I Am a River

It was a beautiful spring evening, and I had just finished a full shift of buying and selling turquoise jewelry, Navajo rug, baskets, sand paintings and a variety of other art items typically stocked at Twin Rocks Trading Post. Since it was Wednesday, Grange would have Boy Scouts later in the day and my familial troop would not be home for hours.

Gooseneck

As I secured the Kokopelli doors and wondered how to occupy my time until the balance of the Simpson family arrived back in Bluff, I decided to drive out to Goosenecks State Park. I had not been there in some time, and I was missing the land. Climbing into the blue Subaru, I noticed the brilliant sun sinking low in the west and felt its warmth on the back of my neck. The clouds were beginning to glow a soft pink, and it was sure to be a stunning evening.

Driving west at a brisk pace, I sliced through the massive cut where Highway 163 pierces Comb Ridge, the sandstone monocline that runs almost 120 miles through Northern Arizona and southeastern Utah. Barry informs me Comb Ridge is believed by the Navajo people to be the Great Snake. Priscilla, however, says the Navajo term for it is “tseyikaan”, which roughly translates as, “The rock that forms a narrow edge”.

Dropping into Comb Wash and quickly ascending Lime Ridge, I saw Monument Valley unfolding in the distance. Out there in wind scraped canyons lay the remains of demons destroyed by the Hero Twins, Monster Slayer and Born for Water. These twins, born of an illicit affair between the Sun and Changing Woman, saved the people from hideous creatures spawned when Navajo men and women became disenchanted with each other, separated and engaged in unspeakable acts.

A few miles more and I found myself at the Goosenecks. This small and relatively unknown state park overlooks a profound gash in the earth caused by the meandering San Juan River. Millions and millions of years ago, the Monument Upwarp caused the river to cut deep meanders into a landscape that was being driven slowly but persistently upward. These curving, wandering incisions are over 1,000 feet deep and expose layer upon layer of geologic history.

As darkness began to push in around me, my eyes followed the twists and turns of the river as it snaked westerly towards the ridge where the sun had only recently dwelled. Standing on this high overlook viewing the river as it bent back and forth with no apparent script, I was reminded that most of my days at Twin Rocks Trading Post are similar in nature. Indeed, meandering might be the best way to describe them.

Even when I arrive at work with fierce determination to stay focused on specific tasks, something always moves me in an unintended direction. A telephone call, a visit by a long absent customer, a reminder that I have left a task unattended or a question submitted through the internet by some previously unknown individual, and I am catapulted in a new direction. By the end of the day I am generally at a completely unexpected place, one wholly unrelated to the journey I originally charted.

As I navigated the car towards Bluff, I realized my life is like the San Juan; my course determined by forces beyond my control and my fate in the hands of a higher, incomprehensibly capricious power. I am a river.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

Barry Simpson likes

Twin Rocks Trading Post

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!

Worked!

I winced noticeably as Etta and Jackson Rock's gray Dodge pick up truck pulled into the graveled parking lot. It's not that I dislike those crazy kids; I love them. The problem is that when Etta struggles out of the truck, hobbles up the front steps and limps across our threshold, it always costs us money. Etta, with the help of Jackson, is one of the last of the pitch pot artists, and Etta is the couple's front man . . . (woman). Because of her painful stride, beautiful smile and embracing demeanor, Etta is hard to turn down. We have more pitch pots in the trading post than we have common sense. Neither Steve nor I can turn Etta away. This time, however, things were going to be different. Steve and I quickly discussed the situation, enough pitch pots were, surely, enough!

Video of Etta Rock & Priscilla Sagg Interpreting

When Etta and Jackson arrived, Danny and I were in the rug room recording product videos for our weekly e-mailer. Steve was behind the counter writing descriptions on the computer and Priscilla was cleaning the glass, cussing us all for leaving sticky fingerprints. I was the first to recognize trouble and stood up from behind our props to make sure it really was the Rocks. I saw that it was, indeed "the most successful sales woman ever to walk the streets of Bluff." "Priscilla," I nearly shouted, "go tell Etta we are broke and can't afford her pot. If she makes it up the steps we are done for." Priscilla looked up from a particularly nasty smudge, gazed outside, shook her head in the negative, and said, "Don't make me the meanie, this is your store!"

I looked to Danny, but realized he had never even met Etta. By now Etta was up the steps and pressing on the Kokopelli doors. I hurriedly did an inventory of her artwork and told Steve, "We have at least a dozen pitch pots and really don't need more right now." Steve nodded in agreement and raised his hand in an I'll take care of this manner. Etta pushed her way in and crossed the threshold, emphasizing her effort with a small gasp. Steve declared forcefully, "Etta we cannot buy your pot today, we already have too many." Etta did not even break stride. Instead she walked right up to Steve, cooed softly in Navajo, placed her package on the counter and began unwrapping the plastic bags embracing her offering.

Steve looked to Priscilla for help. Priscilla stepped forward, and in Navajo, explained our predicament to Etta. She laughed merrily, reached into the the wrappings and produced her magical pitched basket. She placed it on the counter and turned her big brown eyes on Steve who began to squirm. Steve, seeming to have an epiphany, turned to me and said, "Maybe we can get Etta to give us an on-camera interview." Priscilla interpreted, and Etta informed us that she would be happy to, but it would cost us. "Here it comes," I groaned to myself. Steve then asked Priscilla to ask Etta if she would give us an interview if we bought the pot. "Of course!" was her reply.

Thirty-two minutes later we had a marvelous interview with this grand old lady of the weaving arts. Even I was happy with the deal. As Etta was wrapping up the interview, she mentioned how the woman who buys her pots at the Kayenta Holiday Inn is happy to buy her lunch when they are through bartering. Realizing I had been had, I reached into the till, removed a twenty, handed it to Etta and sent her over to Twin Rocks Cafe. After Etta left the building l turned to Steve and said, "The next time that woman shows up, we are barring the door; she is not getting in here again!" "Agreed." said Steve. "Yeah right!" chortled Priscilla.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

Barry Simpson likes

Twin Rocks Trading Post

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!

Feelin' the Blues

So there I was, standin’ behind the counter of Twin Rocks Trading Post, just as I have been standin’ behind the counter for the past 22 years. Outside the weather had changed from blustery cold to mildly warm, and I was havin’ a bit of spring fever. It could have been cabin fever, but I am not qualified to distinguish between the two, so, because it was the first thing that came to mind, I settled on the former rather than the latter. Momma Rose has always advised me to trust my first impressions, so that was my theory and I was stickin’ to it.

1960's Blue Gem Necklace (#03)

Priscilla was vacuuming dried mud from the carpet and shaking out the Navajo rugs. Barry was sequestered in his office peering into a magnifying glass, trying to solve the mystery of the chunk necklace. Someone had left this strand of turquoise beads with us weeks ago, and his job was to determine its mine of origin. Was it Orvil Jack, King’s Manassa, Blue Gem or any one of a number of other possibilities? He did not know. He was havin’ a devil of a time, and the devil himself would have been proud of the string of superlatives emanating from his desk as the investigation continued. I should have been removin’ fingerprints from the display cases, but I had lost my motivation and was, in any case, far more interested in what Barry would say next.

Aside from my vernal virus, I was feelin’ additionally unsettled because I had just read the facebook entry of one of our “friends”. We had recently gotten ourselves up on the site, and people were beginning to comment. This particular individual had posted a note about our weekly commentary, which said, “If you want armchair adventures and great red rock philosophy check out the Trading Post Newsletters written with wit, some wisdom and love by the proprietors of Twin Rocks . . . almost as good as an on-site visit . . .”

While there was much to be proud of in the posting, I was in a funk about the “some wisdom” part. I realized this was a half full philosophy, but I could not get past that “half empty” feelin’. For as long as I can remember, Barry and I have thought of ourselves as the “Sages of San Juan County, the Four Corners, Southern Utah and the Colorado Plateau.” Forget Albert R. Lyman, Buckley Jensen, Oliver Harris and even Gary “The Caveman” Torres, we were sure these others could not hold the proverbial candle to our inordinatly high wattage. All of the sudden there I was, confronted with the cold, hard reality of our situation. We were not smart, we are only occasionally wise, and that was likely accidental or coincidental.

After a time I drifted into Barry’s office to discuss my funk. Handing me the mystery beads, Barry said, look at these and tell me what you think. Discharging a few superlatives of my own, I began rubbing the beads as I poured out my concerns. I have always been told, and correspondingly told our tourist visitors, turquoise has magical, curative powers. Like most people who think too highly of themselves, however, I was skeptical of all things mystical.

To my surprise, after rubbing the necklace a while I began to feel better, as though the stones were absorbing my blueness. It was then that I remembered the advice of the shaggy man with the raspberry beret who had visited the store the prior day. “A little something is better than all of nothing,” he had said as he admitted strict budgetary constraints and purchased a copy of the book Turquoise Unearthed rather than a bracelet, bolo tie or concho belt.

So maybe the shaggy man was right, maybe it is better to have some wisdom than none at all. When I announced my conclusions to Priscilla, who had been standing nearby listening to the conversation between Barry and me, she picked up a glass I had left on the counter, turned it upside down and said, “Gee, look at that, it’s empty.”

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

Barry Simpson likes

Twin Rocks Trading Post

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!

I Yam What I Yam

Last Wednesday morning I sat on the end of our bed pulling on warm woolen socks. Outside the northwest wind howled, causing the gnarly branches of our locust tree to scrape against the window pane. Thinking of the frigid morning, I shuddered and reached for the blue sweater on the dresser in front of me. Pulling it over my head, I emerged from the top end and noticed an odd glow spilling into the room through the window on my right. Looking to the east, I saw the top half of the sun resting on the horizon. Because of the red dirt salting the air it looked grungy, and its light was unattractive. As I sat there taking in the view, Laurie walked into the room and asked what I was staring at. "The scuzzy sunrise," I said, pursing my lips and nodding in that direction.

Navajo Male/Female Pictorial Basket - Alicia Nelson (#146)

Laurie ignored the aurora aura, shook her head in a cynical manner and said, "You have to stop leading with your lips, it is unbecoming." Looking at the sunrise then back to my wife, I decided on abstinance, saying, "I don't think I can change that. I yam what I yam and that's all what I yam." "Who you are not," came McKale's impertinent reply from the nearby bathroom, "is Popeye the Sailor Man!" It is a sure bet my daughter will back her mother, no matter what the controversy. There was no point in discussing the matter further, so I reached for my shoes and, emulating Popeye's boat whistle ending, said, "Toot, toot!"

The icy breath of spring and the sandblasted sunrise had caused me to start the day on the wrong foot. After dropping McKale off at school, I drove south on U.S. Highway 191 toward my hometown and modern day work place. As I traveled, the wind buffeted my car and the blowing sand punished the windshield and scratched the paint. Being pestered and pelted in such a manner started me rethinking the earlier interaction with my wife and child. I began to wonder just what it was that made me who I yam and how it might effect those around me. I wondered if my comments were the product of my upbringing, environment or experience.

Fond memories are the reason I purse my lips, point with them and nod my head in the direction indicated. My work at the trading post introduced me to people like Old Joe Belitso and Espie Jones. Both were well practiced in the art of oral indication, as were Archie Yazzie, Yazzie Rock and Hite Chee. Although they are all long gone, these friends are still affectionately remembered. I learned from these "Hastooi" that It was considered impolite to point with your finger, but completely acceptable to do so with your lips. It just felt right to adopt their less harsh manner of indicating direction, so I did. I suspect doing so will remain a part of who I yam for a very long time. Although I am may not be Popeye, I yam, for good reason, what I yam.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

Barry Simpson likes

Twin Rocks Trading Post

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!

Water and Power

The other day I was at Twin Rocks Cafe visiting with Tara, one of our Navajo servers. Tara is intelligent, and I like to discuss Native American issues with her. We often joke about how the “white folks” treat “us Navajos” so badly. As we talked, Tara’s cousin sister came by to discuss a matter of great importance, so I excused myself and went off to find something else to occupy my time. As I walked away, I heard the visitor ask, “Do you have water and power?”

Drilling for artesion water about 1897.

These days, the answer to such questions is quite often “yes.” Although it seems impossible to conceive, when Twin Rocks Trading Post opened in 1989, many, if not most, of the people living on the Utah strip of the Navajo Reservation did not have running water or power to their homes. As a result, the local Navajo people frequently hauled water in 55 gallon drums.

Not 75 feet from the trading post is an artesian water well that flowed freely and openly when Craig, Barry and I were kids running barefoot along the sun-baked, goathead sticker infested, rock-strewn, dirt streets of Bluff, Utah. This particular well had a large ninety degree metal elbow protruding about 12 inches off the ground which briskly and perpetually poured out the most deliciously cool, clear water imaginable. After any climbing, running, dirt clod throwing or exploring expedition, we always found ourselves at the well, gulping what seemed like gallons of water.

In those days Navajo people from this area drove their pneumatic tired buckboard wagons or old pick up trucks into Bluff to fill barrels with the delicious water. The loads were then transported home to provide for families and livestock.

When the trading post was established, this tradition was still very much alive. Almost every day there were Navajo men and women in Ford, Chevy and Dodge trucks lined up to obtain their weekly supply of water. As soon as one vehicle would leave, another would replace it, in what seemed like a never-ending cycle of re-hydration. By that time, however, the well had been contained. Instead of the metal elbow, a faucet had been installed and the precious water was no longer allowed to run freely.

Back then, one of my favorite pastimes was meandering out to talk with the Navajo people who had come to the well. I enjoyed seeing the old turquoise jewelry they wore; cluster bracelets, concho belts, necklaces and brooches of a quality not often seen today. To me, these individuals were living symbols of a rapidly changing world. In most places in the United States, they would have been considered obsolete, but not Bluff. Here they were accepted as part of the mainstream, an every day experience.

Over the intervening years, infrastructure has come to the Reservation, and it is more common for Navajo people to have both water and electricity to their homes. While there are times I long for the old days when the water flowed freely from the well and Navajo people came in their Levis, western shirts, velveteen blouses, silk skirts and silver jewelry to secure water. I am aware my nostalgia may be misplaced, and that I, like those older Navajo people, I may be at risk of becoming an anachronism.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

Barry Simpson likes

Twin Rocks Trading Post

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!