The other evening, Milan, one of my favorite building contractors, stopped by to measure the shower door in our downstairs bathroom. This "man cave" shower has been leaking, and Laurie wants it repaired or replaced. She despises mold and mildew, and believes I need to be more active when it comes to ridding the planet of this ever-expanding scourge. Because of my more liberal nature when it comes to such issues, there is a girl’s restroom upstairs and the man cave tucked into a corner of the basement. The term, "You spawn it, you live with it," is often heard around our house, most often directed at me. As we were joking about such things, Milan mentioned he might be in need of an assistant sheet rock hanger. He has been working with Steve and Jana on the renovation of the Lemuel Harrison Redd Jr. house, and they are at that phase in the project. Their goal is to bring the sandstone residence, which was built in 1900, up to contemporary standards while maintaining its original pioneer feel.
The term sheet rock brought back memories from 1975, when my parents began building Blue Mountain Trading Post. Through their careful and frugal management of the Plateau gas station and second-hand store, which was located on the south side of Blanding, Duke and Rose scrimped together enough money to purchase a three acre parcel of land from Harv and Hattie Butler. Grandpa Woody brought in his rebuilt Caterpillar tractor and terraced the land to perfection. Dad bought 1,800 sheets of 3/4" plywood from a small factory near Cortez, Colorado for $2.00 per sheet and bargained for several additional bundles of building materials from other vendors. Scott Hurst was hired to pour a 50' x 100' concrete foundation, and Jim Foy, from Moab, was brought in to frame-up the heavy-duty shell and finish the outside. Kenny Mortenson plumbed the place. At that point I recall dad saying, "There you go boys, I've done all I can. Finish-er' up." "Sink or swim" was his motto.
Since it would allow them an additional venue to sell their wares, even the artists we had been working with at the filling station were excited about the build. At the time we were buying and selling genuine Ute arrows from John Dutchie, flutes by Billy Mike and wonderfully unique baskets woven by Susan Whyte, Rachel Eyetoo and Rosemary Lang. James Tapaha, Rose Philips and Wallace Toney, talented Navajo silversmiths, provided jewelry, as did the Taylor brothers and Peck Wood from Bluff. At one point dad traded the Ford pick-up truck I had inherited from him for $6,000.00 worth of jewelry. Having completed the transaction with the Taylor boys, he informed me, "We need inventory son. You're young, you can walk." I remember old Espie Jones laughing out-loud about that deal. "Your fadder, he's an Indian gibber!" said Espie. Leave it to the Navajo to twist the term. These and many others often stopped in to check our progress and ask, "Is it done yet?"
As he could dad found locals who were handy in the work of the day and hooked us up so we could learn from them. This was the summer of my senior year, which meant I was eligible for the work release program. I would check into school in the morning, work through the afternoon and attend football, wrestling, track or tennis practice in the evenings. Life was busy, educational and, in a word, good. When it came time to sheet rock the interior of the building, dad teamed me with Bill Acton. As I recall, Bill was a retired sailor who returned to dry land and became a local handyman. I was young and strong at the time and figured I could work this old gruffer under the bench. Bill put me through the paces, however, letting me do most of the heavy lifting. His job, as he put it, "Was in the details." He was a practical joker, pulling juvenile but effective tricks like shaking sodas and salting powdered donuts.
Bill was a short man, 5' 6" at best, roundly built and blessed with an active sense of humor. He was quick to point out any flaws one might have. As we were sheet rocking the ceiling, he would set the height of the scaffolding to suit his needs and expect me to adjust my taller frame by hunching over. When I suggested an adjustment and a step stool for him, he laughed in his jolly way and said, "The comfort should be mine, because quality is in the details boy, in the details."
The day I met Bill's dragon it was stifling hot. Bill and I were lifting 4' x 10' sheets of plasterboard to the ceiling, holding it in place with the tops of our heads and nailing it into place. As a result, my head was bruised and battered. To this day, I can feel the hurt. Having put the latest piece in place, I jumped down from the scaffolding to grab another sheet and pass it up to Bill. The old-timer took the brief respite to strip off his sweat-soaked Navy sweatshirt. That is when I saw it, a huge oriental dragon emblazoned across the entire upper torso of the old bounder. I was so surprised by the tattoo that I nearly dropped the super-sized sheet of sheet rock.
The dragon was fiercely impressive, with brilliant colors of ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue, golden citrine and the brilliant orange of a Padparasha sapphire. For a brief moment I envisioned Bill in his prime. He would have been short but well muscled, with a full head of hair and an attitude to carry-off that radical tattoo. I looked at Bill standing there in all his bare-chested glory, puffed-up and waiting for a compliment. I thought of how he had made fun of me and said, "Dang Bill that must have been one impressive dragon in its day." Bill visibly deflated. Remembering his juvenile tricks, I twisted the knife even more, saying, "That poor old cuss looks more like a withered lizard than a dragon." Pushing a little too far, I continued, "He's all wrinkly, hairy and out of shape. Kinda sad and homely if you ask me." Bill guffawed at my caustic comments and said, "If you were only man enough to bear one of these babies!" "Man enough?" I said, "Your once manly figure is looking rather matronly these days. Put your shirt on pal, the locals don't like snakes; you'll scare them away." Bill laughed out loud, and from that day until we finished the job, in an effort to upset my sensibilities, he took every opportunity to show the dragon.
That year I learned a lot about quality, workmanship and attention to detail. I also learned to appreciate unique characters and love them for who they are. As Milan was leaving he said, "I'll be in touch when it comes time to sheet rock Steve's house." "Yeah, well about that", I said, "You don't have any tattoos do you?" Milan looked at me strangely, trying to decipher my meaning, while Laurie became out-right embarrassed. "Never mind", I said, "you need someone young, less mouthy; someone strong and willing to absorb the details." Milan was still confused, but Laurie said, "Exactly that!" and ushered Milan out the door before I could embarrass her further.
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, January 27, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
Hot Air
Earlier this week Jana asked me to drive her to St. Christopher’s. She had left her vehicle at the mission while participating in a Martin Luther King Day celebration, which involved marching two miles from the church to the Bluff Community Center. Driving east towards the mission we encountered a large flock of goats and a smaller grouping of sheep wandering the narrow roadway. As always, the animals appeared completely at ease, oblivious to the speeding traffic and seemingly without a care in the world.
“Just as it would not be Chinle without horses grazing at the intersection, it would not be Bluff without herds of sheep and goats meandering the mission road”, Jana said, shaking her head in wonder. To be sure, there are certain things that define our small town, and wooly livestock that bleat and bawl is one of them. Another is the Bluff International Balloon Festival.
Last Friday, Saturday and Sunday was the 14th annual event, and, as always, it was memorable. On Friday and Saturday the pilots, 25 in all, flying balloons with names like Basketcase, Skywalker, Breezy Rider and Levity, launched in Bluff. On Sunday, the balloons lifted off from Valley of the Gods.
As the brightly colored, hot air fueled inflatables meandered through our red rock landscape on slow currents of chilly air, I was reminded of our first festival. At that celebration we had but one balloon. The pilot, who had been invited to come test the waters, elected to put up in Valley of the Gods. A half dozen Bluff residents, hopeful the flyer would enjoy our town enough to return with his friends, tagged along. As the balloon probed the spires of the valley, hopping from one to another, the Bluff citizenry stood by. In their faces the excitement and anticipation shown brightly. Each was anxious to hear what the balloonist would say when he landed. “Fantastic, beautiful, extraordinary,” he exclaimed as he put down, echoing the emotions we all held for this rugged land. It was then we knew we might have a winner.
The following January more balloons arrived and the festival began to grow. That year as I stood next to a basket awaiting directions to climb in for my maiden voyage, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a fast moving object.
It turned out to be Fran, one of our friends from Bluff, who had decided she could wait no longer to go up. Having made that decision, she threw caution to the wind. Seeing her heading directly for me with head down and arms waiving, I sidestepped just in time to miss being bowled over as she tumbled headfirst into the basket. As she tumbled in, she shouted, “Outta’ the way, I have always wanted to go up in one of these things.”
Once my surprise subsided, I had to admit to being thoroughly impressed with the agility and determination of this sixty-something woman. Everyone agreed Fran would not and should not be dislodged, so the pilot put gas to burner and up they shot; his passenger smiling so broadly she resembled the Cheshire Cat.
Although I had to wait until the following year for my inaugural flight, I have now flown on several occasions, with a variety of pilots. Each time I marvel at the peaceful feeling that washes over me as we sail slowly over these ancient sandstone reefs with the magnificent people who fly those magnificently awkward contraptions.
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!
“Just as it would not be Chinle without horses grazing at the intersection, it would not be Bluff without herds of sheep and goats meandering the mission road”, Jana said, shaking her head in wonder. To be sure, there are certain things that define our small town, and wooly livestock that bleat and bawl is one of them. Another is the Bluff International Balloon Festival.
Last Friday, Saturday and Sunday was the 14th annual event, and, as always, it was memorable. On Friday and Saturday the pilots, 25 in all, flying balloons with names like Basketcase, Skywalker, Breezy Rider and Levity, launched in Bluff. On Sunday, the balloons lifted off from Valley of the Gods.
As the brightly colored, hot air fueled inflatables meandered through our red rock landscape on slow currents of chilly air, I was reminded of our first festival. At that celebration we had but one balloon. The pilot, who had been invited to come test the waters, elected to put up in Valley of the Gods. A half dozen Bluff residents, hopeful the flyer would enjoy our town enough to return with his friends, tagged along. As the balloon probed the spires of the valley, hopping from one to another, the Bluff citizenry stood by. In their faces the excitement and anticipation shown brightly. Each was anxious to hear what the balloonist would say when he landed. “Fantastic, beautiful, extraordinary,” he exclaimed as he put down, echoing the emotions we all held for this rugged land. It was then we knew we might have a winner.
The following January more balloons arrived and the festival began to grow. That year as I stood next to a basket awaiting directions to climb in for my maiden voyage, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a fast moving object.
It turned out to be Fran, one of our friends from Bluff, who had decided she could wait no longer to go up. Having made that decision, she threw caution to the wind. Seeing her heading directly for me with head down and arms waiving, I sidestepped just in time to miss being bowled over as she tumbled headfirst into the basket. As she tumbled in, she shouted, “Outta’ the way, I have always wanted to go up in one of these things.”
Once my surprise subsided, I had to admit to being thoroughly impressed with the agility and determination of this sixty-something woman. Everyone agreed Fran would not and should not be dislodged, so the pilot put gas to burner and up they shot; his passenger smiling so broadly she resembled the Cheshire Cat.
Although I had to wait until the following year for my inaugural flight, I have now flown on several occasions, with a variety of pilots. Each time I marvel at the peaceful feeling that washes over me as we sail slowly over these ancient sandstone reefs with the magnificent people who fly those magnificently awkward contraptions.
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, January 13, 2012
History
Over the Christmas holiday my family and I had the opportunity to drive down the Butler Wash road. My wife's twin sister Lisa and her husband Wade were visiting, McKale was out of school, Spenser and Alyssa were home from college and Grandma Washburn popped in from Monticello. The day was clear, bright and beautiful, with high wispy clouds and a slight nip in the air. It seemed the perfect opportunity to get out and enjoy the natural world. Alyssa, McKale and I took the Toyota Tundra, while everyone else piled into the big ol' king cab Chevrolet pick-up truck owned by "Uncle Wado". We drove south from Blanding to Shirttail Corner, where Highways 191 and 95 intersect. One of my first jobs, other than within the Simpson family enterprise, was working for Holly Vowell in the gas station located at this junction. It was there I decided it best to work with family.
While I reminisced about how Wayne, my boyhood buddy, and I had attempted to discover where each back road in this part of the county would take us, Alyssa drove the Tundra west through the twist, into Westwater Canyon, across the mesa to Zeke's Hole and through Cottonwood Wash. During that time Wayne and I put a lot of rough, tough miles on my Toyota 4x4 pick-up. Although we saw a lot of back country, and placed ourselves in numerous precarious predicaments, we barely scratched the surface of the huge and varied landscape. McKale asked if we were near the location where her Mormon ancestors had shot Old Posey in the rump. This led us to discuss the reasons why the last Indian uprising in San Juan County occurred and how it eventually played out. Tongue-in-cheek, I told McKale and Alyssa that their mother's side of the family had always been, and would likely always be, causing people a fiery hot and fearful pain in the hip pocket. The girls immediately came to their mother's defense, claiming to be excruciatingly aware of my personal history, and finally concluding that my ancestors must have somehow been responsible for the entire incident.
The argument went on until we pulled off the highway and onto the Butler Wash dirt track. There I changed the subject by pointing out Black Mesa rising up in the east. In the late 1960s and into the early 1970s, this was the site of a Pershing missile tracking station managed by the United States Army. The foundation of the main building was still in place. At least it was the last time I was up there, some 20 years ago. The girls made me promise to take them to the mesa sometime soon. As we traveled south, we admired the numerous and varied rumpled humps of Comb Ridge off to our right and the twisting meandering Butler Wash that runs between the road and the ridge. I reminded the girls how Navajo people view Comb Ridge as sacred, because it is considered the carcass of the Great Snake. According to Navajo legend, the snake remains frozen in time and place. To our left were the most attractive coves and buttes butting up against White Mesa. This is the western boundary of Ute tribal lands. Because of interactions through the Blue Mountain Trading Post, our family was familiar with many people living there, both presently and historically.
As a group we pulled off the road several times to let Millie, the Jackson's dog, run and to get out and touch our surroundings. You really need to dig your fingers and toes into the good earth, smell the vegetation and lean against the sandstone to get a sense of this country. In my opinion, you must see it, feel it, touch it and taste it. That's what I'm talkin' about.
It wasn't long before we came to an intersection that split the path. "Which way?" asked Alyssa. I thought of the road south that would eventually connect with Highway 163 west of Bluff and recalled a bicycle ride I took from Blanding to Bluff several years back. I remembered coming to this same spot and trying to decide which way to turn. The sand in the road had been getting progressively deeper, but back then I was tough. Undaunted, I veered to the right and free-wheeled it south, making slow progress peddling through the blow sand covering the roadway. The arduous journey allowed me plenty of time to contemplate my sanity and strength, or lack there of. It was not long before the two meager water bottles I had allowed myself for the journey were bone dry. By the time I made the intersection and pounded out the remaining four highway miles into Bluff I was exhausted and completely dehydrated. I stopped at the K&C Trading Post and purchased a tall, ice cold soft drink to quench my thirst. It was at that point I learned Pepsi does not rehydrate you when you are parched. Instead, it will likely give you a hurtful case of hiccups.
"East," I said to Alyssa, "let's go see the cleft in the earth and look upon signature rock." "Alrighty then," said the girls in unison. Those in the Chevrolet followed closely behind. We soon came to Decker Ranch and parked our vehicles near the slot canyon. As usual, Spenser headed straight for the edge of the precipice, looking for the quickest way in. Everyone else was more cautious, not wanting to plunge in and become skinned or wedged. McKale had her Nikon out taking pictures and recording our trip. Looking into that canyon caused me to consider its deep, dark, moist interior. I could see why early Native American people believed places like this were emergence centers. We walked over to the slick rock at the southeastern edge of the slot and saw several generations of signatures etched into the wall. Because of our history and heritage, we were familiar with many of the names. We discussed the triumph and tragedy they had faced and wondered if anyone would remember us and just what our legacy may be.
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!
While I reminisced about how Wayne, my boyhood buddy, and I had attempted to discover where each back road in this part of the county would take us, Alyssa drove the Tundra west through the twist, into Westwater Canyon, across the mesa to Zeke's Hole and through Cottonwood Wash. During that time Wayne and I put a lot of rough, tough miles on my Toyota 4x4 pick-up. Although we saw a lot of back country, and placed ourselves in numerous precarious predicaments, we barely scratched the surface of the huge and varied landscape. McKale asked if we were near the location where her Mormon ancestors had shot Old Posey in the rump. This led us to discuss the reasons why the last Indian uprising in San Juan County occurred and how it eventually played out. Tongue-in-cheek, I told McKale and Alyssa that their mother's side of the family had always been, and would likely always be, causing people a fiery hot and fearful pain in the hip pocket. The girls immediately came to their mother's defense, claiming to be excruciatingly aware of my personal history, and finally concluding that my ancestors must have somehow been responsible for the entire incident.
The argument went on until we pulled off the highway and onto the Butler Wash dirt track. There I changed the subject by pointing out Black Mesa rising up in the east. In the late 1960s and into the early 1970s, this was the site of a Pershing missile tracking station managed by the United States Army. The foundation of the main building was still in place. At least it was the last time I was up there, some 20 years ago. The girls made me promise to take them to the mesa sometime soon. As we traveled south, we admired the numerous and varied rumpled humps of Comb Ridge off to our right and the twisting meandering Butler Wash that runs between the road and the ridge. I reminded the girls how Navajo people view Comb Ridge as sacred, because it is considered the carcass of the Great Snake. According to Navajo legend, the snake remains frozen in time and place. To our left were the most attractive coves and buttes butting up against White Mesa. This is the western boundary of Ute tribal lands. Because of interactions through the Blue Mountain Trading Post, our family was familiar with many people living there, both presently and historically.
As a group we pulled off the road several times to let Millie, the Jackson's dog, run and to get out and touch our surroundings. You really need to dig your fingers and toes into the good earth, smell the vegetation and lean against the sandstone to get a sense of this country. In my opinion, you must see it, feel it, touch it and taste it. That's what I'm talkin' about.
It wasn't long before we came to an intersection that split the path. "Which way?" asked Alyssa. I thought of the road south that would eventually connect with Highway 163 west of Bluff and recalled a bicycle ride I took from Blanding to Bluff several years back. I remembered coming to this same spot and trying to decide which way to turn. The sand in the road had been getting progressively deeper, but back then I was tough. Undaunted, I veered to the right and free-wheeled it south, making slow progress peddling through the blow sand covering the roadway. The arduous journey allowed me plenty of time to contemplate my sanity and strength, or lack there of. It was not long before the two meager water bottles I had allowed myself for the journey were bone dry. By the time I made the intersection and pounded out the remaining four highway miles into Bluff I was exhausted and completely dehydrated. I stopped at the K&C Trading Post and purchased a tall, ice cold soft drink to quench my thirst. It was at that point I learned Pepsi does not rehydrate you when you are parched. Instead, it will likely give you a hurtful case of hiccups.
"East," I said to Alyssa, "let's go see the cleft in the earth and look upon signature rock." "Alrighty then," said the girls in unison. Those in the Chevrolet followed closely behind. We soon came to Decker Ranch and parked our vehicles near the slot canyon. As usual, Spenser headed straight for the edge of the precipice, looking for the quickest way in. Everyone else was more cautious, not wanting to plunge in and become skinned or wedged. McKale had her Nikon out taking pictures and recording our trip. Looking into that canyon caused me to consider its deep, dark, moist interior. I could see why early Native American people believed places like this were emergence centers. We walked over to the slick rock at the southeastern edge of the slot and saw several generations of signatures etched into the wall. Because of our history and heritage, we were familiar with many of the names. We discussed the triumph and tragedy they had faced and wondered if anyone would remember us and just what our legacy may be.
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, January 6, 2012
Intersections
As I have progressed along my now somewhat lengthy journey through life, I have begun to notice more and more intersections. Not just the dirt, asphalt or concrete type, but also those where ideas, concepts and people merge.
Geographically Barry and I can usually be found where U.S. Highway 191 meets Utah State Route 162, Bluff, Utah U.S.A. For many years, however, we have adhered to the philosophically that Twin Rocks Trading Post is located at the intersection of tradition and innovation. For us, this principal illustrates our fundamental belief that the best contemporary art melds traditional values with contemporary methods.
We see this in the silversmithing of master craftsman Allison Lee, whose bracelets, squash blossom necklaces, bolo ties and buckles have a clean look that is literally timeless. It is also apparent in the Navajo basketry of Elsie Holiday, who weaves designs that incorporate motifs from a variety of diverse cultures.
During the Christmas holiday Jana and I took Kira and Grange to the Yellowstone Snow Lodge. Since Grange aged out of the Santa phase, thinking that memories last longer than presents, our family has focused on experiences rather than gifts. This has proven to be a great change.
Once our term at the lodge expired, we had plans to drive to Boise, Idaho to see Bill Grange, the man for whom our son was named, and two of Jana’s old friends. As we sat at the intersection just outside of Jackson, Wyoming, debating whether to brave the heavy snow of Teton Pass or head for the comfort of home, I was strongly in favor of the route leading back to Bluff. Jana, on the other hand, was adamant we should be courageous and strike out over the mountains.
Since the kids were also split, Jana and I had a go at the game of Paper, Rock, Scissors, which I promptly lost. Consequently, with the Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken, snowplows and slippery surfaces in mind, over the snowy trail we went. As it turned out, the pass was steep and short and the valley below mild, so we were not long in bad conditions.
Once we reached Boise, we had an extraordinary visit with Bill, who is 93 years old and as active as any 60 year old I know. We also had an equally good time with Jana’s buddies at their home near McCall, Idaho. This experience reminded me that courage is often richly rewarded and that timidity and the safety and comfort of home is not where real adventure lies. As Robert Frost said:
May this be a happy and courageous new year for us all.
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!
Geographically Barry and I can usually be found where U.S. Highway 191 meets Utah State Route 162, Bluff, Utah U.S.A. For many years, however, we have adhered to the philosophically that Twin Rocks Trading Post is located at the intersection of tradition and innovation. For us, this principal illustrates our fundamental belief that the best contemporary art melds traditional values with contemporary methods.
We see this in the silversmithing of master craftsman Allison Lee, whose bracelets, squash blossom necklaces, bolo ties and buckles have a clean look that is literally timeless. It is also apparent in the Navajo basketry of Elsie Holiday, who weaves designs that incorporate motifs from a variety of diverse cultures.
During the Christmas holiday Jana and I took Kira and Grange to the Yellowstone Snow Lodge. Since Grange aged out of the Santa phase, thinking that memories last longer than presents, our family has focused on experiences rather than gifts. This has proven to be a great change.
Once our term at the lodge expired, we had plans to drive to Boise, Idaho to see Bill Grange, the man for whom our son was named, and two of Jana’s old friends. As we sat at the intersection just outside of Jackson, Wyoming, debating whether to brave the heavy snow of Teton Pass or head for the comfort of home, I was strongly in favor of the route leading back to Bluff. Jana, on the other hand, was adamant we should be courageous and strike out over the mountains.
Since the kids were also split, Jana and I had a go at the game of Paper, Rock, Scissors, which I promptly lost. Consequently, with the Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken, snowplows and slippery surfaces in mind, over the snowy trail we went. As it turned out, the pass was steep and short and the valley below mild, so we were not long in bad conditions.
Once we reached Boise, we had an extraordinary visit with Bill, who is 93 years old and as active as any 60 year old I know. We also had an equally good time with Jana’s buddies at their home near McCall, Idaho. This experience reminded me that courage is often richly rewarded and that timidity and the safety and comfort of home is not where real adventure lies. As Robert Frost said:
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
May this be a happy and courageous new year for us all.
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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