As I peddled south the sun dipped below Comb Ridge and I
began thinking about the trading post, finding myself laughing out
loud. Realizing how ridiculous I must look, I quickly checked the road to
ensure nobody had seen my fit of laughter. I worried that anyone witnessing the
episode would assume I had ridden myself insane.

In the past, Lorraine and her sister-in-law Peggy Black have used the coyote motif in conjunction with horned toads to illustrate how Coyote attempted to relieve the toad of his clean hogan and well-kept farm. In the children's story relating to the incident, despite Coyote's persistence, Horned Toad refused to voluntarily surrender the land. After becoming frustrated with the circumstances, Coyote devoured the toad and went inside the hogan to inspect his newly acquired property. Having been swallowed whole, Horned Toad decided to pull the trickster's vital organs until he killed the thief and reclaimed his farm.
Lorraine and I unsuccessfully searched the cases for a suitable fetish. After a while, she said, "Hey wait, what's that?" I told her it was a badger fetish and wouldn't work for what she wanted. As she inspected the carving, I could see the wheels begin to turn. She was about to give birth to a new tradition.
Navajo culture tends to be somewhat fluid and this was going to be one of those times when adaptation carried the day. So, as Lorraine began sewing the carving onto the basket, she also fabricated a story to convince me Badger was an appropriate individual for the design. In the end, we had a good laugh and the tradition of Coyote eating Horned Toad became the story of Badger and the trickster.
A few days later, I was engaged in cleaning up a mess in the showroom while Barry talked to a young couple about Navajo baskets. I noticed him reach for the Badger/Horned Toad basket and begin telling the story of Horned Toad's clean hogan and nice farm. Apparently, he had not realized how tradition had migrated or how Horned Toad had become Badger. Not wanting to embarrass him in the middle of his sales pitch, I waited until later to note the change.
As I continued down the road thinking about the basket, Barry's sales pitch, and the migratory nature of Navajo culture, I was reminded of an experience I once had with mercury. I was probably 16 years old and had acquired a small amount of this fascinating liquid metal. I was enchanted by it, and after a day of sloshing it around in my hand, watching it move in beautifully fluid motion, seeing it separate into small balls, and rejoin into one large pool, I wound up on the silversmith bench at Bluff City Trading. It struck me that I needed to know what happened if I put the mercury under a flame. Since it was already liquid, I wondered what would happen when it was heated. Had I not slept through high school science, I would have already known the answer to this mystery.
Barry distracted me before I was able to fire up the torch, so I never completed my experiment. Sometime later I mentioned my project to one of our silversmiths who said I had been fortunate not to have finished the job. He informed me the mercury would have vaporized and probably found its way into my lungs, killing me almost instantly. That memory caused me to consider Navajo culture and how it moves like the mercury in shimmering, constant motion. The beauty of the liquid metal is the beauty of the Navajo culture; they are both forever moving, changing, and evolving to fit the circumstances. Fortunately, however, when properly managed, neither element is fatal.

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