our way west, the turquoise sky turned gray, then black. All the while, I scanned the horizon for a patch of green. There was none to be found.

As we crested the summit of a large, undulating hill, off in the distance I could see a swatch of shimmering gold highlighted against the increasing darkness. “Ah ha, a cottonwood,” I advised myself. In fact, it was a grove of cottonwoods, an entire family of settlers that had found a seep or underground aquifer. Somehow they or their ancestors had discovered the scarce resources necessary to thrive in this barren land and there they stood, majestic.

It made me think of the early pioneers who established Bluff, of the Navajo and of the community’s modern-day inhabitants too. Here, in the heart of the Colorado Plateau, where cactus, yucca and low scrubby plants predominate, these individuals also found the nutrients needed to form roots, leaf out and raise saplings. How or why is not easy to determine. In some cases it may have been as simple as fate, seeds deposited, a foothold gained, sunlight collected and limbs projected. For others, the explanation is more complex, spiritual maybe, at times clearly irrational. Whatever the reason, Bluff has grown its own grove in the center of this red rock desert.

Glancing over at Grange resting peacefully in the passenger seat next to me, I felt pleased my own seedlings had sprouted and nourished themselves in this trying climate. Not long hence, however, they will transplant themselves into a different environment, extending their feelers and engrafting onto another world. Their roots will, however, be forever grounded in the stark, natural beauty of the desert Southwest.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

 

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Just like Dale and Roy

The other day I was upstairs visiting Kathy in her office, lamenting that I did not have fodder for my bi-weekly story. Kathy listened patiently, and then kindly redirected me to the trading post, "Where the stories come to you." I thanked her for listening and departed through the Internet office, needling Danny as I walked past his desk and clumped down the stairs into the store. As I arrived on the main floor, I noticed Steve sitting on the tall chair behind the cash register, surveying the graveled parking lot. "Take a look at that couple," he said pointing with his lips, "they are all duded-up." Straining my neck to see out the plate glass windows, I searched among the cars to see what he meant. From where I stood, all I could see were two people moving along the base of the porch. They were on their way in, so all I needed to do was wait and watch. I moved over by Steve anticipating their arrival. Just then the Kokopelli doors flung open and in walked the reincarnation of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Steve and I said "Howdy" at the same time and expected a "Howdy Y'all" in return. What we got was "Bonjour."

Mathilde and her man on her right

As we watched, the couple circled the store while the Toby Keith song "Should've Been A Cowboy" reverberated through my brain. The man was tall, lean and, as far as women might be concerned, good looking. He had short hair of a deep brown color, slicked back with Dippity Doo, gel or something similar. He had exaggerated, almost Elvis, sideburns, full eyebrows and big dark eyes. He wore a tan shirt form the 1930's with brown accents and cactus and sunset designs embroidered about the shoulders, arms and chest. On his narrow hips he had a brown stamped leather belt graced with an antique silver buckle set with blue glass stones on each of its four corners. The belt and buckle held up a stiff new pair of Wrangler jeans rolled up a good ten inches at the cuff. A pair of brown cowboy boots completed his outfit.

The attractive young woman was outfitted to a much higher standard than her man. Her neck length blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and her bangs were doo'ed-up and flipped back in Cupie doll fashion. Intelligent and friendly brown eyes gazed upon us from a fair, clean, shiny complexion, her lips were full and painted ruby red. Antique silver earrings graced her ears. Steve and I had not met any real characters in a while and we figured we had an interesting story on the line, so we struck up a conversation, trying to learn their tale. The woman spoke English well, so it did not take long for us to learn that she had a passion for antique western clothing from the 1930s and '40s. She actually wore them each and every day, whether on vacation or not, and claimed she received much pleasure and good conversation from doing so. We discovered she had traded in a career in art/architecture for buying and selling antique clothing in her native France. I mentioned that my daughter McKale had also become enamored of the look and quality of vintage clothing when she discovered several dresses in the back of her grandmother Washburn's closet. We soon learned the woman's name was Mathilde and clothing was her life.

Mathilde showed off her outfit like a professional model. She wore a bright yellow western shirt embroidered with ruby red roses, green stems, black piping and snap buttons. Over the shirt was a gunmetal blue waistcoat. A pair of brown wool gabardine slacks with matching rose patterns and white piping graced her slender hips. On her feet was a pair of matching boots. Where Mathilde came up with a hand-made pair of vintage blue and yellow boots with rose accents one can only guess. Because he did not speak much English we never learned her beau's name or whether he really bought into the antique imagery thing or was just along for the ride, so to speak. It really didn't matter, because together, the couple was stylin'! Before the dynamic duo left, Mathilde found an old style silver belt buckle that fit her western belt. Her interest had once been focused on old Bakelite jewelry, but because Native American silver and turquoise went so well with western clothing styles, Mathilde was developing a strong interest in Southwestern wearable art. The buckle fit her requirements nicely, so she bought it. When we saw how nicely it displayed on her waist Steve and I whole-heartedly agreed with that assessment.

Life is never dull around Twin Rocks Trading Post. Without even trying, we stumble upon characters with ornate personalities. Often those who seem the most outrageous are the most fun and interesting to talk to. Mathilde and her sidekick were just that, fun and interesting. Mathilde quit a safe and lucrative job to follow her passion and live life in her preferred style. She was not afraid to express herself. I hope we can allow our children the confidence to search out and follow their dreams in order to discover a more fulfilling and fun-filled life. Thanks to Mathilde for helping us to see ourselves more clearly, and for giving me something to write about.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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Chaos in a Basket

It was the 1990s, exactly when I do not remember. Damian Jim had been designing on his computer for a few years, and the contemporary Navajo basket revolution was ramping up. The weavings being brought into Twin Rocks Trading Post were uniquely exciting, and Barry and I were continuously amazed by their quality, quantity and diversity.

Navajo Chaos Basket - Lorraine Black (#224)

For us, the energy associated with the movement was unprecedented. Navajo baskets had become our passion. Mary Holiday Black, Elsie Holiday, Sally Black, Peggy Black, Joann Johnson and many other exceptional weavers came to see us regularly. The trading post was the center of an artistic vortex, the economy was steaming along and we all believed it would last forever.

Lorraine Black was positioning herself as one of our favorite artists. Not only did she design and weave extraordinary baskets, she was a lot of fun, laughing, joking and teasing whenever she arrived at the store. In return, we played practical jokes on her, talked about ancient traditions and explored Navajo culture through her eyes.

During that time, the storm clouds began to accumulate. Her marriage had hit the rocks, and the strain was beginning to show. Having recently gone through a difficult divorce of my own, I was sympathetic. While my wound was closing, hers was widening. The pain was revealed in her often teary her eyes and reflected in her lack of humor. She was obviously hurting, and there was not much we could do to help. Divorce is extremely personal, and those on the outside cannot comprehend what you feel on the inside. The best Barry, Priscilla and I could do was giving her a hug once in a while and support her art.

One afternoon I was in the store, doing reports, waiting on tourists and cleaning up when Lorraine dropped in with a weaving. I do not remember exactly why, maybe it was her emotions, maybe it was mine, but I recall the basket having enormous energy. Uncharacteristically, it did not have a unifying theme. Instead, there were many seemingly unrelated motifs, black and white alternating stitches and a positive-negative swirl. When she handed it to me I felt disoriented, a bit off balance. She said she felt the same, so we christened it the “Chaos Basket,” in honor of her state of mind.

The basket sold quickly, and over the years I have mentioned it, and its power, many times, wondering where it had gone. As the decades passed, Lorraine returned to her old self and we often pointed to that weaving as a reminder of what she was coping with at the time and how interesting it was that her emotions had been so accurately reflected in that particular basket.

A few months ago, one of our customers called with a question. He and his wife had retired and wanted to simplify their lives. Consequently, they were moving to a smaller home and selling a portion of their vast Southwest art collection. He wanted to know if I would be interested in repurchasing four or five baskets he had acquired from us. “Yes,” I said enthusiastically, “Kira and Grange, the Traders-in-Training, have a few extra dollars to invest and this seems a perfect fit.” So, the deal was struck.

After the baskets were delivered to the trading post, I showed them to Lorraine. At the bottom of the stack was one with an unusual variety of unrelated motifs, alternating black and white stitching and a positive-negative swirl. “It’s the Chaos Basket!” Lorraine shouted, and it was. I had failed to recognize it. Remembering how emotional the weaving was for us way back then, we were both surprised to discover we did not now have the same response. Our lives had changed, the world had moved on and time had closed the old wounds. The basket, however, stands as a snapshot of a very different time and how that period was captured in Lorraine’s art.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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Toad Story

Earlier this summer I was working the late shift at our cafe. The night had been busy and the kitchen was smokin' hot. As a result, the entire building was stifling. It was also dry and dusty outside in the gravel parking lot. Rain looked like an impossibility. Around 10:00 p.m., seeking relief from the interior heat, I went outside and noticed the patio needed a clean sweep. A short time later, while working the broom across the concrete, I came upon a toad the size of my fist. Since I had noted evidence of his existence many times before, I was not surprised to discover the warty fellow. At that time of year we often find puffy toad turds littering the porches of Twin Rocks Trading Post and Cafe when we arrive to open the doors. This was, however, the first time I had met one of the responsible parties. Between the bugs, birds, lizards, toads and an occasional snake or two, we have quite an ecosystem on the veranda.

Navajo Frogs After Rain Basket - Mary Holiday Black (#323)

As I swept, the toad repeatedly hopped in the way, and I openly chastised him for doing so. On one of his leaps, he landed smack dab in the middle of my debris. Like a insect on flypaper, he became firmly affixed to one of the tacky napkin wraps in my heap. As the little bounder thrashed about, he redistributed much of my sweepings. Aggravated, I gave the small bugger more of a push than I intended and he tumbled across the porch. From a darkened recess came a low voice, "Careful, he might cause arthritis." I squinted into the gloom and was able to make out an elderly Navajo man reclining on one of the rock and cedar benches. He was sitting in the shadow of the big metal trash bin, smoking what looked like a turquoise pipe. "Funny," I thought, "I did not seen him seated there when I came out."

The old man was dressed in worn Wrangler jeans, a faded cowboy shirt and run-down Red Wing steel toe work boots. "Toads are special creatures," said the man, taking a deep pull on the pipe. This caused the bowl to glow a fiery red. "Yeah, I guess," I replied, "It just got in my way, causing extra work. I wasn't trying to harm him, only move him on down the line." "They are defenseless creatures; just trying to survive," said the man in a casual tone. "They also help keep down the bugs." "I'm sure that's true," I replied, "but they do leave a bunch of unsavory packages behind." "A small price," was his comeback. The man took another drag on his pipe, and as he exhaled the smoke swirled about his head of thick salt and pepper hair like a cloud emanating from his body.

Working my way closer to the old man, I noticed his eyes appeared swollen, that he had a prominently protruding Adam's apple and that several dark moles populated his face. The old-timer seemed uneasy under my studious gaze and receded into the shadows. He took another hit from his pipe and smoke swirled around him like San Francisco fog. "Hot tonight," I said, trying to break the tension, "Wish it would rain." "Might," suggested the old codger. "What did you mean," I probed, "when you said the toad might cause arthritis?" "Toads and frogs have the power to manipulate your skeletal structure and cause pain in connective tissue," he responded, "But that's just an old Navajo legend, isn't it?" "Seriously?" I asked, glancing at the toad with renewed interest. Having freed itself from the sticky wrapper, the toad rested under a table behind me. "Do you mean they can twist your bones and inflame your joints?" I asked, rubbing my sore back. "Can they straighten you out as well?" "As straight and tall as you were at 21 is what I hear," he chuckled, noting my age. "I better treat those little beasties with more respect," I thought to myself. "I would," replied the old man. "Did I say that out loud?" I questioned. The man just puffed his pipe.

"Hey," I said, "would you like some coffee? Since it is the last pot of the day it might be strong, but I am happy to bring you some." "Yes, please," said the old man politely. "The stiffer the better. Anything to put into it?" "No," I replied, "my liquor license does not allow for that." Hustling inside, I poured a cup of Joe into a styrofoam "To Go" cup and brought it outside. When I returned, he was gone. There was a hint of what smelled like mountain tobacco in the air, but my new friend was nowhere to be found. "Humph!" I thought as I walked to the edge of the porch, searching for him in the darkened parking lot. "That guy is pretty swift for an old boy. I wonder why he left so soon?" Turning back to the bench, I noticed a slight movement and out from under the seat hopped another toad. I looked to my right and saw the first one still reclining under the table. Later, searching the trading post and cafe porches, I discovered seven toads working the shadows along the red concrete walkway. "Welcome brothers and sisters," I said magnanimously, "you will always find favor here."

I never did locate the old man, so before locking up for the evening I went outside to investigate one last time. Standing on the steps, I caught another whiff of burning tobacco. Just then there was a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. A light rain began to fall.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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When He's Gone

The other day I glanced across the street and noticed Melvin, our neighbor of many years, setting his lawn sprinkler in anticipation of watering the grass. As the irrigation system sprang to life, Melvin quickly jumped aside to avoid the spray. All that may seem fairly routine, and of little interest, until you realize Melvin is in his early 80s, a time when precious few are able to move quickly for any reason.

Melvin's Work Shed

Never do I see Melvin without my outlook improving, and never does he fail to bring a smile to my face. Craig, Barry and I have known Melvin and his wife, Betty, since before we were old enough to recognize anyone. They have been important and indispensable parts of our routine since we arrived on this earth in the late 1950s. We have certainly assumed Melvin will always be over there poking around in his yard, welding, hammering and tinkering. Only recently have we begun to wonder what it will happen when we look out the windows of Twin Rocks Trading Post and realize he is gone. Surely that is as much an issue of feeling our own mortality as questioning his.

Melvin is the consummate contemporary Bluff settler; he was born here, but for a stint in the army during the Korean War he has lived here from birth and he will likely spend the remainder of his days here. Whatever formal education he has was taken at the University of Bluff, which is an affiliate of the School of Hard Knocks. Craig, Barry and I are working on degrees from that same institution, and after the Great Recession of 2008, we believe we may have earned our doctorates in crisis management.

In a community that has perfected the art of internecine squabbling, Melvin’s opinions are universally respected and he is often looked to for sage advice. During his working career, Melvin spent most days on the state road crew, building and maintaining the highways and byways of southern San Juan County. When he was not operating heavy equipment, he was repairing implements or inventing more efficient methods for his small farm east of Bluff. These days, he patches up trucks, road graders and Caterpillars for his son’s sand and gravel business. As a result, his tall frame is thin and his back more than slightly bent. He is, however, agile for a man of his age; thus, his ability to avoid being wetted by the water hose.

Imbedded in his vocabulary are numerous colorful phrases, which never seem out of place. With certain people, you realize such words are merely descriptive, not intentionally offensive. Melvin is one of those individuals.

As the water saturated Melvin’s swatch of green, I was reminded that life is a cycle, and that we are all merely part of the larger machinery. The test of our worth is whether we assisted the cosmic gadget in producing something worthwhile. Surely when the great Foreman in the sky punches Melvin’s time-card, it will be noted that things were better during his shift.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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The Discovery

Many years ago, when I was but a tow-headed barefoot boy wandering the gravel streets of Bluff City, I made an important discovery. It happened after I had been visiting our friend Roy Pearson at his gas station and automotive repair shop. Roy was always good for an odd job, which generally provided a bottle of cold soda and accompanying bag of peanuts to pour into the pop. Good stuff! On that particular day, I finished my task, polished off my treat, thanked Roy and headed homeward. My jaunt took me across the vacant lot to the east of his establishment. The summer had been long, hot and dry, so as I crossed the property a red, wispy dust trail arose in my wake. As I passed through the north end of the lot I saw a pointed object protruding from a cut bank. Hustling over to its location, I hurriedly excavated what turned out to be the tip of a large Anasazi spear point. This was a great find!

Navajo Horned Lizard and Arrowheads Basket - Lorraine Black (#223)

Turning the gray flint object over in my hand, I visualized how it might have looked when it was whole. The darn thing would have been a good six to eight inches long and one-and-a-half to two inches wide. If I could find the other half I would have a real treasure, so I spent the next two hours scouring the loose soil and digging into the cut bank. Finding only a few pottery shards, gnawed corn cobs and the remnants of long dead fires, my child-like exuberance finally wore off. Sitting back on my heels, I decided enough was enough. This was too much like work. Additionally, judging from the angle of the sun on the western horizon, it was almost suppertime. Momma Rose was a most excellent cook, but she did not tolerate her brood being late for dinner. To assure a healthy serving, one must be on time and well washed. Wiping my grimy hands on my once white t-shirt, I stood, dropped the spear point in the pocket of my cut-off jeans and hustled the remaining three blocks home.

As I came upon our house, I noticed my father standing at the front gate, speaking with a Navajo man he occasionally employed. Old Jim was handy in many trades and was a hard worker to boot. I knew my parents respected him for his work ethic and integrity. As I walked up to the men, my father looked me over and said, "Where have you been boy? You are dirty, filthy and stinky!" Without saying a word, I reached into my pocket and produced the spear point. Before I could react, Old Jim reached out and plucked the artifact from my fingers. Looking it over carefully, he stated emphatically, "This is not for you, it belongs to the spirits of the ancient ones and must be returned. Bad things might happen if you do not return it to its other half." "Bad things my biscuit!" I mumbled as I reached for the point. Old Joe dodged my reach and handed the point to my father.

Dad took the tip, looked it over carefully and asked where I had found it. I told him and, like a fast moving summer thunderstorm, a troubled expression crossed his brow. "One way or another Old Jim's right", said my father. "The man who owns that property would not appreciate you digging for artifacts on his land. Take it back and leave it where you found it." "Stink!" I said out loud, receiving a harsh look from both men. Hustling back to the site, I came to the conclusion my father had a deep and abiding respect for the property rights of others, and that he might be just a bit superstitious. Having returned to the lot, I dropped to my knees and re-entered one of my initial excavations. I dug the cavity as far back into the cut bank as my well-tanned arm would reach, placed the point at the end and collapsed the tunnel. "If I can't have the tip of that spear point, no one else will either," I said to myself. When I returned home, Old Jim was gone, dinner was on the table and the point had been pushed from my mind.

Later that summer I saw Old Jim again. He knew I was still a bit miffed about his part in sabotaging my discovery, so Jim explained his beliefs over cold soda and peanuts. He told me all things found in or near an Anasazi ruin should be left alone, because there are spirits that protect belongings such as that point. Old Jim also told me about the Hero Twins and the journey they took to their father, the Sun. He spoke of the Sun's gift of flint armor, which helped the boys vanquish monsters preying on the Earth Surface People. When the twins were through with their work, they deposited the armor with the benevolent Horned Toad to guard and protect until the day it might be needed again. Later on, Grandfather Horned Toad gained the ability to nap arrowheads with his breath, these he left about the countryside for the people to find and gather as talismans. I learned you leave the ruins alone in respect of the dead buried there, but that it is all right to pick up a point on open ground and inhale its protective properties. That summer I found and returned a point. In doing so I discovered a rich and unique culture.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!