The Modern Age

It was a warm and sunny afternoon at Twin Rocks Trading Post.  Outside the temperature hovered in the mid-nineties, and we had the Kokopelli doors pulled shut with the refrigeration blowing.  Danny and I were in the southeast corner of the store, recording videos for our weekly e-mailer, when I saw an antique cowboy walk past the plate glass windows.  He was moving briskly in the direction of the entrance, so I wrapped up my interpretation of Peggy Black's modified ceremonial basket, motioned Danny to cut the tape and sat back to see what the heat waves might guide inside.  Danny shut down the camera and we began discussing a new approach to Internet marketing and how to expand our e-mail list.

Ceremonial Baskets

The old gentleman pushed his way through the heavy doors and, as the refrigerated air-cooled him, sighed in relief.  I noticed he was small in stature, but bore himself with confidence; his demeanor indicated self-assurance.  Perched on top of his head was a well worn and heavily weathered straw hat that looked like it belonged right where it sat.  Most likely in his seventies, he was wiry and spry.  His brown eyes shown bright with intelligence, and it appeared he noticed every detail.  The old man's face was a dark walnut color, deeply etched and weathered, like many of the Dine' who spend their time outdoors in this harsh environment.  He displayed a bright pink scarf about his neck, which contrasted greatly with the rest of his attire.  I suspected it was a statement about his feisty, fearless attitude.  Despite the heat, he wore a worn, but clean, long sleeve Levi's shirt and Wrangler jeans bunched at the hips, knees and ankles.  Around his bony waste he had a wide, scuffed brown belt with a nondescript brass buckle.  Well-traveled and heavily scuffed black boots with once white, now discolored, stitching and pointed toes covered his small but adequate feet.

At this point Danny noticed how the man was dressed and burst out with, "Oh, a cowboy!"  Our Internet administrator is rather spontaneous, so we never quite know what he will do or say.  Luckily the man did not take offense, and forgave us our faux pas. To myself I thought, "That is not just any cowboy, that is a Navajo cowboy."  I may have watched too many John Wayne movies as a kid, because the juxtaposition of the words cowboy and Indian have always seemed strange and out of character to me.   Yet here was a clear example of just how well they worked together.  It has always been of interest to me how good the Navajo are at assimilating.  They adopt what they find good and useful and discard the rest.  No need to get caught-up in the negative, just move on.  Cowboy hats, boots, scarves, jeans and country music all survived the cut, pretense did not.  Our visiting Indian-cowboy friend began his tour of the trading post while Danny and I resumed our conversation.

Before long the old-timer discovered Priscilla, our long-term associate, floor manager and friend, and discovered that she too, spoke the language of "The People".  They were soon caught-up in a conversation about ceremonial baskets.  At that point I began wondering whether the guy was a medicine man.  If so, he was someone I did not know.  His air of confidence and that jaunty scarf made me wonder.  The man had selected three baskets and was locked in serious negotiations with Priscilla.  Many years ago she convinced us we should allow a substantial discount to Native people who use ceremonial baskets for cultural purposes.  Craig, Steve and I agreed, and gave Priscilla liberty to do so.  About that time the telephone rang, so I hustled over to answer it.

As I spoke into the receiver, I noticed the man kept pointing and waving me over.  I in turn gestured to Priscilla, and said, "She's the one you want to ask."  I hung up the phone and Priscilla turned to me and said, "He want's to speak with the boss."  I looked at the holy man and said, "You are speaking with the boss; Priscilla is in charge around here."  "That's what I told him", she said, "but he doesn't believe me."  It turns out the guy was indeed a medicine man from Kayenta, Arizona, and he wanted to deal with no one but the head honcho.  The man looked us over carefully, as if searching for a clue, then sighed in resignation and reached for his billfold.

Pulling a credit card from his wallet, the man handed it to Priscilla for processing.  Since I am used to seeing elderly Navajo people paying only in cash, I laughed out loud at the sight of plastic in his hand, saying, "Since when do medicine men pay with credit cards?  You probably have a cell phone as well."  The Indian/cowboy/medicine man reached into the front pocket of his baggy jeans, produced his telephone, and in perfect English said, "This is the modern age you know?"  We all laughed, and he headed out with his baskets.  The medicine man reached the Kokopelli doors and placed his hand on the knob.  Turning back, he asked; "Is she really the boss?"  "This is the modern age", I replied.  "Good Point!" he said and continued on his way.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; 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!

Hozho

Not long after returning to Bluff in 1989, I developed the habit of sitting on the porch of Twin Rocks Trading Post after a hard day of selling Navajo rugs, baskets and turquoise jewelry.  One cannot imagine how taxing it is answering questions like, “Isn’t it convenient the Anasazi built those roads so close to the ruins at Mesa Verde?” and “Who made the Twin Rocks?”  By closing time I was exhausted, and found a spell on the steps an effective way to decompress before heading up to the house above the trading post.

Hozho Bluff, Ut

Summer evenings in Bluff can be genuinely beautiful.  The evening light illuminates the cliffs, making them glow a soft, cozy pink.  As darkness falls and stars begin to blink, quiet enfolds the town in an all-encompassing embrace.

 

To my amazement, people strolling the narrow streets often walked up the stairs, sat close by and, after taking Bluff’s full measure, asked, “What is it?”  At first, the question confounded me.  “What is what?”, I would respond, a little bewildered.  “It, you know, it!”, they would say.

 

After a time I came to understand they meant the feeling Bluff instilled in them.  One western trained medical doctor, who had studied eastern philosophy, speculated it must be the high concentration of iron in the rocks.  “It attracts a strong magnetic field,” he explained.  Two women from New Mexico postulated that nobody had ever been killed in Bluff, which left it in absolute peace.  Others thought it was the light, the heat, the quiet, the darkness . . . Nobody could fully explain “it”.

 

When Barry started coming to Bluff on a regular basis, I noticed he often referred to something called “hozho.”  “It’s hard to explain,” he would say, “Sorta’ like being in balance, at peace, you know, one with nature.”  Referring to the book, The Navajo Language, a Grammar and Colloquial Dictionary, by Young and Morgan, I learned hozho meant, “to be beautiful, peaceful, harmonious.”

 

During a recent meeting with representatives of the Business Owners of Bluff, commonly known as BOB, the question that had so often bedeviled me in the past arose once again.  Attempting to design a website for Bluff, we had been asked to determine what it was that defined the community.  We tried, peaceful, quiet, nature, historic, culture, beautiful, adventurous, far out, way out, get out, the big empty, the world’s greatest outdoor museum, but nothing seemed to capture Bluff’s true essence in a single word.

 

Nothing, that was, until Diana, a BOB member, related a conversation she had with Barry a few months ago.  Getting that far away look in her eye, she said, “hozho.”  “Ahh, hozho,” we repeated, “Yes, maybe that’s it.”  Once we asked Priscilla, Toni and Jenelia, our Navajo experts, what the term means to them, we realized it was as close as anyone had ever come to describing Bluff.  Now when people ask, “What is it?”, I just smile and say, “hozho; beautiful, peaceful, harmonious . . . hozho.”  “Yes,” they say, nodding their heads, “hozho.”

 

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!

 

Who's Gonna'

The wind swirled and danced about the bluffs, kicking up a red-tinged, talcum-powder-like dust storm.  The gritty gusts blew about the parking lot, disturbing our dinner guests both coming and going.  Those minute dust particles are known to seek out any opening and settle in restricted areas.  Despite the incoming gale, our patrons (although pasted with dust) were in a good humor.  Rose, our cashier guessed rain, then backed away from her prediction when the dark clouds she was tracking passed on by.  Shortly thereafter came a reverberating clap of thunder and a brilliant flash of lightning which caused the lights to flicker and made everyone in the café hunker down.  Another fast moving thunderstorm had sneaked up on us from the northwest.

Twin Rocks Business Baskets

The storm rolled over the top of the mighty Twin Rocks and the adjacent sandstone cliffs, bringing a deluge.  As the downpour hit, everyone in the restaurant seemed to focus solely on the rain, their eyes drawn to this powerful and rare occurrence, not a dish rattled or a person peeped.  Mother nature had us in her spell, and man was she putting on a show!  As we all watched, thunder boomed as if live cannon rounds were being set off from the buttress walls above our heads.  Lightning snapped, crackled and popped all about us, leaving erratically etched images of electric current imprinted upon our minds and the back of our eyelids.  The storm was exciting and frightening at the same time.

It did not take long before the mini-monsoon passed by and tracked off in a southeasterly direction.  Life returned to normal, and several patrons moved out onto our wide, covered porch to eat, enjoy the refreshing air and express awe over the departing disruptor.  I returned to my duties as manager, which includes brooming, busing and "BS'ing".  As I cleaned up after a large group in the back, a song came on over the radio, an oldie but goody by Leroy Van Dyke, called, "Who's gonna run the truck stop in Tuba City when I'm gone?

I mused over the music because someone had asked me a similar question earlier that day;  "Who's gonna run the Trading Post and Cafe in Bluff City when you Craig and Steve are gone?"  First of all, we don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon.  However, as I listened to the lyrics, "Keep the back bar clean and the place looking pretty,"  I wondered if we too would become just a vague memory, a flash in the proverbial pan, in the history of our hometown.  I saw how when Laurie's father "Grandpa Clem" passed, Washburn Enterprises began to fade.  It was not that his adoring family did not want to uphold his legacy, they simply did not, could not, share his passion for raising cattle.  I know because of many sleepless, tear-filled nights that if Laurie could have sustained her father's efforts on her own she surely would have done so.

Leroy continued, "Tell jokes to the folks, keep the conversation witty."  I also see how our own parents are struggling with finding a solution to jobbing out their Blue Mountain RV Park and Trading Post.  They would dearly love to work things out with a grandchild, but the timing looks all-wrong.  Our children have ideas, hopes and dreams of their own, and they do not have anything to do with Trading-post-ology.  No one else runs a business quite like Duke anyway, and no one else is as unrelentingly supportive and patient as Rose.  So, the place will never be the same anyway.  Transitions such as this are never easy, and are always rife with emotion.

The storm was now but a distant memory, and the sun dipped under the clouds just in time for us to witness a highly refractive sunset before it settled in for the night.  The song ended with the refrain, "When it get's right down to the utter nitty gritty, who's gonna run the Truck Stop in Tuba City when I'm gone?"  Therein lies the question, I thought to myself.  After further contemplation, I have decided not to give it too much more thought.  This business is the dream of my brothers and me.  If one or more of our children discover a similar path, so much the better.  If not, so be it.  Our families have predicted they are going to have to haul us out of here feet first anyway, so let the last one standing decide who's gonna run the Trading Post and Cafe in Bluff City when we're gone.

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!

Starry, Starry Night

This summer Grange and I have been sleeping outside.  No, we have not been banished to the great outdoors for misbehavin’.  Instead, it is a question of heat.  Like most people in Bluff, we cool ourselves with a swamp cooler.  Since it has been hotter than usual during July and August, our water-based air conditioner has struggled to keep things comfortable inside the house above the trading post.  As a result, Grange and I broke out the cots and sleeping bags and decamped to the patio.  Kira, who had previously staked out a position on the hammock so she could watch for satellites, quasars and pulsars, withdrew.  “Over populated!” she protested.

View of Twin Rocks from the Porch

Bluff has a true desert climate, so, although it may be 100 degrees during the day, the evenings are usually mild.  Slumbering beneath the Twin Rocks is, therefore, exceptionally attractive.  For one thing, these stone monoliths rise almost straight up from the porch like giant guardians, protecting us from things that go bump in the night.  Indeed, Navajo people think of the twins as a gigantic prayer bundle.  This, in combination with the jet-black sky, makes the arrangement stellar.

Since it is so very small, Bluff does not have street lamps or other lights to obscure the stars, planets and other celestial bodies that dance in the night.  So, to Kira’s dismay, almost every evening Grange and I drag out our bedding, set up our cots, flop down on our backs and stare into the heavens while we await the sandman’s arrival.

Last night I awoke around 3:00 a.m. to the sound of Grange’s quiet, even breathing.  What I saw could only be created by the hand of God and recreated by Vincent van Gogh.  In the early morning, the clouds swirled round the moon and stars in an eerie spiraling pattern.  It was an almost perfect reproduction of van Gogh’s Starry Night.  While the gentle breeze caressed me, I questioned whether I had left the natural world and entered an unknown realm.

As I lay there wondering whether to bring him into this otherworldly domain, a cold wind blew across the porch.  Grange, who often talks in his sleep, blurted out, “Now I understand”, rolled onto his stomach and pulled the covers over his head.

The scene was rapidly changing, so I decided not to wake him.  Grange’s comment, however, brought to mind several ancient legends, and reminded me how Native people often vest objects of the natural world with human characteristics.  To the Navajo, the moon is widely known as Tl’ehonaa’ei, and is viewed as a wise old man with flowing gray locks who travels the night.  He is the counterpart to Johonaa’ei, the sun, illicit lover of Changing Woman and sire of the Hero Twins, Monster Slayer and Born-for-Water.

It was not long before Tl’ehonaa’ei had traveled beyond the swirling mass of clouds and into the unobstructed darkness.  Grange lay motionless, oblivious to the natural beauty Father Sky and Tl’ehonaa’ei had illuminated.  As if to remind me of the gift I had just been given, the moon ducked behind one more spinning mass of clouds and winked good night.  Now I understood what might have inspired those tribal stories, and just how human the moon can be.

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!

"Horsepower"

It started out as just another day at the trading post.  Danny, our internet manager, was at the Apple computer behind the cash register tweaking its programs, while Priscilla, our associate and main floor manager, was tweaking Danny.  I was in my office, putting together our weekly e-mailer and listening to their light banter.  Just then I heard the door chime ring and a man ask for help.  It seems a motorcyclist had driven past our buttress rocks in front of the trading post and mired himself in the deep gravel.  He was looking for a push to help him escape.  Danny quickly volunteered, and they headed out the door.  I came out of my office to see what was up and watch Danny do his good deed.

Navajo Horses and Ravens Basket - Lorraine Black (#218)

As Priscilla and I looked on from the refrigerated interior of the trading post, the mired man climbed aboard his entrenched BMW and hit the starter.  The 55 horsepower engine purred to life.  Alas, this was no Harley.  Nodding to Danny, the man dug his booted heels into the gravel and heaved backward.  Danny had a grip on the handlebars, and bent his back to add reverse thrust.  Between the two of them, they freed the bike and had it moving onto a more stable footing.  As Priscilla and I watched through the plate glass windows, the guy on the BMW prematurely popped the clutch and shot straight back at our computer guru.  Danny nearly became a very large bug on a very small windscreen.  Luckily Danny still had his hands on the handlebars and used the forward motion to push-off and dance to his left, skittering out of harm's way just in the nick of time.  Realizing he was about to run down a Good Samaritan, the driver yanked his handle bars to the left and spun a downward spiraling doughnut into the gravel.  In the blink of an eye there was one man sputtering in indignation and another, along with the motorbike, sputtering in dust.

In unison Priscilla and I sprinted to the Kokopelli doors, yanked them open and stepped out into the noonday heat.  I ran down the front steps and over to where Danny was attempting to dislodge the poor guy from beneath his beast.  I decided then and there Danny is a better man than I, because I probably would have taken offense to nearly being rundown.  I might have been tempted to add insult to the guy's injury by jumping up and down on him a time or two before letting him up.   "Foolish get's as foolish give's" is my rule of thumb.  Danny got the guy out and, as Priscilla directed from the porch, the three of us righted his motorbike, pointed it toward the road and rolled it onto a safer launch pad.

The Cordura encased motorcyclist attempted to regain his composure by rearranging his gear and gathering up a few broken parts from the crash site.   Danny and I noticed the BMW was sporting a number of Duct Tape repairs and realized this was not the man's first rodeo!  The visitor finished regrouping, donned his helmet, climbed aboard the bike, hit the starter and over-revved the engine one more time.  Danny and I stepped out of the way, barely avoiding a spray of gravel as rider and bike peeled out, nearly going down again before making it to the highway.  If ever there was a person unfit to travel the roads, byways and parking lots of the world on two wheels this was it.

As Danny and I stood there, heat waves dancing around our heads, the motorcyclist struggled to shift his BMW, finally found the gear he was looking for and sped down the road.  Standing in the noon day sun, I thought of the research I had been doing just before our maniacal friend showed up.  The subject was the horse, and its effect on Native American culture.  Before becoming engaged in this misadventure, I had discovered the horse was not indigenous to the western hemisphere.  Instead, we have Spanish explorers to thank for the equine species in our corner of the world.

As one might guess, the introduction of the horse had a profound impact upon Navajo culture.  Not only did it improve mobility and increase the range and frequency of contact with non-Navajos, it also altered the character of social relations within the tribe.  Horses made it possible to visit friends and family more frequently and travel to ceremonial events from much greater distances.  Thus, the horse expanded Native culture.

When Priscilla, Danny and I returned to work, our interaction with "Motorcycle Man" was still on my mind, so I Goggled  "The creation of the first motorcycle" and  learned that in 1885 the German Company Daimler gave the world its first "true" motorcycle, an expression of horsepower through the internal combustion engine.  The arrival of the horse and then the motorcycle brought a whole new way of life to many people, each came to signify power, speed and wealth.  I am, however, certain the horse gods and creators of the motorcycle did not intend to give everyone access to these gifts.  Surely this was one example of someone who should not have been granted the privilege.

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!