What They Didn’t Teach Me in Business School

Now, I am a reasonably well-educated man; I graduated high school with adequate marks, made it through college with defensible grades and even finished graduate school without too many notable academic mishaps.

The Case of The Indian Trader: Billy Malone and the National Park Investigation at Hubbell Trading Post Book

There are, however, many individuals in southern San Juan County who are better trained than I. My friend Bill Boyle, editor of the San Juan Record and graduate of Stanford Business School, and Kira and Grange come immediately to mind. I have always been impressed with Bill’s general knowledge and clear vision. Additionally, I had to quit poking my nose into Kira and Grange’s homework years ago, lest they ask questions I was unprepared to answer.

Despite my inadequacies, I have generally pictured myself as a good businessman. I have been “successfully” plying my trade in the Navajo basket, rug and turquoise jewelry business for many years and have yet to file bankruptcy. After all, didn’t the U.S. Small Business Administration name Twin Rocks Trading Post and Cafe the Jeffrey Buntland Family-Owned Business of the Year for 2012?

Okay, I have to admit Craig, Barry and I have wondered whether the Business Gods were playing an unkind joke on us or whether there simply was no other candidate for the award. No matter how nice the trophy or how often we inspect it, trying to convince ourselves we are competent, we still, for good reason, describe ourselves as “traders on the edge”.

In spite of my overall entrepreneurial optimism, I have never been able to fully comprehend the Indian trading business. Barry and I frequently comment that it does not fit the standard model and scratch our heads in confusion, wondering at its complexities. We cannot, for example, understand why we continue to loan money to artists who will likely never compensate us for the advance; we question our reasons for purchasing from local craftsmen even after our bankers have notified us our accounts are overdrawn; and we often purchase things we do not need, simply because it is, “the right thing to do”.

Late last year, our friends Tim and Carol gave me a copy of The Case of The Indian Trader: Billy Malone and the National Park Investigation at Hubbell Trading Post. Although I began reading it last Christmas, Jana also became interested and the book went missing. It is only recently that I discovered it among her belongings and recommitted myself to finishing what I started over a year ago.

The book contains an excellent history of Hubbell Trading Post specifically and Indian trading in general. At one point it discusses the nature of this unusual commercial endeavor and, citing a letter written by Laura Graves, professor of history and author of Thomas Varker Keam, Indian Trader, states, “One cannot successfully understand the trading post business with its very complex and convoluted human relations . . . from the perspective of Accounting 101 or Management 101 - the business does not work like any ordinary business and those who try to force it into post-modern business management practices will do two things: Suffer from a profound misunderstanding and destroy the business . . . .”

Barry and I have discussed the book at length, and take a great deal of comfort from its descriptions of Indian trading. We are even considering it as a gift to our financial advisors and partners, many who have clearly concluded we are either uninitiated or simply crazy when it comes to implementing basic business principles. Crazy is the likely explanation. Anyone in this industry as long as we have been must be insane.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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A Turkey Story

It was early evening as I walked out the Kokopelli doors and onto the wide, iron-red porch of Twin Rocks Trading Post. The day had gone quickly, and I hoped to savor the golden autumn sunset before closing the store. In Bluff, fall generally stretches into late November and, at times, early December. In our small, well-protected high-desert river valley we are blessed with four distinct seasons, and this is my favorite.

Flying Turkey

Like overprotective guardians, at this time of the year the gnarled and twisted limbs of our cottonwood trees stubbornly cling to their bright yellow leaves. Eventually a frosty north wind dips into our sheltered cove and tears the foliage from their grasp. Not today however. With just a hint of crispness, the circulating current of air was mild, exhilarating and unusually refreshing. Breathing deeply, I sat on the sunbathed concrete steps and looked south. Backlit by the rosy red cliffs, the cottonwoods with their heavily textured trunks and bouquets of yellow were lit up with an intensely rich glow. The slanting sunlight filtered through the semitransparent leaves and put on a light show that dazzled my visual senses.

At times like these, I tend to go "mind-blind"; my brain blocks the stress of everyday life and allows the pleasure sensors free reign. As I sat there thinking of nothing at all, I sensed movement to my right. Near the layered and stacked base of the Twin Rocks, something had flushed a Merriam turkey and the wild thing was beating a hasty retreat. The bird was flying at a high rate of speed about ten feet off the ground, diagonally across the parking lot. It was a large, full-bodied turkey with heavy plumage, so I guessed it was a tom. Its head was bright red and stretched out, far ahead of its much larger body. The dispersed sunlight washed over the bird, highlighting its mostly dark brown plumage. The white tipped tail feathers pointed straight back, looking like the rear of a lighted rocket. I could hear the turkey's wings beating furiously, and in a flash the creature was across the highway, through the Jones hayfield and into the undergrowth bordering the river.

After a time my mind reset and I remembered how the Navajo view turkeys as a savior of sorts. When the people were forced from the previous world by Water Creature's great flood, it was Turkey who was forward thinking. Making his way to the granary, Turkey carefully arrayed a pair of each seed type on his feathers. Thus burdened, Turkey proceeded to the growing reed; the escape route provided by two men who eventually becomes the Sun and the Moon. The foaming waters lapped at Turkey's tail-feathers as he scurried along, staining them forever white. This would serve as a constant reminder of his heroism. Because of his heavy load, Turkey was the last into the reed, narrowly making his escape. The seeds Turkey exported allowed the Navajo people to grow and prosper after emerging into this world. Turkey had saved the day and ensured their future.

As I sat on the steps, the sun dipped lower on the horizon and the shadows grew longer. Taking a deep breath, I sighed contentedly to myself. It was time to head north, up the highway to my warm, comfortable home and family, thus ensuring my own future. Life is good at the base of the Twin Rocks, good indeed.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

 

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Roots

“This is the desert after all”, I thought to myself as Grange and I sped along Interstate 70 towards Salina, Utah. He and I were heading for a wrestling tournament, the first of the season, and to get there we were traversing Utah east to west. My competitive period has long since expired, but Grange’s is just blossoming, so these days I am coach, cheerleader, driver, financial backer and emotional supporter; dad.

Bluff, UT Cottonwood Tree

Central Utah’s undulating, split, broken, up and down, rust-colored landscape was spectacular in the early evening. Asymmetrical rock castles, fortresses and temples emerged at every turn. Sandstone barricades pushed hundreds of feet into the air. Clouds raced across the skies, casting billowing shadows that cascaded across the land and painted an ever-changing, spectacularly visual, panorama. It was easy to see why landscape artists found this geography so inspiring. This is enchanted ground.

It has been dry in this part of the country, painfully dry. Parched is a term that comes to mind. Vegetation, always in short supply along this route, is almost unknown. A large front was, however, moving in. Snow would blanket the middle band of Utah before the night was over and I was hoping to miss the messiness by arriving at our intended destination before the surge. Icy pavement and storming semi tractor-trailers are a combination I avoid whenever possible.

At that point, however, the road was smooth, dry and well maintained, so we sailed through deep canyons and broad valleys with ease. “Like a bobsled on ice,” I thought to myself, and then hoped the analogy would not prove accurate. As we made our way west, the turquoise sky turned gray, then black. All the while, I scanned the horizon for a patch of green. There was none to be found.

As we crested the summit of a large, undulating hill, off in the distance I could see a swatch of shimmering gold highlighted against the increasing darkness. “Ah ha, a cottonwood,” I advised myself. In fact, it was a grove of cottonwoods, an entire family of settlers that had found a seep or underground aquifer. Somehow they or their ancestors had discovered the scarce resources necessary to thrive in this barren land and there they stood, majestic.

It made me think of the early pioneers who established Bluff, of the Navajo and of the community’s modern-day inhabitants too. Here, in the heart of the Colorado Plateau, where cactus, yucca and low scrubby plants predominate, these individuals also found the nutrients needed to form roots, leaf out and raise saplings. How or why is not easy to determine. In some cases it may have been as simple as fate, seeds deposited, a foothold gained, sunlight collected and limbs projected. For others, the explanation is more complex, spiritual maybe, at times clearly irrational. Whatever the reason, Bluff has grown its own grove in the center of this red rock desert.

Glancing over at Grange resting peacefully in the passenger seat next to me, I felt pleased my own seedlings had sprouted and nourished themselves in this trying climate. Not long hence, however, they will transplant themselves into a different environment, extending their feelers and engrafting onto another world. Their roots will, however, be forever grounded in the stark, natural beauty of the desert Southwest.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

 

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Just like Dale and Roy

The other day I was upstairs visiting Kathy in her office, lamenting that I did not have fodder for my bi-weekly story. Kathy listened patiently, and then kindly redirected me to the trading post, "Where the stories come to you." I thanked her for listening and departed through the Internet office, needling Danny as I walked past his desk and clumped down the stairs into the store. As I arrived on the main floor, I noticed Steve sitting on the tall chair behind the cash register, surveying the graveled parking lot. "Take a look at that couple," he said pointing with his lips, "they are all duded-up." Straining my neck to see out the plate glass windows, I searched among the cars to see what he meant. From where I stood, all I could see were two people moving along the base of the porch. They were on their way in, so all I needed to do was wait and watch. I moved over by Steve anticipating their arrival. Just then the Kokopelli doors flung open and in walked the reincarnation of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Steve and I said "Howdy" at the same time and expected a "Howdy Y'all" in return. What we got was "Bonjour."

Mathilde and her man on her right

As we watched, the couple circled the store while the Toby Keith song "Should've Been A Cowboy" reverberated through my brain. The man was tall, lean and, as far as women might be concerned, good looking. He had short hair of a deep brown color, slicked back with Dippity Doo, gel or something similar. He had exaggerated, almost Elvis, sideburns, full eyebrows and big dark eyes. He wore a tan shirt form the 1930's with brown accents and cactus and sunset designs embroidered about the shoulders, arms and chest. On his narrow hips he had a brown stamped leather belt graced with an antique silver buckle set with blue glass stones on each of its four corners. The belt and buckle held up a stiff new pair of Wrangler jeans rolled up a good ten inches at the cuff. A pair of brown cowboy boots completed his outfit.

The attractive young woman was outfitted to a much higher standard than her man. Her neck length blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and her bangs were doo'ed-up and flipped back in Cupie doll fashion. Intelligent and friendly brown eyes gazed upon us from a fair, clean, shiny complexion, her lips were full and painted ruby red. Antique silver earrings graced her ears. Steve and I had not met any real characters in a while and we figured we had an interesting story on the line, so we struck up a conversation, trying to learn their tale. The woman spoke English well, so it did not take long for us to learn that she had a passion for antique western clothing from the 1930s and '40s. She actually wore them each and every day, whether on vacation or not, and claimed she received much pleasure and good conversation from doing so. We discovered she had traded in a career in art/architecture for buying and selling antique clothing in her native France. I mentioned that my daughter McKale had also become enamored of the look and quality of vintage clothing when she discovered several dresses in the back of her grandmother Washburn's closet. We soon learned the woman's name was Mathilde and clothing was her life.

Mathilde showed off her outfit like a professional model. She wore a bright yellow western shirt embroidered with ruby red roses, green stems, black piping and snap buttons. Over the shirt was a gunmetal blue waistcoat. A pair of brown wool gabardine slacks with matching rose patterns and white piping graced her slender hips. On her feet was a pair of matching boots. Where Mathilde came up with a hand-made pair of vintage blue and yellow boots with rose accents one can only guess. Because he did not speak much English we never learned her beau's name or whether he really bought into the antique imagery thing or was just along for the ride, so to speak. It really didn't matter, because together, the couple was stylin'! Before the dynamic duo left, Mathilde found an old style silver belt buckle that fit her western belt. Her interest had once been focused on old Bakelite jewelry, but because Native American silver and turquoise went so well with western clothing styles, Mathilde was developing a strong interest in Southwestern wearable art. The buckle fit her requirements nicely, so she bought it. When we saw how nicely it displayed on her waist Steve and I whole-heartedly agreed with that assessment.

Life is never dull around Twin Rocks Trading Post. Without even trying, we stumble upon characters with ornate personalities. Often those who seem the most outrageous are the most fun and interesting to talk to. Mathilde and her sidekick were just that, fun and interesting. Mathilde quit a safe and lucrative job to follow her passion and live life in her preferred style. She was not afraid to express herself. I hope we can allow our children the confidence to search out and follow their dreams in order to discover a more fulfilling and fun-filled life. Thanks to Mathilde for helping us to see ourselves more clearly, and for giving me something to write about.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

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Chaos in a Basket

It was the 1990s, exactly when I do not remember. Damian Jim had been designing on his computer for a few years, and the contemporary Navajo basket revolution was ramping up. The weavings being brought into Twin Rocks Trading Post were uniquely exciting, and Barry and I were continuously amazed by their quality, quantity and diversity.

Navajo Chaos Basket - Lorraine Black (#224)

For us, the energy associated with the movement was unprecedented. Navajo baskets had become our passion. Mary Holiday Black, Elsie Holiday, Sally Black, Peggy Black, Joann Johnson and many other exceptional weavers came to see us regularly. The trading post was the center of an artistic vortex, the economy was steaming along and we all believed it would last forever.

Lorraine Black was positioning herself as one of our favorite artists. Not only did she design and weave extraordinary baskets, she was a lot of fun, laughing, joking and teasing whenever she arrived at the store. In return, we played practical jokes on her, talked about ancient traditions and explored Navajo culture through her eyes.

During that time, the storm clouds began to accumulate. Her marriage had hit the rocks, and the strain was beginning to show. Having recently gone through a difficult divorce of my own, I was sympathetic. While my wound was closing, hers was widening. The pain was revealed in her often teary her eyes and reflected in her lack of humor. She was obviously hurting, and there was not much we could do to help. Divorce is extremely personal, and those on the outside cannot comprehend what you feel on the inside. The best Barry, Priscilla and I could do was giving her a hug once in a while and support her art.

One afternoon I was in the store, doing reports, waiting on tourists and cleaning up when Lorraine dropped in with a weaving. I do not remember exactly why, maybe it was her emotions, maybe it was mine, but I recall the basket having enormous energy. Uncharacteristically, it did not have a unifying theme. Instead, there were many seemingly unrelated motifs, black and white alternating stitches and a positive-negative swirl. When she handed it to me I felt disoriented, a bit off balance. She said she felt the same, so we christened it the “Chaos Basket,” in honor of her state of mind.

The basket sold quickly, and over the years I have mentioned it, and its power, many times, wondering where it had gone. As the decades passed, Lorraine returned to her old self and we often pointed to that weaving as a reminder of what she was coping with at the time and how interesting it was that her emotions had been so accurately reflected in that particular basket.

A few months ago, one of our customers called with a question. He and his wife had retired and wanted to simplify their lives. Consequently, they were moving to a smaller home and selling a portion of their vast Southwest art collection. He wanted to know if I would be interested in repurchasing four or five baskets he had acquired from us. “Yes,” I said enthusiastically, “Kira and Grange, the Traders-in-Training, have a few extra dollars to invest and this seems a perfect fit.” So, the deal was struck.

After the baskets were delivered to the trading post, I showed them to Lorraine. At the bottom of the stack was one with an unusual variety of unrelated motifs, alternating black and white stitching and a positive-negative swirl. “It’s the Chaos Basket!” Lorraine shouted, and it was. I had failed to recognize it. Remembering how emotional the weaving was for us way back then, we were both surprised to discover we did not now have the same response. Our lives had changed, the world had moved on and time had closed the old wounds. The basket, however, stands as a snapshot of a very different time and how that period was captured in Lorraine’s art.

With warm regards,

Steve, Barry, 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!