Ants and Stink Bugs

The first world of the Navajo was dark like black wool and was inhabited by insect people, including ants, beetles and spiders.  It is believed that humans are descended from these original creatures.  As Kira and I ran down a red dirt road early this morning, I could not help thinking of that traditional story.

Kira Simpson

Kira is back to her summer exercise schedule, which means I am on the same plan.  For the past two years she has been a member of the 200 Club.  This dictates a strict agenda of daily outings comprising 200 miles of running during the summer break.  The goal is to build a strong foundation for next fall’s high school cross country season.  Although the 200 Club involves a rigorous training regime, Kira seems intent on getting an extra margin, and is shooting for 300 miles.  We have, therefore, already extended our excursions to five or six miles, with the goal of reaching ten or twelve before school reconvenes.

Typically we are up before the sun so we can beat the blazing heat.  Kira does not talk much while we are on the trail, so I have plenty of time to ponder the numerous questions that confound me.  Questions like, “Is there really a parallel universe?”, “Does the United States Supreme Court actually follow the law?” and “Why does Jana buy organic peanut butter when she knows I love Skippy Super Chunk?”  The latter being the most important, the most pressing and the most confusing issue.

The prior evening brought a sprinkling of rain, so the path we trod was marked with evidence of small rivulets created by the brief storm.  In the early morning hours, the desert insects were enjoying the cool earth as much as Kira and I, so an army of ants and stink bugs scurried across our trail, on their way to who knows where.  Acknowledging the Navajo legend, I was careful not to step on these creatures while running alongside Kira.  Certainly I have no desire to crush one or more of Priscilla’s distant cousins.

Recently, I have become fascinated by the markedly different response these insects have to our passing, and how certain traits may have carried over from the first world.  For example, when our footfalls threaten a stink bug, it terminates its travels and defiantly raises its hind quarters.  Intent on completing their projects, however, and seemingly unconcerned with our presence, the ants just keep scrambling.  Like many humans, neither ants nor beetles seems to appreciate the larger forces influencing their destiny.

It reminds me of the tale of two ants on the golf course.  The story goes something like this:  A man was playing a round of golf, he swung, missed the ball and dug up a big chunk of grass and dirt.  He recalibrated, took another swing and missed again, dredging up yet another clump of turf.  Just then two ants climbed on the ball, saying, "Let's get up here before we get killed!"

We can learn a lot from the insects.  I wonder if they have any guidance on peanut butter.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry and The Team

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Adventures in Space and Time

It must have been space science week here at Twin Rocks Trading Post, because we were visited by several people associated with that particular discipline.  My first encounter was with an elderly couple who wandered into the store.  As soon as they walked through the Kokopelli doors, the woman veered away from her partner and began cruising on her own.  Because of his jaunty attitude, the man immediately caught my attention.  He was seventy-something years of age with a full head of snowy white hair.  Perched low on his cherry-like nose was a pair of 1970s era, over-sized, rectangular eye glasses.  Sparkling mischievously, his bright blue eyes stared out over the silver wire rims.  The man strolled around the store with his hands stuffed into his hefty jeans pockets and began making pointed inquiries.

Navajo Sky People Story Basket - Peggy Black (#353)

First off, the old codger turned to me and questioned, "You live here?  Is this where you're from?"  "Born and raised," I replied with pride.  "Humph," he grumped, "It looks like a pile of rubble, rocks, sharp sticks and such."  Deciding not to bite on his bothersome bait, I said, "It is, that's why I like it."  "Humph," was his surly response.  Next he queried, "Is this stuff made by real Indians?"  "All right", I said, joking with the man, "so far you have insulted my home and business.  If you start in on my family, you are in for a brouhaha.  Why you wanna' be like that?"  Both people busted out laughing, and the woman said, "He's messing with you.  That's his curmudgeon character.  He was testing your sense of humor."  "Lucky for you it was me he picked to pester", I laughed.  I informed him there are several people in town who would have slapped a knot on his noodle after the first unkind comment.  "A kidney punch would have been the least of your worries," I told him.

The couple turned out to be aerospace engineers who designed and installed software for science, military and communication satellites, including deep space probes.  "You name it, we've built it", they said.  They told me "Mr. Curmudgeon" had worked for NASA, and was a casualty of Mr. Obama's budget cuts.  Consequently he was not a fan of our present President.  His wife was an independent contractor and still had work, so they combined their clever command of the craft and were now working as a team.  I was surprised to learn the couple was aware of the Navajo legends involving stars and the universe.  They were also familiar with the Navajo constellation concept.  They knew First Man and First Woman had made the sun and moon and hung them in the heavens with a spider web, and mentioned the interaction between First Man and Coyote during the creation of the heavens.  I was duly impressed and had a great visit with them.  Our meeting made me  wonder if the satellite software they designed was embedded with curmudgeon code.  Would that be the first interaction between the human race and extraterrestrial explorers?  If aliens had anger management issues similar to those of the local Bluffoons we all might wind-up as space dust.

A few days later a couple in their mid-sixties and their thirty-something daughter visited.  They were all German nationals.  Because communication is an essential element in our business, I am constantly on the look-out for conversation starters.  I noticed the older gentleman looked exceptionally fit, so I asked about his exercise routine.  Big mistake!  I got the extended version of exercise physiology, proper nutrition and necessary sleep patterns.  I did not have to say a thing for 20 solid minutes; I just listened.   Come to find out, he was a health nut who worked out seven days a week.  I discovered he was driving his wife and daughter crazy, because he constantly asked to be let out of the car to run, and would not stay the night anywhere that did not have a gym or pool.  Finally, I had a chance to speak with his daughter.  Noticing she wore a wedding ring, I asked about her husband.  She smiled sadly and said she had lost him to a new mistress.  Thinking I had stepped into a sticky situation, I tried to withdraw by attempting to drag dear old dad back into the conversation.  Suddenly I was no longer bored with his excessive exercise routines.

The little lady laughed at my discomfort and said, "You don't understand, let me explain."  She told me the name of the new mistress was "SOFIA."  I really did not want to go there, whether I understood or not.  At this point her dad lost interest and told his companions they could pick him up somewhere on the open road; he was going for a run.   His wife followed him out, clucking impatiently in German.   My new friend continued the explanation of her unfaithful man.  Trying to end the conversation, I commented that her fellow must be a fool to have left such an attractive and intelligent woman.  She laughed at my discomfort, thanked me for the compliment and explained that SOFIA is an acronym for the Stratospheric Observatory for Infrared Astronomy; the largest airborne observatory in the world.  Its charge is to study the universe using infrared wavelengths, which are capable of making observations that are impossible for even the largest and highest ground-based telescopes.

Apparently SOFIA is an 80/20 partnership between NASA and the German Aerospace Center, consisting of an extensively modified Boeing 747SP aircraft which sports a reflecting telescope engineered with an effective diameter of 2.5 meters (100 inches).  SOFIA is based at NASA's Dryden Aircraft Operations Facility in Palmdale, California, and flies most of its missions over the open ocean.  The water allows for better atmospheric conditions and less light pollution.  The young woman's husband is an astrophysicist assigned to the project and had to miss this vacation due to his demanding, but exciting, work schedule.

When the young woman finished her explanation, and I began feeling less anxious, I told her she might want to inform her man that he was missing out on essential elements of earthly entertainment.  Flying over the Pacific Ocean in a marvelous airship looking to the heavens through rose colored glasses must seem fundamental to the progress of mankind and extremely exciting to him.  It would be great to have a fabulous view of the heavens and be star-struck by what he sees, but he might also want to focus some of his attention on what grounds him.  Balance is always a good thing.  The German woman assured me she would tell her husband and SOFIA just that.  She said good-bye and went out the door to find her father and mother.

With warm regards,

Barry, and The Team

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In Our Own Neighborhood

Several weeks ago I was at Twin Rocks Cafe around closing time when a handsome, well-groomed man of about 40 years of age approached me.  Watching me move about the restaurant, cleaning tables, sweeping the floor and picking up dishes, he surmised I was one of the owners and that it was likely a family business.  Having grown up in his father’s jewelry stores, he wanted to discuss my experience.

Navajo Journey Twin Rocks Modern Rug - Eleanor Yazzie (#42)

As we laughed and joked about the complications associated with such enterprises, he mentioned he had something to show me and walked out to his car to retrieve it.  He returned with a brochure displaying a line of African sterling silver jewelry.  He said he and his wife had begun traveling to the continent several years ago and, witnessing the country’s poverty firsthand, had determined to help the people they met.

Noticing some of the villagers they got to know had a tradition of making silver jewelry, and capitalizing on his years in that trade, he established a not-for-profit export business specializing in their crafts.  All profits went back to the villages to help with infrastructure, food aid and the like.  The brochure featured mostly handmade charms based upon local legends and traditions.  They were exceptionally attractive, and the stories associated with the pieces extremely interesting.  He wanted to know if I would support his cause and carry the jewelry in our gift shop.

This was not the first time I have been asked such questions.  One cannot argue the African people, and many others around the world, need help.  Initially I was inclined to pitch in wherever and whenever I was able.  That, however, was before I began to comprehend the depth of need right here in the Four Corners region.  As anyone who has lived in this area knows, one could easily spend several lifetimes trying to mitigate the poverty, abuse, neglect and need found in our own neighborhood.

Late last year I was talking with a good friend of mine who mentioned the citizens of Monticello, a community 50 miles north of Bluff, had tied more than 800 quilts to be donated to various humanitarian organizations.  When he, his wife and several other volunteers delivered the quilts to the worldwide distribution center in Salt Lake City, the director was grateful, but concerned.  He did not know where they would find the money to ship the donations to their intended recipients.  During the ensuing discussion, my friend became convinced that, rather than looking to far-flung countries they actually knew little about, his group would have been better served by focusing on local families.  It was quite an eye-opener.

Long ago Barry, Craig and I found we could have the greatest impact by helping local artists and craftspeople develop their skills.  In doing so, we have been able to create micro-economies in Navajo basketry, contemporary Navajo rug weaving, folk art and silversmithing that put money directly into the pockets of people we know.  We can focus on problems we understand and can also see that we are having a direct impact on the lives of people we interact with on a regular basis.

For us it is hard to fully understand the needs of people half a world away.  It is, however, easy to see the struggles of those living just miles from our door.  I, therefore, informed my new friend that, because I was concerned it may diminish what we do for local people who have great and overwhelming needs, we would not be selling the African charms.  He seemed to understand and appreciate our philosophy.  It is satisfying to know that at times a trading post can help a village.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

 

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Which Is Your Favorite?

The other day I was asked to speak to a Crow Canyon Archeological Center group.  The folks at Crow Canyon, which is located in Cortez, Colorado, are focused on education, and frequently bring people to Twin Rocks Trading Post for a bit of shopping or to Twin Rocks Cafe for a bite to eat.  As far as we are concerned, they are a great organization, and their tour director, Sarah, is a genuine sweetheart.  This particular gathering was associated with the Field Museum of Chicago.

 

Navajo 1980s Klahgatoh Handspun Woven w/ Vegital Dye Rug - Roseline Lansing (#01) 

Navajo Fire Fly Basket - Elsie Holiday (#336) 

Santo Domingo Stone Mountain Turquoise Necklace - Ray Lovato (#106)

Steve and I usually tackle these groups together, but he and Grange were at wrestling camp in Delta, Utah.  Without any backup, I was a bit nervous about speaking to such an academic crowd.  Priscilla would not be in until later, so it was up to me to inspire the group.  The theme that day was the role of trading posts in the past, present and future.  They were also interested in our trading post's interaction with local artists and its influence on Southwest art.  The group was lively, opinionated and outspoken.  I love talks like this, because the people direct the discussion and are not afraid to speak their minds while lifting the covers on controversial issues.  In situations like these I learn a great deal and gain a broader, more diverse, perspective.  Before long I became less apprehensive and fell into a relaxed attitude.  We talked nearly an hour, and covered topics ranging from rugs and baskets to jewelry.

As we finished our discussion, one of Crow Canyon's directors asked an interesting question.  Making a broad sweep of the trading post with his arm, he asked, "Of all of the wonderful items you have in the store, which is your favorite?"  The group refocused, and looked upon me to reveal our greatest and most desirable treasure.  I stared at the director dumbly, thought a moment, and then thought a few moments more.  As the group waited patiently, an uneasy silence fell over the room.  Finally I replied, "I don't think I can do that."  Everyone acted as if I had let them down.  It seemed I might end the discussion on a sour note. 

Trying to regain my composure and recapture my audience, I stammered, "I really don't look at things that way."  I went on to explain that, "It's like attempting to pick my favorite child; each is unique, and the love and appreciation I have for them is based on time spent together, experience and their individual characteristics."  That comment seemed to make the group reconsider.  Someone asked, "Do you really take these things that personally?"  "Indeed I do.  Try me", I replied.  Someone pointed to a string of turquoise beads resting on a shelf beneath the glass and asked, "What about those?" "They are truly special", I said.  I went on to explain how I purchased the raw turquoise from Nevada Cassidy, who had picked and shoveled it from his Stone Mountain mining claim located in the high desert landscape of Lyon County, Nevada.  Priscilla and I then sorted the stones into three separate color categories and delivered them to Ray Lovato.  Ray chastised me openly, telling me I knew nothing about bead rock and should not bother with such things.  Two weeks, several telephone calls and numerous off-color jokes later, Ray returned with the finished product.  Grudgingly he agreed, "That is really nice rock!"

"What about that butterfly basket?", someone asked, pointing to an Elsie Holiday weaving.  "I love that basket", I said, "and if it had been left to me it probably would not be setting there right now."  I explained how, in Navajo culture, the butterfly represents personal growth, education, rebirth and the discovery of beauty and harmony.  The reason that gorgeous basket might not otherwise be on the shelf is that Elsie and I suffer a clash of personalities.  I struggle with Elsie's lack of financial responsibility, and am certain Elsie sees me as a tight-fisted, unsympathetic trader.  It is fortunate for Elsie, me and our customers that Steve gets along well with both of us.  He is the intermediary.  The butterfly reminds me that both Elsie and I have room to grow, and lots of beauty yet to discover.

"And this rug?", someone asked, holding a weaving by Rosalind Lansing.  Picking it up, I noted, "That is special in several ways.  It is completely hand-spun, and displays both naturally blended colors and vegetable dyes.  Hand-spun means the weaver sheared the sheep, cleaned, carded, spun and dyed the wool before she began to weave.  There is an extraordinary amount of time and effort in that textile.  Another reason that is special to me is that our sister Susan and I bought it from Rosalind over 32 years ago.  Susan loved it so much she took it home and lived with it all those years, displaying it in her house.  She is letting it go because she moved to Phoenix and downsized her living space.  The rug reminds me of my sister, whom I am extremely fond of."

People do not often realize how personally Craig, Steve and I take our business.  Each and every piece of art at Twin Rocks has a story, a history representing interactions with the artists and their crafts.  There is also family history here, and that is extremely important to us.  So, when someone asks which piece of art, or which artist, is our favorite, don't be surprised if we can't pin it down.  We love them all, and, as happens when you open a photo album, you are going to hear a story about each and every rug, basket and item of jewelry we carry, along with its trading post history.  If you ask, be prepared to hear the provenance of our products, because we care about then and will do our darnedest to place them where they are well received and greatly appreciated.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

 

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The Institution

Barry was out of town, it had been a long week of constant bus tours and meandering tourists and I was worn wafer thin.  According to Barry, bus tours are the worst.  I however, am not convinced.  Sure it is true they pull into our gravel parking lot in a cloud of dust and discharge hordes of mostly impatient individuals with enlarged bladders.  Yes it is true those individuals generally have only one purpose in mind.  It is also true that those same people, having overwhelmed our washrooms without ever saying “how do you do”, “please” or “thank you”, frequently complain loudly about our inventory.  And finally, it is most assuredly true they do all this with absolutely no intention of purchasing anything at all, not a turquoise ring, not a postcard, not an ice cream bar and not even a cup of coffee, with or without cream.

Twin Rocks Trading Post in Bluff Utah

Over my 22 years at Twin Rocks Trading Post, I have, however, had my share of even more frustrating experiences.  Indeed, it had only been a few hours earlier that a dusty man wearing dirty Levi’s, a Willie Nelson style headband and no shirt had stopped by to visit.  Having been in the post for less than ten seconds, he asked, “Where is your Mercedes?”  Taken aback by the question, I finally found my footing and informed him I do not own a Mercedes of any type.  “Then where is your BMW,” he interrogated.  When I assured him I had neither Mercedes nor BMW, and that I in fact drive a five year old Subaru, he scoffed, saying, “Well, with all this pricey stuff, I was sure you had one or the other, maybe both, parked in the back.”  Having fired his well aimed barb, he turned, shuffled out to his rusty 1980s Chevy van and drove away.

Following close on his heels was yet another disheveled gentleman who ambled into the trading post about 30 minutes before closing.  “This place is an institution,” said the unkempt man.  Apparently he had heard of us, and what he knew was what had me concerned.

Now, I have been around long enough to know that an institution can be defined in a variety of ways, some charitable, some not.  Of the options, I considered whether he meant an organization devoted to the promotion of a particular cause, a well established pattern of behavior accepted as a fundamental part of society or a public or private place dedicated to the care of mental patients.  I feared he meant the latter, which seemed most likely.

Did he know, I wondered, that we referred to those rampaging herds of bus tourists as “maywepees”?  Did he know of the insanity inherent in this family business.  Did he know that after so many years of working retail we all, Priscilla included, were qualified for admittance into the big white house on the grassy knoll?  Or, had he heard me rant madly about his predecessor in the dirty jeans and Willie Nelson headband.  Considering the possibilities, I began to perspire heavily and worry that I would break down before making it to the closed sign.

“Whaddaya mean,” I asked weakly, dreading the answer and thinking he might be a mental health professional with an interest in keeping society safe from people like Barry and me.  I considered Dick Nielson, a resident of Bluff from long ago, who, having spent a little time in the big white house himself, used to boast he was the only sane person in town and had the papers to prove it.

“Well, I have heard about these baskets” my guest said pointing to our display, “and have even seen your collection at the Natural History Museum of Utah.”  “You are a Navajo basket institution,” he reiterated.  “Little does he know,” I thought, quickly running through all we had experienced over the past two decades of working with local basket makers.  As the fear drained from my body, my extremities began to tingle with relief.  “Oh yes,” I said, a little too quickly, relieved he likely did not know the truth.

Just then a bus ground to a halt outside and its doors burst open.  I looked longingly at the closed sign, but it was too late.  “Yes, this is an institution,” I said to the gentleman, “an institution.”  Maybe Barry had been right about those buses.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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