Customers to Twin Rocks Trading Post all too often ask, “How
can you live in such a small town? Don’t you get bored?” Although Barry and
Priscilla generally try to stop me, I, all too often, reply, “No, only boring
people get bored!” Like Kira and Grange when I give them similar advice, the
inquisitors shake their heads and look at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
At times like that I am inclined to continue with, “I’m just
sitting here watching the wheels go round and round.” Quoting John Lennon songs
to our patrons, like sending letters expressing controversial opinions to the
editor of the local paper, always sets Barry off. Consequently, I try, most
often unsuccessfully, to restrain myself. Barry worries I will eventually alienate
the entire southeastern Utah population of travelers and permanent residents. If
that happens, he argues, there will be no more sales of Navajo rugs and
turquoise bracelets, and no Navajo tacos or hamburgers either. Then the
mortgage goes into default and it’s the breadline for these two over-50, unemployable Indian traders. “Well, we have been poor before”, I remind him. That,
however, gives him little comfort. Barry, being a worrier, takes no solace in
Oscar Wilde, who said, “The only thing worse than being talked about is
not being talked about.”
One has to wonder about the experiences of those inquiring
individuals. What is it they see when they look around Bluff? Can they only
comprehend what is absent; congestion, stoplights, big box stores, miles and
miles of asphalt, and not what is actually here? Is their view so narrow they
cannot imagine what it feels like waking to extreme quiet and absolute peace? Do
they overlook the extraordinary sunrises and sunset, unobstructed by manmade
obstacles and layers of pollution? Do they not see the smiles on our faces,
rather than stress lines etched deeply into our physicality? Do they not
comprehend the slow pace, which allows us to more thoroughly enjoy the people
and things we come into contact with each day?
On the recent Thanksgiving day I was happily reminded what
it means to live in rural America. Jana had gone to Albuquerque to visit her 96
year old mother, so Grange and I were left to manage the domestic empire. We
were boiling and mashing potatoes in preparation of the annual Simpson family
feast, discussing proper ingredients and desirable consistency, when I stepped
outside to get a breath of fresh air and cool my jets. As I did, in stereo I
heard, “Hi Steve!”
Coming west on lonely Mulberry Street were Francisca,
Santiago and Molly, tweens or early teens who have been raised in this
community and who roam freely among its residents and through its landscape. “Hi
guys”, I responded, excited to see them, “Happy Thanksgiving.” They steered
themselves into the yard and each in turn gave me a hearty hug. I tousled
Santiago’s newly mown hair and thought, “You’re not going to get that in the
big city, where every child is taught ‘stranger danger’ and every parent is
paranoid.” While I understand and appreciate the concerns, I am pleased that
here in the heartland we have more freedom to honestly and openly express our
affection and love for each other.
When Francisca was just a little girl, during lunch at Twin
Rocks Cafe, she would abandon her mother in favor of the trading post. Upon
arrival, she would climb up on the high stool in front of our computer and say,
“What we going to look at today Steve?” We then proceeded to google elephants,
tigers, polar bears and any number of other exotic animals or current events
she wanted to know more about. After a while Jen, her mother, would come
looking. She always knew where to find us. Our research lasted several years,
and to this day Francisca, even though she is now a young woman, gives me a hug
whenever we meet.
Maybe if those visitors to Twin Rocks who misunderstand life
in this small town had similar experiences they no longer would question the
logic of living in tiny communities like this. Of course, if they did there would
be nobody left to populate the cities. Let us give thanks.
