"Want U Back"

It was early Sunday morning and I would soon be driving south along U.S. Hwy. 191, on my way to Twin Rocks Cafe. I was scheduled to open, and had to be on site before 6:00 a.m. to fire up the flattop. An hour later 47 hungry Frenchmen would converge for breakfast, so sister-in-law Kathy was coming in to handle the finer points of this encounter. Since my car was in need of service, I was taking McKale's ride to work.

McKale, #15, jumping to block a spike.

When I stopped driving it to Bluff a couple years ago, my 17-year-old daughter took over our Toyota Previa. During that time the van has become a rolling testament to my youngest child. Because of its striking resemblance to a torpedo, McKale fondly refers to the car as the "Torp". Along with numerous baubles and ribbons, the interior is decked-out with a plush pink flamingo stuffed into the cup holder and an Iron Man action figure hanging from the rear view mirror. Clamped to the sun visor is a purple, broad-mouthed, cartoon-looking deodorizer, which disperses a floral perfume into the car's clean interior. At 5' 11", McKale is the starting middle blocker on her high school volleyball team. Consequently, Bronco boosters have written, "Broncos are #1, #15 Kills! And Stuff It!" in blue and gold marker on the Torp's windows.

When I started the car, I was instantly assaulted with bubble gum music. Some young ga-ga-girl by the name of Cher Lloyd began boo-hoo-hooing about kicking her boyfriend to the curb and then wanting him back. I could not help thinking, "Frankly Cher, I don't give a sh-sh-shot about that." Trying to dial in NPR, or even an old time rock-and-roll station, I rolled down the driveway and onto the street. As I entered Main, I noticed the shocks were in immediate need of repair. Every time I hit a bump, the Toyota rocked forward and back like a wooden horse on springs. "Uh uh uh Ohhh!" I thought to myself, "this outta' be a fun ride."

Blanding was still asleep as I drove through town. Not a character stirred, not a Stake President, Bishop or Counselor, but I knew they would soon be up and about. Rolling south, I continued to fiddle with the radio. Not finding an acceptable station, I punched the off button and rolled down the window, breathing in the cool crispness of our high desert autumn. There was only the tiniest sliver of a harvest moon upon the horizon, and the stars were brilliant and bright, like blue-white diamonds. I put my arm out the window, horizontal to the highway, and flattened my palm so it acted like a wing. The slightest change in angle caused an instant up or down movement, which gave me a sensation of flight.

Continuing the trend started during my drive through the deserted streets of Blanding, I did not pass a single car on my way to Bluff; not one, coming or going. This was the first time that has ever happened, usually there are at lease half a dozen vehicles during the trip. I wondered to myself if there were many other places in the country where one can travel 25 miles of highway and not contact another human being. On the stretches of roadway I could see a good distance in front of me and felt it was safe, I turned off the headlights, absorbed the darkness and felt the tunnel effect roll over the Torp until I ran out of nerve or anticipated a curve. After my lonesome but thrilling experience, dropping into Cow Canyon and making the turn into the cafe left me a little sad. Thinking to myself, I plagiarized the words of Cher's song; "I want you back, want want you back."

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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Is it Art?

As I walked into the kitchen of the house above the trading post, Grange nervously pushed aside the book he had been reading. Glancing over his shoulder to see what had made him react so uncharacteristically, I realized my young son had been closely scrutinizing Kira’s art appreciation textbook. Noticing I had observed his actions, and thinking he might need to justify his keen interest in the subject matter, Grange anxiously inquired, “Why do those sculptures always have to be naked? Why don’t they have clothes?”

Barry, that ain't art?

Making him all the more jumpy, I reached over, positioned the book in front of us and randomly flipped through the pages, stopping briefly at the statuary that had interested him. Remembering I had been warned the day would come when issues such as this would arise, and trying to appear thoughtful rather than critical, I replied, “Because that’s the way God made us. We are not born into this world fully dressed, and many people, me included, feel the human form is beautiful, elegant . . . even when it’s not. It’s nothing you need to be ashamed of or uncomfortable about.” Having advised him on the virtues of nudity, I hoped he would not interpret my comments literally and begin disrobing in inconvenient locations or packing around magazines illustrating the point.

Looking somewhat relieved, Grange scooted off the stool and into his bedroom, skillfully avoiding further discussion. Continuing to thumb through the text, I noticed Robert Mapplethorpe’s androgynous self-portrait. Mapplethorpe was the American photographer who ignited a cultural firestorm when his exhibit The Perfect Moment was scheduled to go up at the Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C.

Remembering 1989, when the controversy arose, I decided to investigate further. The text associated with the image explained that one reason Mapplethorpe’s work is considered important is that it illustrates the ideal that art is not always pretty and can, in fact, be genuinely disturbing. Although it does not directly acknowledge this theory of disruption, dictionary.com, my favorite reference resource, gives it a slight nod by defining art as, “the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.”

The subjective nature of art and beauty has always caused me great confusion. I am often confounded when one artist succeeds and another fails, especially when their work seems equally pleasing. I was, for example, taken aback when a version of The Scream recently sold at auction for approximately $120,000,000.00. If someone had brought it into the trading post, in my ignorance, I would not have paid $1,000.00 for the painting.

Indeed, Barry, Priscilla, Danny and I were discussing this topic just the other day. Barry was trying to convince us he is a work of art. Nobody, however, was buying it. During our conversation, Grange, arrived home on the school bus. When asked his opinion, much to Barry’s chagrin, he quickly responded, “Dad, that’s not art!” Then remembering our earlier conversation he added, “with or without clothes.”

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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Auto Biography

Priscilla and I were standing behind the sales counter talking about the well-being of our families when he walked in.  He was an elderly gentleman of about 75 years, with a full, albeit thinning, head of silver-gray hair.  He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses of an oiled bronze color that framed a pair of big brown, seemingly intelligent eyes.  Right off the bat I noticed there was an overwhelming air of confidence about the guy.  As he crossed the threshold, he stopped and surveyed the room, familiarizing himself with the items on display.  His gaze finally fell upon Priscilla and me, and his studious look made me uncomfortable.  So, just to break the spell, I stepped forward and said, "Hello, how are you?"

The man instantly turned on a smile brighter than the morning sun, marched right up and stuck out his hand.  "Jimbo," he said, "Jimbo McCarthy from Kansas City, Missouri and Sun City, Arizona."  I took and shook his hand and introduced myself.  Matching the "Hesston Farm Equipment" button-down shirt he wore tucked into a belted pair of cream colored shorts, Jimbo presented in a crisp, clean and pressed manner.  His attire was completed by new white socks and a pair of immaculately clean tennis shoes.  Everything about Jimbo, including a chestnut tan, lead me to the conclusion he was healthy, wealthy and wise.

Jimbo told us he recognized a well-managed, organized and successful business when he saw one.  At that point I began to question my earlier assumption; he was either easily fooled or blowing warm air up my skirt.  Either way, I decided to watch, look, listen and wait until a more complete assessment could be made.  Jimbo explained that he had once been a salesman, an exceptional salesman.  At that point Priscilla excused herself and went on a cleaning spree, which our new friend noticed.  "That's a hard working woman." he said.  "That she is," I agreed, and listened to Jimbo talk about himself for the next 80 minutes.

My new friend told me he began selling Buicks and Oldsmobiles right out of high school, and became the leading salesman before he was 20.  After five years, the man who owned the dealership became "jealous" of Jimbo's talents and fired him because he was making too much money.  Imagine that!  Jimbo was not, however, unemployed for long, he was quickly "snatched-up" by a distributor of farm equipment and rose to the top of that sales team as well.  Jimbo, however, was once again derailed.  It seems the other salesmen torpedoed him because they were, you guessed it, jealous.  Another job, another rise to the top and another plummet from the summit.  I was beginning to see a trend.  As my brother-in-law Reed is fond of saying, "No matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides to each piece of cheese."   There must have been a good reason Jimbo was a victim of his own success, but he was certainly unaware of the common denominator.

Beginning to tire of Jimbo's lustrous litany, I noticed our buddy Marx walking in with a question for Steve.  Steve was not in, but we tracked him down by telephone and secured an answer.  As I spoke with Steve, I had an idea.  My plan was to introduced Marx to this sticky character, scrape the guy off my shoe and transfer him onto Marx's penny loafers.  Marx might unconsciously stumble onto my tacky friend and carry him off, I reasoned.  Marx is fond of giving me a hard time, so I was more than willing to sacrifice him for this just cause.   I introduced the men and by gosh and by golly it worked!  Jimbo latched right onto Marx and began reciting his life story all over again.  Marx made a break for the door and hustled down the front steps with Jimbo following closely behind.  The men wound up at Marx's Jeep, but Jimbo was not finished.  Marx climbed into his vehicle and started it up, but the story was incomplete.  The last I saw of Jimbo, he was trailing Marx across the parking lot, still selling his auto biography as Marx worked hard to make a clean getaway.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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The Confluence

Extreme motion sickness has always been part of my life. When I was just a boy, Duke and Rose knew to place me next to an open window if we were navigating a long and winding road. Neglecting to do so risked breaking out the Haz Mat cleanup kit. Roller coasters, and even ferris wheels, made be violently ill. Small planes threatened to undo me altogether. Once, thinking I could wean myself of the affliction, I rode a spinning carnival attraction until I could no longer stand upright. For weeks I was out of balance and walked with a noticeable list.

Confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers

So it was to great howls of laughter that I announced my decision to begin private pilot lessons in the fall of 1991. “What, are you crazy?” was the general response. “No,” I defensively responded to the naysayers, “I am not insane. They tell me I can overcome this scourge with time and persistence.” I was driving to Salt Lake City twice a month to see my daughter Dacia, so I decided to marry those trips with flying lessons, saving time and conquering my mobility demon all in one stroke.

During the flights, my instructor routinely diverted us over the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers. This convergence takes place in one of the most remote and strikingly beautiful locations in the world. Indeed, referring to the site where the two canyons meet, legendary explorer John Wesley Powell wrote, “What a world of grandeur is spread before us - wherever we look there is but a wilderness of rocks; deep gorges, where the rivers are lost below cliffs and towers and pinnacles; and ten thousand strangely carved forms in every direction. . . . “

At some point I came to see Twin Rocks Trading Post as a confluence, a place where many influences run together in a spectacular mashup of culture, art, history and personalities. Although it would have been easier, and likely more profitable, to maintain a cultural separation, to require the artists to stay in customary channels and to ensure the creative levees were not breached, Barry and I elected to open the floodgates and let things take their natural course.

When it came to Navajo basketry, rug weaving, silversmithing and folk art, our goal was to give the artists maximum freedom, to set their imaginations free and to expand their horizons beyond anything they had known before. While Barry and I may have balked a time or two, if someone came in with a new idea our response was almost universally, “Make it!”

In what is a traditionally conservative industry, Barry and I became business liberals. Our otherwise cautious family members, not to mention our bankers, fretted, wondering whether our newly adopted commercial ideals might infect other segments of our lives. This is, after all, Utah, reddest of the red states, and liberals of any stripe are unfamiliar.

The results, however, spoke for themselves; Navajo rugs like none that had ever been seen, Navajo baskets featuring innovative designs and shapes that had not been woven prior to that time, jewelryfolk art that made you laugh out loud. Barry and I were stunned by the creative torrent that was unleashed. Feeling a bit like John Wesley Powell, we surveyed the artistic landscape and found it unbelievable, indescribable, unpredictable.

While I never got over the motion sickness and had to eventually abandon my goal of unrestrained flying, I have never forgotten those flights over the confluence or the way they influenced my thinking about trading post operations, culture and art.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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