Golden and Glorious

The last two weeks in October are the most beautiful time to be in Bluff. The temperatures have dropped and the world suddenly seems to have turned golden. Almost overnight, the cottonwood trees, which grow whenever they can find enough moisture to survive, are transformed into glorious shades of the brightest yellow imaginable.

We live in a land usually dominated by the soaring red rocks, brilliant blue sky, and green trees and plants that grow along the watercourses. The coming of autumn provides a new and more vivid palette as, almost overnight, the trees grow thick with brilliant shades usually associated with sunflowers.

The shorter days of fall cause the angle of the sun to slant shafts of light through the leaves, revealing their brilliant yellow tops and golden undersides. Cottonwoods, called teec by our Navajo neighbors, provide their main source of firewood for the winter months. It is the most commonly used wood for folk art carvers and, when dug up and dried, is the medium favored by Hopi kachina artists.

A visit to the San Juan River at nearby Sand Island reveals the entire valley alive with the golden hues. Wind blows through the tree branches and the entire scene comes alive with color and movement. Those floating down the river on their inflatable rafts, canoes, and kayaks are treated to an ever-changing display of nature at its most decorative.

Along the banks of the San Juan, when the sun drops far enough in the day to backlight the cottonwoods, an explosion of brightness lines the southern river bank. This seasonal display is special because it lasts such a short time. In less than two weeks, the season advances enough to strip the trees of their color, and then their leaves.

Since a brief freeze a few nights ago, our valley floor is now decorated by the formerly brilliant leaves. For the next few months, before they decay and blow away, we are treated to a carpet of burnished old- gold cottonwood leaves. We know we face several months of bare branches, but come spring, a new canopy of green growth will provide us with shade and rustling noises. Along with the new growth, we will also recall that special time of the year when the yellow cottonwood leaves decorate the landscape of Bluff, Utah.

It’s All About the Story

So, there I was a few years ago at the wedding of one of our nephews on Jana’s side when my brother-in-law’s brother-in-law, which I believe makes him our other-in-law, pulled up a chair and sat down next to me. Jana speculated he probably had heard how fascinating I am and wanted to get in on the action. She is usually right about such things, so I told her I thought her conclusion was accurate. She just nodded her head and smiled knowingly.

My new companion looked like a conservative middle-of-the-road type, maybe even a right-leaning Trump supporter. The celebration had, however, been pretty lively up to that point, so I didn’t know what to expect. As it turns out, he is a Mormon, converted at 18, and actively pursuing the faith ever since. Surely his boat, as my nephew’s newly minted mother-in-law is inclined to say, “was going under the bridge straight and true.” Having spent the overwhelming majority of my life in Mormon Country, I try to keep my vessel straight and true, too. Unfortunately, mine tends to wander and is often caught up in the eddies of everyday life.

Once my new friend declared his religious affiliation, I was comfortable our discussion would at least be lucid. He looked like he had a few tales to tell, and I thought under the right circumstances he might spark up and become a real adventure. At this stage in my life, interesting is my watchword, and I actively seek out intriguing people, places, and things. Because of my close connection to Utah, I am fascinated with Mormon culture and welcome any insight I can gain, so I took a big gulp of my tonic water and jumped right in.

Turns out this guy is a real gem, the genuine article when it comes to storytelling. He had been a Navy pilot during the last days of Vietnam and was involved in a few skirmishes. Fortunately for him, and his unborn children, the battles officially ended shortly after his arrival. That, however, did not prevent him from accumulating a couple good narratives. Nothing too risky or risqué, but he did see a few bullets fly and was involved in an explosion or two.

“It’s all about the story,” he said as we discussed his military adventures, his affiliation with the Mormon Church, and the teaching position he held in the Georgia school system. As a teacher, he interacted with students from a variety of social and economic backgrounds. ROTC was his specialty and he loved his pupils, working hard to give them the tools necessary to survive in contemporary society. He said for a majority of his students there was an unfortunate lack of fiscal and monetary knowledge; an overwhelming difficulty mapping future needs and desires; and an almost total disregard for how decisions made today impact one’s future. I mentioned I see some of the same characteristics in local artists.

Despite his somewhat bleak commentary, he did have inspiring examples of success, which reminded me of Mary Holiday Black. She, in spite of significant cultural obstacles, became one of the most important contemporary Native artists in the United States. Mentioning the weaving of Elsie Holiday, whom I believe is the best contemporary Navajo basket maker, I realized an interesting narrative might be developed from our experiences at Twin Rocks Trading Post.

Beginning to think our journey might be molded into an epic tale, I imagined a book deal, a TV series, and maybe even a feature-length film. All we needed was a healthy dose of creative embellishment. My other-in-law had noted it was “about the story”; he never said it had to be the true or accurate story. So, I began thinking we might need to invent a few crazy customers and some implausible circumstances to really get things started. When I mentioned it to Jana, she pointed out we had already made up countless unbelievable characters, told more than our share of canards, and invented volumes of extraordinary events that never really happened. Forget Pawn Stars, she said; you can be the Non-Star.

“Shop in Utah” Lifeline

For the first time ever, Twin Rocks Trading Post and twinrocks.com will be offering a 30% discount off the listed retail price of all arts and crafts from local artists. These deductions will be good until the end of the year. Our current difficulties and the federal government’s efforts to save small businesses have made this possible. Here is the reason why:

The look on her face worried me. News of the COVID-19 pandemic had just recently arrived in Bluff, and everyone was frightened. Not just of the virus, but also the economic devastation trailing not far behind. How were we going to manage the health, safety, and financial issues brought on by this illness? Nobody knew, nobody even understood what questions to ask. 

Jessie had come into the trading post with Navajo folk art to sell. Unfortunately, we, like many others, realized the available resources had to be shepherded and the checkbook was locked down. “Nobody is buying,” she said, her voice cracking. “Yes, I know,” I replied. “This is going to be bad.” That was March of this year, and memories of the 2008 Great Recession were still fresh. Many of us were just recovering from its effects and feeling comfortable about undertaking new ventures. That crisis was hard on artists; this one looked to be catastrophic.

As the months dragged on, I have continuously worried about artists like Jessie, wondering how they can sustain themselves when their primary source of income vanished overnight. Of course, ours had as well, but we have alternatives not available to most craftspeople. We could wait this one out, they couldn't. Help would be needed, and it didn’t look like any was immediately forthcoming. For the basket makers, rug weavers, folk carvers, silversmiths, and others we had seen on an almost daily basis, this was looking like a matter of survival.

Rick, Priscilla, and I schemed to support some of the artists, but we knew we could not possibly help them all. Then the federal government signed the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Securities (CARES) Act into law, and money began to flow to small businesses like Twin Rocks Trading Post. Our first grant application to the Governor’s Office of Economic Development (GOED), which was a conduit for federal CARES funding, was to address hunger relief for local families. That “Shop in Utah” grant involved partnering with St. Christopher’s Mission and Whitehorse High School, and has so far provided over 10,000 meals to hungry individuals.

Having set hunger relief in motion, we are now working on assistance to local artists. Twin Rocks Trading Post has always had a close association with Southwest art and artists, so this was a natural for us. When the second round of “Shop in Utah” grants was announced by GOED, we devised a plan to offer our customers a 30% discount on all retail items in the trading post. The grant money would replace the revenue associated with the discount and that funding would be reallocated to purchase art by local artists. It seems a little complicated, but it’s not really. It works like this: If an item carries a retail price of $100.00, the customer can purchase it for $70.00. The $30.00 discount is reimbursed by the “Shop in Utah” grant, and Twin Rocks allocates that same $30.00 rebate to buy local art. Everybody wins.

So, here is the good news: Beginning October 15, 2020, and concluding December 31, 2020, by purchasing art from Twin Rocks Trading Post, you are entitled to a 30% discount off the retail price. In addition to the deduction, you will be helping not only keep art and artists alive and working, but hopefully will also stimulate new and innovative avenues of artistic expression. No longer will Jessie and her fellow artists have to be told, “Sorry, we simply cannot buy your work.” So, call, write, send a smoke signal. We are here to help you help local artists. There is no time to waste.

They Are People, Too!

As a young man, I developed a serious aversion to pulling weeds.  Maybe it was because no matter how many you extracted, there were always more coming up.  Whatever the reason, I hate that job and studiously avoid it when possible.  The other day, I noticed I had put off attending to the ever-increasing patch in front of the trading post longer than I should and the noxious plants demanded attention. The morning was bright and sunny, so I decided it was time to act.

Pulling on my working gloves, I grabbed a milk crate and sat down in front of the trading post to remove goat heads and cheat grass.  About that time, a restored 1969 Chevy Chevelle convertible pulled up a few feet away. The stereo, which was set to LOUD, blasted out Sly and the Family Stone’s Every People, a song released about the same time the car was originally manufactured. “There is a yellow one that won’t accept the black one, that won’t accept the red one, that won’t accept the white one,” Sly and the family vocalized.

The driver of the Chevy wore a loose-fitting tie-dyed T-shirt emblazoned with a peace sign, looked a bit like Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead, and likely had come of age during the 1960s. He leaned over, gave me a friendly wink, switched off the car, and headed into the cafe for breakfast. As I sat there uprooting unwanted plants and scrutinizing this visitor from the era of Vietnam, LSD, free love, and Woodstock, a beat-up reservation car lurched to a stop just west of where I sat.

Two stylish Navajo women got out of the jalopy and headed my way. Sitting down on one of the boulders next to me, they asked, “Do you know where Lena Poyer lives?” “Of course, I do,” I responded. “I used to buy rugs from her.” “She lives over there,” I said, pursing my lips in the Navajo custom and indicating southwest towards the reservation.

One of the women explained she was Lena’s relative, but had not seen her in decades. The woman had moved away to live among the “whites.” Feigning disappointment, I said, “Really, you left us for those guys?” “Yea,” she said, “I married one, too. My kids are half. Even my nullies (grandchildren from your son) are white.” This time I acted even more disappointed that she had traded the reservation for the Anglo world. 

The woman seemed to have assumed I was serious, and that I was at least part Navajo. Maybe it was my Portuguese ancestry, which gives me a darker skin tone, or maybe it was the way I indicated direction with my lips. In any case, she looked at me in earnest and said, “Well, they are people, too!”

The Navajo ladies left to continue the search for their long-lost relative, and a few minutes later my visitor from the 1960s strolled out to his car and fired it up. As he backed out into the street, the stereo kicked in and I heard Sly singing, “We got to live together.” I couldn’t help thinking that insight often comes at the most unexpected times and from the most uncommon messenger.