Last Friday morning I awoke from my deep slumber with a horrible start. Sitting up in bed, I realized my dear wife had just kidney punched me. Looking over at her, I briefly contemplated retribution, but, as the fog lifted, thought better of it. Instead, I asked in a bearish manner, "What was that for?" In an alarmed voice she said, "Aren't you supposed to open the cafe this morning?" Still a bit discombobulated by the rude awakening, it took me a moment to gather my wits. Laurie waited patiently as I marshaled the facts and evaluated the variables and possibilities, suddenly realizing that, yes, I was indeed supposed to open. Gaining momentum, I blurted out, "Why, am I late? Did I sleep in? What time is it anyway?" She responded, "The clock says 5:50. I thought you were supposed to be showered, shaved, dressed for success and out of here by 6:15. I know how you hate to be late." Jumping out of bed, I said, "I'm under the gun, but I will make it. Thanks Honey!" At that moment, my compact white alarm clock, which sets on the night stand next to the bed, started beeping. I picked it up, turned it off and squinted at the illuminated dial. It read 5:30 a.m. I looked over at the clock my wife was counting on, which was resting on the chest-of-drawers. It read 5:52 a.m. "Have you been messing with the clocks again," I asked. "Maybe," Laurie wavered as she rolled from the quilted flat-top and hustled into the safety of the girl's bathroom.
Rumbling and grumbling to myself, I stumbled downstairs to the "man cave" bathroom. I knew for a fact that it was Laurie's funky fixation with altering the future that had caused me such a pain in the . . . lower back. Laurie hates to be late as much as I, she just deals with it differently. My wife has this belief that she can realign time by setting the house clocks forward 10, 12 or even 20 minutes. Each clock deals with specific time constraints, and the dials are modified accordingly. I learned long ago never to count on any clock under her control. I mostly rely on my well tuned inner timepiece and the little white alarm. The trick is to keep my back-up out of Laurie's hands. My wife's system allows her to be on time even when she's late, but it does not work for me.
After cleaning up, I felt better about things and was almost ready to forget that sucker punch Laurie had dealt me and forgive her obsession with time. As I combed my still wet hair, I heard the upstairs shower spring to life and knew Laurie was taking her turn at the well. Waiting a few minutes to let her settle in and begin enjoying the warm shower, I got a grip on the hot water faucets in both the sink and the shower. In one synchronized, swiftly executed movement I redirected the heated water from the upstairs bathroom to the man cave. To her credit, she did not scream out loud. I did, however, discern a quick-step shuffle from the tub overhead. "Take a little time to enjoy a cold shower," I said out loud, and continued, "Maybe that will stimulate your memory." When I went upstairs, Laurie did not say a word about her run-in with the icy cold mist or let on that she had heard my comments. As I left the house, she kissed me sweetly and said, "Drive safely, and call me when you arrive."
Driving south, I began feeling guilty about my despicable actions. When I arrived on the Bluff bench, I looked to the east, where, at that time of day, there is generally an attractive sunrise making its assault on the horizon. I hoped that might make me feel better and ease my guilt. Looking past Recapture Ridge, I saw a frosty silver glow beginning to creep up the northern flanks of Sleeping Ute Mountain. Above the knees of the stretched-out Weeminuche, the upper atmosphere was the color of a deep blue sapphire. There was cloud cover that looked as if some giant scholar had tipped over a massive ink bottle; an irregular dark black stain smudging the horizon, a Rorschach test resembling an ominous owl. High above the Ute's moccasins was a rip of moon, a "cat claw" sliver of pure gold. The scene was inauspiciously impressive, and the ink cloud owl and cat claw moon just made me feel worse. These were surely signs that I had been wrong, and that an apology must be made, sooner rather than later.
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, February 24, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
White Folks Sweat
It was a characteristically slow February afternoon at Twin Rocks Trading Post. Outside black clouds skittered across the mesa and cascaded over the cliffs. Creeping into the valley below, the dark, fractured mist discharged a flurry of meager snowflakes that disappeared as they contacted the red earth. Inside the store Priscilla, Barry and I were warm and dry.
Tourists, the lifeblood of the post, do not often visit our small community during the winter months, so we are required to invent activities to keep ourselves engaged during the slack periods. On this particular day, Barry and I were taking great pains to evaluate a large black and blue contusion on Priscilla’s forehead.
The object of our concern, which was located immediately north of her nose, had been acquired during the great sheeping incident of 2012, wherein Priscilla struck her head on the metal corral when the family flock stampeded during breakfast. The bruise had caused us to question whether Priscilla would survive the next 48 hours. Our primary concern, as anybody who knows us will surely guess, was whether we might lose our trusty sidekick of over 20 years, and, if so, how we might replace her. Like the Lone Ranger contemplating the loss of Tonto, we were gravely concerned.
Just as Barry and I were wrapping up our examination, and concluding the bruise was not lethal, the Kokopelli doors swung open. Preceded by a blast of frigid air, a thirty-something male, a thirty-something female and a teenage boy drifted in. The trio, as unusual as they were unexpected, did not seem to notice the cold.
The man was tall and lean, dressed in a thin t-shirt, jogging pants and Italian summer slippers over white socks. The woman, who was of medium height and also relatively thin, sported a shocking crop of stoplight red hair which stuck out in all directions and prevented me from noticing anything else about her. The teenager looked like he had walked right out of the pages of a Japanese comic book.
“Where ya’ from,” I asked, transfixed by the woman’s mane and fearful I might be staring. “I’m from Salt Lake City, she’s from Australia and he’s from Japan,” the man replied. That explained why the boy looked like a manga character, but the red hair could not be so easily rationalized.
After a tense silence, while he seemed to ponder my interest in the woman’s hair, the man stepped in closely and almost whispered, “Does anybody around here do sweats?” Since I have been in the tourist industry most of my life, I instinctively realized he wanted to know if any of the indigenous people living in Bluff allowed outsiders into their sweat lodge.
As with many, if not most, of the Native American tribes, the Navajo engage in ritual cleansing. This is typically done in a male hogan using hot rocks, steam and herbs. The warm, dark environment inside the earthen hogan is viewed by Navajo people as the womb of Mother Earth. It is therefore a deeply sacred place.
“Priscilla, do you know anybody who does sweats for white folks,” I asked. “I don’t want white folks sweat,” the man indignantly shot back, “I want the real thing. I have done several traditional sweats.” Trying to redeem me, Priscilla said, “Jenelia’s husband does.” “Go next door to Twin Rocks Cafe and ask for Jenelia,” I instructed the man. Taking note of his milky white complexion, I could not stop myself from adding, “Just don’t tell her you’re white.”
Glancing at Priscilla, I noticed she was slowly backing away from the jewelry counter. As she unconsciously rubbed her contusion, I thought she might be wondering whether I would soon acquire a bruise of my own, and whether she might get a second bump in the ensuing scuffle.
After the trio exited the store Priscilla offered to sweat the sarcasm out of me. I inquired whether that would be the traditional or the white sweat. I informed her I would only stand for the real thing. She went to Barry’s office refrigerator and got me a Coca Cola.
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!
Tourists, the lifeblood of the post, do not often visit our small community during the winter months, so we are required to invent activities to keep ourselves engaged during the slack periods. On this particular day, Barry and I were taking great pains to evaluate a large black and blue contusion on Priscilla’s forehead.
The object of our concern, which was located immediately north of her nose, had been acquired during the great sheeping incident of 2012, wherein Priscilla struck her head on the metal corral when the family flock stampeded during breakfast. The bruise had caused us to question whether Priscilla would survive the next 48 hours. Our primary concern, as anybody who knows us will surely guess, was whether we might lose our trusty sidekick of over 20 years, and, if so, how we might replace her. Like the Lone Ranger contemplating the loss of Tonto, we were gravely concerned.
Just as Barry and I were wrapping up our examination, and concluding the bruise was not lethal, the Kokopelli doors swung open. Preceded by a blast of frigid air, a thirty-something male, a thirty-something female and a teenage boy drifted in. The trio, as unusual as they were unexpected, did not seem to notice the cold.
The man was tall and lean, dressed in a thin t-shirt, jogging pants and Italian summer slippers over white socks. The woman, who was of medium height and also relatively thin, sported a shocking crop of stoplight red hair which stuck out in all directions and prevented me from noticing anything else about her. The teenager looked like he had walked right out of the pages of a Japanese comic book.
“Where ya’ from,” I asked, transfixed by the woman’s mane and fearful I might be staring. “I’m from Salt Lake City, she’s from Australia and he’s from Japan,” the man replied. That explained why the boy looked like a manga character, but the red hair could not be so easily rationalized.
After a tense silence, while he seemed to ponder my interest in the woman’s hair, the man stepped in closely and almost whispered, “Does anybody around here do sweats?” Since I have been in the tourist industry most of my life, I instinctively realized he wanted to know if any of the indigenous people living in Bluff allowed outsiders into their sweat lodge.
As with many, if not most, of the Native American tribes, the Navajo engage in ritual cleansing. This is typically done in a male hogan using hot rocks, steam and herbs. The warm, dark environment inside the earthen hogan is viewed by Navajo people as the womb of Mother Earth. It is therefore a deeply sacred place.
“Priscilla, do you know anybody who does sweats for white folks,” I asked. “I don’t want white folks sweat,” the man indignantly shot back, “I want the real thing. I have done several traditional sweats.” Trying to redeem me, Priscilla said, “Jenelia’s husband does.” “Go next door to Twin Rocks Cafe and ask for Jenelia,” I instructed the man. Taking note of his milky white complexion, I could not stop myself from adding, “Just don’t tell her you’re white.”
Glancing at Priscilla, I noticed she was slowly backing away from the jewelry counter. As she unconsciously rubbed her contusion, I thought she might be wondering whether I would soon acquire a bruise of my own, and whether she might get a second bump in the ensuing scuffle.
After the trio exited the store Priscilla offered to sweat the sarcasm out of me. I inquired whether that would be the traditional or the white sweat. I informed her I would only stand for the real thing. She went to Barry’s office refrigerator and got me a Coca Cola.
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, February 10, 2012
A Blush and a Beam
It was a gorgeous Thursday evening in Bluff. I was posted at the cafe, and found myself staring west out the plate glass windows. The air outside was cold and clear, and I could see a young couple walking up the road in my direction. Even though they were two blocks away I could tell by their posture and the steam of their breath they were chilled. Highlighting the advancing duo was the makings of a spectacular sunset. The high level cirrus clouds created by the north wind were brushed across the horizon and ablaze with refracted light from the setting sun. Toss in textures of gnarled and twisted cottonwood trees and the vibrant orange glow of surrounding cliff faces and we had the makings of a memorable picture postcard.
The server on staff that evening walked up to me, texting on her cell phone as she came. Momentarily looking up to see what I was looking at, she noticed the advancing couple. "The first customers of the evening?" she asked. Closely inspecting her while she thumbed the phone, I could not help thinking what an abbreviated lifestyle these kids lead, so I asked, "Did you even see that magnificent sunset?" The young woman looked up from her handset, spent a full three seconds eying the spectacular event and said, "Oh yeah, pretty." "That's it?" I blustered, "That's all you can muster?" The waitress gazed at me strangely and took second look outside, to see if she had missed something. Her expression confirmed that, yes, that was indeed, it, nothing had been overlooked. "You know," I said, "not so very long ago a sunset like that might have caused the local tribes a great deal of anxiety. They may have seen it as foretelling an ominous event." My words had double meaning. Our staff has been warned that electronic devices are barely tolerated in this workplace, and the abuse of cell phone privileges was ill-advised.
My young employee either did not catch my double meaning or consciously chose to ignore the metaphor, because she maintained her digital conversation. Stopping only briefly, she inquired, "Ominous, how?" I told the server the Sun and the Moon were once considered powerful deities, and the earth-surface people paid close attention to their subtle, and not so subtle, actions. Those people were in-tune with the natural world, and respected visually stimulating warnings from those in control of their agrarian world. I told her that if a war party, a trip or an event was planned and a sunset like that occurred, the people would reconsider their intentions or, possibly, suffer the consequences. More seriously, if an eclipse occurred the chances of a catastrophic event might be expected if one did not duck and cover for several days.
Ceasing to text for a moment, the waitress looked at me to see if I was serious and then looked out at the fading sunset's dying embers. As the young couple enter the cafe, the server slipped the phone into her pocket, picked up two menus and, before delivering them, said to me, " I guess we all now understand the science behind the event, and that the myth is just a bunch of nonsense." "Yeah, well," I said, "don't come crying to me when the god of thunder throws a lightning bolt down on your head, frying your bacon. Overlook the warning, suffer the consequences." The waitress ignored me the rest of the night. After closing the cafe, I hopped in my car and navigated up Cow Canyon. The nearly full moon was brilliant; lighting the monuments, mesas and sparse vegetation in a most spectacular manner. As I drove north, I felt cheered by the luminescence surrounding me.
The next morning my work was centered at the trading post. When I arrived at the store, I found Steve camped at the computer behind the cash register, shaking his head in a frustrated manner. He was logged onto the news of the day. Thinking back to that ominous sunset, I asked, "Uh oh, did something bad happen?" "Nothing more than an indecisive Republican party and a whole lot of negative campaigning," he replied. "Oh good," I said, "last night's sunset and the overwhelming moon-glow had me worried." " I saw that," said Steve, "I just figured the Sun and Moon were flattered by Elsie's latest basket." "What are you talking about?" I asked. Steve pursed his lips and nodded to the right." My eyes followed, resting upon one of the most spectacular baskets I had seen in quite some time. "Elsie brought that in just before sundown," he said. Continuing on, he told me, "That basket was made to compliment Sun and Moon, and I believe it did." "I believe you're right." I said. "That was not an ominous sunset and moon rise at all, that was a blush and a beam."
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, February 3, 2012
Long Walks
At Twin Rocks Trading Post, the Long Walk is often a topic of intense discussion. Many visitors to the store want to know what led to the removal of Navajo people from their traditional lands. Others wish to understand what caused comments like those of Col. Edward R. S. Canby, who, in the early 1860s, concluded, “[R]ecent occurrences in Navajo country have so demoralized and broken up the nation that there is no choice between their absolute extermination or removal and colonization at points so remote . . . as to isolate them entirely from the inhabitants of the Territory. Aside from all considerations of humanity, the extermination of such a people will be the work of greatest difficulty.”
Canby’s extraordinary comments, and the resulting Long Walk, were caused by persistent difficulties between the Navajo people and the federal government. As a result of this conflict, in 1863 the Navajo were ordered to surrender themselves into the custody of the United States Army. When none did, Kit Carson was asked to enter Navajo country and forcibly persuade them to come in. In so doing, Carson engaged in a scorched earth campaign intended to starve them into submission. He succeeded; and in January of 1864 thousands of Navajo men, women and children gave themselves up and were escorted from their ancestral homeland to Bosque Redondo, a wretched location situated on the Pecos River in northern New Mexico, during the time of which, hundreds died.
The government’s goal was to turn its Navajo internees into farmers, but the experiment failed miserably. Water, food and fire wood were scarce; the river often washed out their irrigation systems; and crops repeatedly failed. Finally, after four years of disease, malnutrition and abuse, in June of 1868 the Navajo people imprisoned at the Bosque were released and allowed to return home. The occurrence left such a great scar on the psyche of these people that even today traditional Navajo elders refer to Bosque Redondo as Hwe’eldi, the place of great suffering.
In the spring of 1991, in the midst of my own great suffering, I decided I needed to walk. Realizing I could not go far and maintain the continuity of our business, I decided to explore Cottonwood Wash, which is but a stone’s throw from the back door of the house above the trading post. Sunday was my day off, so that became the time for discovery.
My plan was to start at the mouth of the canyon, where it empties into Bluff, and go as far as possible before returning in the evening. The first time I made it only a couple miles. Scrambling up talus slope, poking into nooks and crannies, admiring petroglyphs and peering into abandoned dwellings took longer than I had anticipated.
The following Sunday, I began where I left off, continuing this pattern for several weeks. A local archaeologist had once informed me that, at the time they abandoned this land, the Anasazi left behind a virtual “hardware store” of pottery, tools, clothing and other daily use items, so I wanted to see what he meant. By the time I began my journey, however, many centuries had passed and the shelves had been picked clean. The pictorial ledgers scribbled on sandstone walls and the masonry structures built into natural alcoves were, however, very much intact and I had no need or desire to own the timeworn inventory that had been abandoned all those millennia before I arrived. The only thing I wished to acquire during these walks was peace of mind.
On one particular outing I found myself in the back of a brushy, wildly overgrown side canyon, wondering how I would extract myself without losing additional patches of cloth and skin. As I glanced about, I noticed three or four cysts and what looked like small tepees carved into the floor of a shallow cave. When I mentioned this to another local archaeologist, he informed me the structures were 11,000 years old. Since he had had one too many beers at the time of our discussion, I assumed he had also added one too many zeros to his occupational assumption. His evaluation was, however, correct. The site was attributable to the Paleo Indians and was indeed one of the oldest in the area.
As I explored the walls of these ancient dwellings, listening for echoes of long dead occupiers, watching the sun travel its linear course across the turquoise sky and imagining what it was like to live in these mud and stone enclosures, I began to understand why the Navajo people incarcerated at the Hwe’eldi longed to return to their mysterious red rock home. I was discovering that this wild and untamed land envelopes and enchants you, leaving you unable to forget its stark, rugged beauty and unable to sever your ties to it.
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!
Canby’s extraordinary comments, and the resulting Long Walk, were caused by persistent difficulties between the Navajo people and the federal government. As a result of this conflict, in 1863 the Navajo were ordered to surrender themselves into the custody of the United States Army. When none did, Kit Carson was asked to enter Navajo country and forcibly persuade them to come in. In so doing, Carson engaged in a scorched earth campaign intended to starve them into submission. He succeeded; and in January of 1864 thousands of Navajo men, women and children gave themselves up and were escorted from their ancestral homeland to Bosque Redondo, a wretched location situated on the Pecos River in northern New Mexico, during the time of which, hundreds died.
The government’s goal was to turn its Navajo internees into farmers, but the experiment failed miserably. Water, food and fire wood were scarce; the river often washed out their irrigation systems; and crops repeatedly failed. Finally, after four years of disease, malnutrition and abuse, in June of 1868 the Navajo people imprisoned at the Bosque were released and allowed to return home. The occurrence left such a great scar on the psyche of these people that even today traditional Navajo elders refer to Bosque Redondo as Hwe’eldi, the place of great suffering.
In the spring of 1991, in the midst of my own great suffering, I decided I needed to walk. Realizing I could not go far and maintain the continuity of our business, I decided to explore Cottonwood Wash, which is but a stone’s throw from the back door of the house above the trading post. Sunday was my day off, so that became the time for discovery.
My plan was to start at the mouth of the canyon, where it empties into Bluff, and go as far as possible before returning in the evening. The first time I made it only a couple miles. Scrambling up talus slope, poking into nooks and crannies, admiring petroglyphs and peering into abandoned dwellings took longer than I had anticipated.
The following Sunday, I began where I left off, continuing this pattern for several weeks. A local archaeologist had once informed me that, at the time they abandoned this land, the Anasazi left behind a virtual “hardware store” of pottery, tools, clothing and other daily use items, so I wanted to see what he meant. By the time I began my journey, however, many centuries had passed and the shelves had been picked clean. The pictorial ledgers scribbled on sandstone walls and the masonry structures built into natural alcoves were, however, very much intact and I had no need or desire to own the timeworn inventory that had been abandoned all those millennia before I arrived. The only thing I wished to acquire during these walks was peace of mind.
On one particular outing I found myself in the back of a brushy, wildly overgrown side canyon, wondering how I would extract myself without losing additional patches of cloth and skin. As I glanced about, I noticed three or four cysts and what looked like small tepees carved into the floor of a shallow cave. When I mentioned this to another local archaeologist, he informed me the structures were 11,000 years old. Since he had had one too many beers at the time of our discussion, I assumed he had also added one too many zeros to his occupational assumption. His evaluation was, however, correct. The site was attributable to the Paleo Indians and was indeed one of the oldest in the area.
As I explored the walls of these ancient dwellings, listening for echoes of long dead occupiers, watching the sun travel its linear course across the turquoise sky and imagining what it was like to live in these mud and stone enclosures, I began to understand why the Navajo people incarcerated at the Hwe’eldi longed to return to their mysterious red rock home. I was discovering that this wild and untamed land envelopes and enchants you, leaving you unable to forget its stark, rugged beauty and unable to sever your ties to it.
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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