Tied to the Post - Twin Rocks Trading Post

Bill's Dragon

2012-01-27T13:00:00.004-07:00

The other evening, Milan, one of my favorite building contractors, stopped by to measure the shower door in our downstairs bathroom. This "man cave" shower has been leaking, and Laurie wants it repaired or replaced. She despises mold and mildew, and believes I need to be more active when it comes to ridding the planet of this ever-expanding scourge. Because of my more liberal nature when it comes to such issues, there is a girl’s restroom upstairs and the man cave tucked into a corner of the basement. The term, "You spawn it, you live with it," is often heard around our house, most often directed at me. As we were joking about such things, Milan mentioned he might be in need of an assistant sheet rock hanger. He has been working with Steve and Jana on the renovation of the Lemuel Harrison Redd Jr. house, and they are at that phase in the project. Their goal is to bring the sandstone residence, which was built in 1900, up to contemporary standards while maintaining its original pioneer feel.

Old House

The term sheet rock brought back memories from 1975, when my parents began building Blue Mountain Trading Post. Through their careful and frugal management of the Plateau gas station and second-hand store, which was located on the south side of Blanding, Duke and Rose scrimped together enough money to purchase a three acre parcel of land from Harv and Hattie Butler. Grandpa Woody brought in his rebuilt Caterpillar tractor and terraced the land to perfection. Dad bought 1,800 sheets of 3/4" plywood from a small factory near Cortez, Colorado for $2.00 per sheet and bargained for several additional bundles of building materials from other vendors. Scott Hurst was hired to pour a 50' x 100' concrete foundation, and Jim Foy, from Moab, was brought in to frame-up the heavy-duty shell and finish the outside. Kenny Mortenson plumbed the place. At that point I recall dad saying, "There you go boys, I've done all I can. Finish-er' up." "Sink or swim" was his motto.

Since it would allow them an additional venue to sell their wares, even the artists we had been working with at the filling station were excited about the build. At the time we were buying and selling genuine Ute arrows from John Dutchie, flutes by Billy Mike and wonderfully unique baskets woven by Susan Whyte, Rachel Eyetoo and Rosemary Lang. James Tapaha, Rose Philips and Wallace Toney, talented Navajo silversmiths, provided jewelry, as did the Taylor brothers and Peck Wood from Bluff. At one point dad traded the Ford pick-up truck I had inherited from him for $6,000.00 worth of jewelry. Having completed the transaction with the Taylor boys, he informed me, "We need inventory son. You're young, you can walk." I remember old Espie Jones laughing out-loud about that deal. "Your fadder, he's an Indian gibber!" said Espie. Leave it to the Navajo to twist the term. These and many others often stopped in to check our progress and ask, "Is it done yet?"

As he could dad found locals who were handy in the work of the day and hooked us up so we could learn from them. This was the summer of my senior year, which meant I was eligible for the work release program. I would check into school in the morning, work through the afternoon and attend football, wrestling, track or tennis practice in the evenings. Life was busy, educational and, in a word, good. When it came time to sheet rock the interior of the building, dad teamed me with Bill Acton. As I recall, Bill was a retired sailor who returned to dry land and became a local handyman. I was young and strong at the time and figured I could work this old gruffer under the bench. Bill put me through the paces, however, letting me do most of the heavy lifting. His job, as he put it, "Was in the details." He was a practical joker, pulling juvenile but effective tricks like shaking sodas and salting powdered donuts.

Bill was a short man, 5' 6" at best, roundly built and blessed with an active sense of humor. He was quick to point out any flaws one might have. As we were sheet rocking the ceiling, he would set the height of the scaffolding to suit his needs and expect me to adjust my taller frame by hunching over. When I suggested an adjustment and a step stool for him, he laughed in his jolly way and said, "The comfort should be mine, because quality is in the details boy, in the details."

The day I met Bill's dragon it was stifling hot. Bill and I were lifting 4' x 10' sheets of plasterboard to the ceiling, holding it in place with the tops of our heads and nailing it into place. As a result, my head was bruised and battered. To this day, I can feel the hurt. Having put the latest piece in place, I jumped down from the scaffolding to grab another sheet and pass it up to Bill. The old-timer took the brief respite to strip off his sweat-soaked Navy sweatshirt. That is when I saw it, a huge oriental dragon emblazoned across the entire upper torso of the old bounder. I was so surprised by the tattoo that I nearly dropped the super-sized sheet of sheet rock.

The dragon was fiercely impressive, with brilliant colors of ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue, golden citrine and the brilliant orange of a Padparasha sapphire. For a brief moment I envisioned Bill in his prime. He would have been short but well muscled, with a full head of hair and an attitude to carry-off that radical tattoo. I looked at Bill standing there in all his bare-chested glory, puffed-up and waiting for a compliment. I thought of how he had made fun of me and said, "Dang Bill that must have been one impressive dragon in its day." Bill visibly deflated. Remembering his juvenile tricks, I twisted the knife even more, saying, "That poor old cuss looks more like a withered lizard than a dragon." Pushing a little too far, I continued, "He's all wrinkly, hairy and out of shape. Kinda sad and homely if you ask me." Bill guffawed at my caustic comments and said, "If you were only man enough to bear one of these babies!" "Man enough?" I said, "Your once manly figure is looking rather matronly these days. Put your shirt on pal, the locals don't like snakes; you'll scare them away." Bill laughed out loud, and from that day until we finished the job, in an effort to upset my sensibilities, he took every opportunity to show the dragon.

That year I learned a lot about quality, workmanship and attention to detail. I also learned to appreciate unique characters and love them for who they are. As Milan was leaving he said, "I'll be in touch when it comes time to sheet rock Steve's house." "Yeah, well about that", I said, "You don't have any tattoos do you?" Milan looked at me strangely, trying to decipher my meaning, while Laurie became out-right embarrassed. "Never mind", I said, "you need someone young, less mouthy; someone strong and willing to absorb the details." Milan was still confused, but Laurie said, "Exactly that!" and ushered Milan out the door before I could embarrass her further.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Hot Air

2012-01-20T10:33:00.002-07:00

Earlier this week Jana asked me to drive her to St. Christopher’s. She had left her vehicle at the mission while participating in a Martin Luther King Day celebration, which involved marching two miles from the church to the Bluff Community Center. Driving east towards the mission we encountered a large flock of goats and a smaller grouping of sheep wandering the narrow roadway. As always, the animals appeared completely at ease, oblivious to the speeding traffic and seemingly without a care in the world.

Bluff International Balloon Festival

“Just as it would not be Chinle without horses grazing at the intersection, it would not be Bluff without herds of sheep and goats meandering the mission road”, Jana said, shaking her head in wonder. To be sure, there are certain things that define our small town, and wooly livestock that bleat and bawl is one of them. Another is the Bluff International Balloon Festival.

Last Friday, Saturday and Sunday was the 14th annual event, and, as always, it was memorable. On Friday and Saturday the pilots, 25 in all, flying balloons with names like Basketcase, Skywalker, Breezy Rider and Levity, launched in Bluff. On Sunday, the balloons lifted off from Valley of the Gods.

As the brightly colored, hot air fueled inflatables meandered through our red rock landscape on slow currents of chilly air, I was reminded of our first festival. At that celebration we had but one balloon. The pilot, who had been invited to come test the waters, elected to put up in Valley of the Gods. A half dozen Bluff residents, hopeful the flyer would enjoy our town enough to return with his friends, tagged along. As the balloon probed the spires of the valley, hopping from one to another, the Bluff citizenry stood by. In their faces the excitement and anticipation shown brightly. Each was anxious to hear what the balloonist would say when he landed. “Fantastic, beautiful, extraordinary,” he exclaimed as he put down, echoing the emotions we all held for this rugged land. It was then we knew we might have a winner.

The following January more balloons arrived and the festival began to grow. That year as I stood next to a basket awaiting directions to climb in for my maiden voyage, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a fast moving object.

It turned out to be Fran, one of our friends from Bluff, who had decided she could wait no longer to go up. Having made that decision, she threw caution to the wind. Seeing her heading directly for me with head down and arms waiving, I sidestepped just in time to miss being bowled over as she tumbled headfirst into the basket. As she tumbled in, she shouted, “Outta’ the way, I have always wanted to go up in one of these things.”

Once my surprise subsided, I had to admit to being thoroughly impressed with the agility and determination of this sixty-something woman. Everyone agreed Fran would not and should not be dislodged, so the pilot put gas to burner and up they shot; his passenger smiling so broadly she resembled the Cheshire Cat.

Although I had to wait until the following year for my inaugural flight, I have now flown on several occasions, with a variety of pilots. Each time I marvel at the peaceful feeling that washes over me as we sail slowly over these ancient sandstone reefs with the magnificent people who fly those magnificently awkward contraptions.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

History

2012-01-13T12:53:00.005-07:00

Over the Christmas holiday my family and I had the opportunity to drive down the Butler Wash road. My wife's twin sister Lisa and her husband Wade were visiting, McKale was out of school, Spenser and Alyssa were home from college and Grandma Washburn popped in from Monticello. The day was clear, bright and beautiful, with high wispy clouds and a slight nip in the air. It seemed the perfect opportunity to get out and enjoy the natural world. Alyssa, McKale and I took the Toyota Tundra, while everyone else piled into the big ol' king cab Chevrolet pick-up truck owned by "Uncle Wado". We drove south from Blanding to Shirttail Corner, where Highways 191 and 95 intersect. One of my first jobs, other than within the Simpson family enterprise, was working for Holly Vowell in the gas station located at this junction. It was there I decided it best to work with family.

While I reminisced about how Wayne, my boyhood buddy, and I had attempted to discover where each back road in this part of the county would take us, Alyssa drove the Tundra west through the twist, into Westwater Canyon, across the mesa to Zeke's Hole and through Cottonwood Wash. During that time Wayne and I put a lot of rough, tough miles on my Toyota 4x4 pick-up. Although we saw a lot of back country, and placed ourselves in numerous precarious predicaments, we barely scratched the surface of the huge and varied landscape. McKale asked if we were near the location where her Mormon ancestors had shot Old Posey in the rump. This led us to discuss the reasons why the last Indian uprising in San Juan County occurred and how it eventually played out. Tongue-in-cheek, I told McKale and Alyssa that their mother's side of the family had always been, and would likely always be, causing people a fiery hot and fearful pain in the hip pocket. The girls immediately came to their mother's defense, claiming to be excruciatingly aware of my personal history, and finally concluding that my ancestors must have somehow been responsible for the entire incident.

The argument went on until we pulled off the highway and onto the Butler Wash dirt track. There I changed the subject by pointing out Black Mesa rising up in the east. In the late 1960s and into the early 1970s, this was the site of a Pershing missile tracking station managed by the United States Army. The foundation of the main building was still in place. At least it was the last time I was up there, some 20 years ago. The girls made me promise to take them to the mesa sometime soon. As we traveled south, we admired the numerous and varied rumpled humps of Comb Ridge off to our right and the twisting meandering Butler Wash that runs between the road and the ridge. I reminded the girls how Navajo people view Comb Ridge as sacred, because it is considered the carcass of the Great Snake. According to Navajo legend, the snake remains frozen in time and place. To our left were the most attractive coves and buttes butting up against White Mesa. This is the western boundary of Ute tribal lands. Because of interactions through the Blue Mountain Trading Post, our family was familiar with many people living there, both presently and historically.

As a group we pulled off the road several times to let Millie, the Jackson's dog, run and to get out and touch our surroundings. You really need to dig your fingers and toes into the good earth, smell the vegetation and lean against the sandstone to get a sense of this country. In my opinion, you must see it, feel it, touch it and taste it. That's what I'm talkin' about.

It wasn't long before we came to an intersection that split the path. "Which way?" asked Alyssa. I thought of the road south that would eventually connect with Highway 163 west of Bluff and recalled a bicycle ride I took from Blanding to Bluff several years back. I remembered coming to this same spot and trying to decide which way to turn. The sand in the road had been getting progressively deeper, but back then I was tough. Undaunted, I veered to the right and free-wheeled it south, making slow progress peddling through the blow sand covering the roadway. The arduous journey allowed me plenty of time to contemplate my sanity and strength, or lack there of. It was not long before the two meager water bottles I had allowed myself for the journey were bone dry. By the time I made the intersection and pounded out the remaining four highway miles into Bluff I was exhausted and completely dehydrated. I stopped at the K&C Trading Post and purchased a tall, ice cold soft drink to quench my thirst. It was at that point I learned Pepsi does not rehydrate you when you are parched. Instead, it will likely give you a hurtful case of hiccups.

Navajo German Town Basket with Emergence Center -Elsie Holiday (#313)

"East," I said to Alyssa, "let's go see the cleft in the earth and look upon signature rock." "Alrighty then," said the girls in unison. Those in the Chevrolet followed closely behind. We soon came to Decker Ranch and parked our vehicles near the slot canyon. As usual, Spenser headed straight for the edge of the precipice, looking for the quickest way in. Everyone else was more cautious, not wanting to plunge in and become skinned or wedged. McKale had her Nikon out taking pictures and recording our trip. Looking into that canyon caused me to consider its deep, dark, moist interior. I could see why early Native American people believed places like this were emergence centers. We walked over to the slick rock at the southeastern edge of the slot and saw several generations of signatures etched into the wall. Because of our history and heritage, we were familiar with many of the names. We discussed the triumph and tragedy they had faced and wondered if anyone would remember us and just what our legacy may be.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Intersections

2012-01-06T13:55:00.005-07:00

As I have progressed along my now somewhat lengthy journey through life, I have begun to notice more and more intersections. Not just the dirt, asphalt or concrete type, but also those where ideas, concepts and people merge.

The Simpson's: Grange, Kira, Jana, Steve

Geographically Barry and I can usually be found where U.S. Highway 191 meets Utah State Route 162, Bluff, Utah U.S.A. For many years, however, we have adhered to the philosophically that Twin Rocks Trading Post is located at the intersection of tradition and innovation. For us, this principal illustrates our fundamental belief that the best contemporary art melds traditional values with contemporary methods.

We see this in the silversmithing of master craftsman Allison Lee, whose bracelets, squash blossom necklaces, bolo ties and buckles have a clean look that is literally timeless. It is also apparent in the Navajo basketry of Elsie Holiday, who weaves designs that incorporate motifs from a variety of diverse cultures.

During the Christmas holiday Jana and I took Kira and Grange to the Yellowstone Snow Lodge. Since Grange aged out of the Santa phase, thinking that memories last longer than presents, our family has focused on experiences rather than gifts. This has proven to be a great change.

Once our term at the lodge expired, we had plans to drive to Boise, Idaho to see Bill Grange, the man for whom our son was named, and two of Jana’s old friends. As we sat at the intersection just outside of Jackson, Wyoming, debating whether to brave the heavy snow of Teton Pass or head for the comfort of home, I was strongly in favor of the route leading back to Bluff. Jana, on the other hand, was adamant we should be courageous and strike out over the mountains.

Since the kids were also split, Jana and I had a go at the game of Paper, Rock, Scissors, which I promptly lost. Consequently, with the Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken, snowplows and slippery surfaces in mind, over the snowy trail we went. As it turned out, the pass was steep and short and the valley below mild, so we were not long in bad conditions.

Once we reached Boise, we had an extraordinary visit with Bill, who is 93 years old and as active as any 60 year old I know. We also had an equally good time with Jana’s buddies at their home near McCall, Idaho. This experience reminded me that courage is often richly rewarded and that timidity and the safety and comfort of home is not where real adventure lies. As Robert Frost said:

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

May this be a happy and courageous new year for us all.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

No Reservations Required

2011-12-23T18:49:00.003-07:00

Not so very long ago, just south of the San Juan River, in the Navajo Nation, there came into being a badger. After a time the youngster was put out of the family den and began looking to settle a territory of his own. He bid his parents a sad but fond "ha'goo'nee" and trotted off in a westerly direction. After several days of travel across mesa and around monuments, the badger came upon a large expanse of metal objects. The accumulation included oil-encrusted and dirt-impregnated car parts of every description, heavy duty bed springs, bent and twisted patio furniture, appliances of most makes and models and office furniture in every state of disrepair. The collection seemed vast to the badger. What he saw as junk was spread across an expanse of aridly depressed and pebble-populated flat land. Smack dab in the middle of all the rusty implements and pitted iron rested a well kept hogan; a large lodge pole framework for a summer shade; a small and immaculately maintained, freshly painted stick-built home; and a 20' x 30' galvanized Quonset hut packed to the gunwales with tools. The badger was intrigued with the place, and fascinated by the cluttered-uncluttered contrast, so he decided to move in, post haste.

The Twin Rocks Team

The badger located the stripped-down framework of a 1969 Mustang fastback, went inside to explore the possibilities and found them satisfactory. Through an opening in the floor pan he began excavating a burrow. The thoughtful creature figured the old car would protect him from sun and storm on the top side and in the burrow deep within the good earth he could escape the extremes of heat and cold. As the badger dug, he heard a ferocious growl just outside his door. Stepping out of the car, he came face-to-face with a junkyard dog. The dog was mid-sized and well muscled, his hackles were raised and he seemed ready to fight. The badger sank low to the ground and bared his teeth, as if to say, "Okay Buster, if you want it, come and get it!" Sensing the challenge, the dog lunged. The fight really didn't last long. As the dog shot forward the badger neatly side-stepped the oncoming animal and clamped down on its nose. With razor sharp canines and a fierce determination, the badger held firm. The poor mutt let out a mournful howl of pain, struggled halfheartedly, laid down and gave up. The badger shook the pup one last time for good measure and released the Curr. Turning his back on his outmatched opponent, the badger kicked dirt in the pup's face and returned to the vehicle. Realizing there was a new sheriff in town, the junk yard dog ran off licking his wounded snot box and never returned for a rematch.

The badger settled into a daily routine of cruising the yard for mice and prairie dogs in the early morning light. He slept during mid-day, and in the late afternoon and early evening hours watched the man and woman work around the house and in the shop. By listening to the many visitors the couple met with, the badger soon discovered the names of his new neighbors. The woman, Betty Shorty, was small and sturdy, with thinning salt and pepper hair which she pulled back tightly in a traditional bun. She had a habit of singing traditional songs in a loud, clear voice as she scouted for parts her husband needed to finish one job or another. She was quite a sight walking through that mess in her brightly colored velveteen blouse and satin skirt. Betty was quite fond of her man. In fact, she thought him the most generous and helpful human being in the Four Corners region. Most everyone else agreed, because Ben Shorty was a gifted mechanic and fabricator who freely shared his talents. He was known to his friends as "Old Ben". Old Ben was 70-something years of age, tall and lean, with a ready smile for all people. Ben was laid back and easy going. Ben and Betty were good together.

Ben and Betty had become widely known for their benevolent nature. They were often visited by people seeking help to keep vehicles running, repair broken-down equipment and . . . well just about anything to do with metal. If Ben did not have a needed part or piece in his yard, nine times out of ten times he could fabricate it on the spot. Betty was a fabulous "finder" and cook. Her mutton stew and fry bread were considered the best in the land. The badger found it fascinating to climb onto the cab of an ancient Mac truck and, with a bird's eye view into his shop, watch as Ben worked his magic. He also loved to see Betty search out parts and pieces in the yard. It was amazing how that couple loved people and how they shared their talents so freely. Ben and Betty soon became aware of the badger and discovered his new home. They steered clear of the Mustang, believing the creature was a brother to be welcomed into their world. Except for a nonexistent social life, the badger was content.

Soon the weather began to turn cold, and snow came to the high desert Southwest. The badger appreciated his hot rod hovel even more because the windows in the Mustang allowed the car to warm up nicely during the day. The badger could not resist watching Ben and Betty work, and was continually amazed at what the old man created with his hands, a torch and a little metal. One day Betty drove herself to town in their Dodge truck. When she returned, along with many bags of groceries, there was a spruce tree in the back. The badger thought that quite odd, but was even more confused when Betty dragged the tree into the house. Ben was working in his shop, but soon followed Betty inside. From his perch on the cab of the Mac truck, the badger watched contentedly as Ben and Betty decorated the tree. As the sun set they finished their chore, and when dusk settled onto their home the Navajo couple lit up their Christmas tree. The badger stayed up late into the night, bedazzled by the colorful, twinkling lights.

The badger must have fallen asleep there on the cab of the Mac truck, enchanted by the lights of the Shorty's Christmas tree. Sometime between midnight and morning, the badger was awakened by a loud scraping noise coming from the train rock monument located just east of the Shorty compound. It sounded as if something had ricocheted off the sandstone spires. The badger jumped up and turned toward the clamor, seeing an explosion of sparks and hearing the crunch of metal arising from the bottom of the nearby arroyo. Out of the ravine lurched a group of odd looking deer harnessed to a crumpled red and chrome sleigh. For a brief moment the team and sleigh seemed to pause in midair, then it plunged back toward earth. The deer dug in their heels and slowed the rig just enough to keep it from slamming into the dirt. In a spray of rocky soil and a cloud of red dust, the team made a quasi crash-landing right there in the Shorty family yard.

The badger stood there amazed. He heard a loud sigh of relief come from the sled and turned to look upon a funny little man dressed in red velveteen trimmed in white faux fur. The jolly elf sported a snow white beard and mustache. "That was a close call," chuckled the little man, smiling brightly and winking at the badger. Then he sprang from the sleigh and comforted the nervously prancing reindeer. In their night clothes Ben and Betty exploded from the house and into the yard to see what was the matter. "Santa Claus?" they said in unison. "Hello my good friends" said the man, "I am in dire need of help. Can I count on you?" The Shorty's nodded an acknowledgment, and Santa smiled in a bright and appreciative manner. "We will need to hurry," said Santa, raising his hand in the air and shooting what looked like a mini flare from his index finger. That tiny rocket flew about 20 feet into the night sky, exploded and descended in several slowly tumbling arcs. As the sparkling rainbow fell it created a vibrant dome over the compound. The badger lurched backward so as to avoid being scorched by the brilliant light, causing him to fall into the back of the truck. Regaining his footing, the badger looked through the rear window of the Mac, just where the now glowing canopy ended, and saw an amazing sight.

It looked as if a giant snow globe encased the house, shop and yard. Inside the dome's perimeter a magical thing occurred. As the badger watched, Santa and the Shorty's warped into super sonic speed. Visually it was hard to keep up with, but the badger saw Old Ben, Santa and Betty inspect the sleigh and shake their head side to side. Ben shot over to a tarp he had covering something in the shop and uncovered what turned out to be a 1962 Cadillac Coup de Ville convertible. Santa nodded happily and soon everyone was at work reconfiguring the classic car. As quickly as you please, they chopped that Cadillac down to size, welded it back together, painted and re-chromed the exterior and reupholstered the white leather interior. Ben and Betty crafted skis from four separate bumpers, made struts and welded them into place while the jolly old elf popped the hood and went to work adding a little extra lift. As Ben and the old man worked on the guidance system, Betty began polishing the "new" old model sleigh. Before anyone could say "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" the three had that modified convertible hooked-up to the dancing deer and ready to fly. Santa reached for the sky one more time and down came the time capsule. Santa then pointed at his new vehicle and shot it with a magical lightning bolt. The sleigh de Ville raised up off the ground and hovered, ready for a transfer of the numerous velvety bags of gifts contained in the crumpled sleigh. There were hugs all around, and Santa sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle and blasted off into the upper ozone.

As the badger climbed back upon his perch, Old Ben and Betty slid the wrecked sleigh into the shop and covered it with the tarp. The badger watched in envy as the satisfied couple return to the cozy house. When they walked inside there were presents of tools, cookware, clothing and sweet treats all around. It seems the Shorty's were well rewarded for their generous nature. As the badger climbed down from the truck and trotted back to his Mustang, he couldn't help be amazed at what he had just witnessed. "This Shorty estate was a wondrous place," he thought. As the badger turned the final corner to his abode, he pulled up short and sat back on his haunches in surprise. There, sitting near his front door, was the prettiest little she badger he had ever seen. The badger looked into the night sky and saw a brilliant flash of white light. "Now this", thought the badger, "will be a Christmas to tell the kits about."

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Silent Night

2011-12-16T13:27:00.005-07:00

At Twin Rocks Trading Post, Priscilla has hung the colored lights and assembled the faux tree. The Christmas cards have flowed out, and the responses are flooding back in. To say we are in the holiday spirit would be an understatement; we are like kids at FAO Schwarz.

With party after party beginning to crowd our schedules and holiday candy at every turn, Barry and I are beginning to look like Frosty the Snowman and the Pillsbury Doughboy. Priscilla just giggles, afraid to poke us in the ribs lest she puncture our distended hides and cause a rapid deflation.

Pills-Barry Dough boy & Frosty the Steve-man

At the risk of overdosing on holiday cheer, thus requiring sugar detoxification and family counseling, last weekend Jana, Kira, Grange and I traveled to Albuquerque for what Jana’s family refers to as “Thanksmas”. As one might guess, Thanksmas is an annual affair that occurs between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For the Kennedys, two holiday celebrations came up one short, so they invented another. The party generally combines of the best elements from both festivals; eating copious amounts of food, talking until you are hoarse and a “Yankee Swap”.

As it happens, I love the holiday season and am crazy about Christmas carols. Consequentially, once the Simpson family SUV got within range of an Albuquerque radio signal, I found an all carol all the time station. Now, I am no Ella Fitzgerald, but I can surely belt out a serviceable Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, and when it comes to Jingle Bell Rock there is no holding me back.

Kira and Grange were patient for a time, but after a few songs, they began to demand I give them equal time for head-banger music. I, however, was adamant, no screamer was going to interrupt Little Drummer Boy while I had control of the knob. They argued, somewhat convincingly, that I was in fact out of control.

As Bing Crosby crooned White Christmas, I was transported back to the spring of 1979. At the time Craig and I were in school and on the wrestling team at Weber State College. Our roommate, Rob Wurm, was a talented wrestler from northern California who loved country music. He had developed a good style on the guitar and could sing well enough to enchant the young ladies. I was envious, but, aside from the more obvious handicaps, was irretrievably tone deaf.

At the time a South Korean all star team was touring the western United States and Weber State was on their agenda. The afternoon before the competition, Rob and I were assigned to entertain two team members. Deciding to take them to Salt Lake City for a few hours, we shoehorned them into the back of Rob’s well worn Datsun 240z and caught the freeway south. Despite being shoved into such a small space, the Koreans were in good spirits and spontaneously began singing in their native tongue.

It was not long before they asked Rob and me to sing for them. While that was not a problem for Rob, finding a song I would not annihilate was a real challenge. Thinking of the holidays not long past, I suggested White Christmas. In my musical ignorance I believed our guests would not recognize the tune. I had, of course, failed to realize the song was universal. After bursting out in laughter at the thought of Rob and me singing Christmas carols at that time of the year, the Koreans joined in and we caroled all the way to Salt Lake City.

From that point forward White Christmas has been a reminder to me that no matter what our differences we are all the same and whatever our beliefs we can celebrate the holiday spirit all year long.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Vintage Dresses and Immature Men

2011-12-09T14:31:00.004-07:00

In their early years, our daughters Alyssa and McKale were typical girlie girls when it came to playing dress-up. As a family we spent nearly every Sunday in Monticello, visiting and eating dinner with Grandma and Grandpa Washburn. In Grandma's closets and basement storage boxes the girls discovered prom and party dresses left over from Laurie and her four sisters' high school years. The Washburn home was a treasure trove of satin and lace. In the beginning, the girls roped my young and impressionable son into their princess party plans. When his sisters tried to dress him in prissy pantaloons, however, Spenser became disenchanted and decided he had been led down the garden path.

McKale

As of late, my now strapping man-child and his eldest sister are engaged in furthering their educational goals in the hallowed halls of Brigham Young University, Provo campus. Only McKale and a few closely guarded photographs remain at home to remind us of those more carefree days of model mania. Although she is a junior in high school, McKale has not lost her zest for rummaging through Grandma Donna's back closets and cedar chests in search of fanciful fashions. Sunday dinner at the Washburn homestead allow McKale time to seek out, uncover and model vintage apparel, and she has recently discovered a few of her Grandmother's Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses that had been carefully packed away after being exchanged for maternity wear. Six children and 50 years of family life have caused those top notch toggeries to be long forgotten. McKale was thrilled.

McKale tried on two dresses that fit her beautifully. When she modeled them for us, memories of Harriet Nelson and June Cleaver flashed through my mind. The dresses were classics, straight out of the 1950s. Grandma Washburn and McKale decided they should be laundered and put back into service. After looking the dresses over carefully, our daughter came to recognize that wearing apparel from that period was made a bit differently; it was crafted to endure the test of time. What a concept! Not only was the material top quality, the tailoring was impeccable. McKale wore the dresses to school and church; she was flooded with compliments and became hooked on antique clothing.

When I returned home from work last night, McKale and her mother were making dinner and talking princess, party and prom dresses, so I sat down at the kitchen table to listened in on their conversation. I must admit that I am a bit disturbed by the prospect of my baby girl entering the dating game. When Alyssa turned 16, I argued vehemently that she was far too young to go out with one of those hyper-hormone-injected beastie boys! I once read an article that indicated girls do not fully mature until they are between 26 and 28 years of age. Boys . . . well, to be perfectly honest, boys never do." Because of this, it is my personal opinion that 30 is much more appropriate age to begin mingling. Laurie disagreed with me altogether, and argued that I was once just such a hormone driven creature. "Exactly!" I countered, "I know just what she's up against. It's a jungle out there, with fangs, claws and junk everywhere." As you might guess, I lost that argument; I usually do. But I digress, I was talking about dresses, quality and such.

Taking the opportunity to give McKale a little helpful advice, I told her, "Always buy quality products. Do not waste your money on throw away items!" That is the tack we take here at the trading post. We are forever on the lookout for artists who use the best quality materials and spend a little extra time on finish work. We are interested in individuals who reflect consistently high standards and an elevated degree of creativity. These qualities make for distinctively desirable artwork, the type that discourages criticism and withstands the test of time. That's what I'm talking about! As for McKale and me, we have found a new hobby: searching out great items of vintage clothing and developing a higher standard for her in all things . . . including young men. "Get back Honky Cat? Better get back to the woods."

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Thoughts on Wrestling and Navajo Baskets

2011-12-02T15:00:00.002-07:00

Not long ago Grange and I were sitting in a Mexican restaurant, having dinner and enjoying few moments together. Earlier in the day he and I had been to a wrestling match, which, as anyone who knows me will confirm, is one of my all-time favorite things to do. I am immensely proud of all my children. Since this is a wrestling family, however, seeing Grange on the mat fills me with a unique pride. Competing in a sport where you have nobody to rely on but yourself and have to accept sole responsibility for your success or failure seems exceptionally courageous to me; especially when you are eleven.

Grange Simpson and Artist, Allison Lee

Grange, however, has been wrestling since he was five years old, so he has a great deal of experience. Over that time we have had good and not so good years. That particular day had not been a successful one for Team Simpson. In fact, it had been exceptionally difficult, so he and I were working hard to find the good in our endeavor. As we waited for our dinner to arrive, I noticed one of our Twin Rocks Trading Post customers sitting across the dining room.

Tom, like Barry, is addicted to turquoise, and comes into the store to see what Bisbee, Morenci, Kingman, Number 8 and Blue Gem stones we have. When he holds the cabochons in his hand, he gets genuinely nervous and you can see that they actually affect his judgment.

Aside from being fascinated by Tom’s addiction to Sky Stone, or maybe as a result of it, I have grown extremely fond of him. He arrives at the trading post each year attended by a herd of young people from the private school where he coaches and teaches. The kids obviously love him and he surely adores them. So, along with his own children, who are now in their mid to late twenties, Tom travels the Southwest with his students, visiting Anasazi ruins, running rivers, looking at art and studying local cultures.

Seeing Grange in his athletic gear, Tom inquired where we had been and what we had been doing. One thing led to another, and before long he was asking how the day had gone. Reluctantly we admitted it had been challenging. Having been an exceptionally talented coach, Tom was quick to advise Grange that failure is an important part of any endeavor, and that if he took the opportunity to evaluate what needed to be improved, he would likely look back at this as a positive experience and find that it allowed him to improve his skills.

Grange seemed to accept Tom’s premise, and dinner became a much happier affair. As Grange and I drove home, I began to realize just how many times I had seen Tom’s advice at work in the trading post, particularly in the realm of Navajo basketry.

Twin Rocks Trading Post has been open just over 22 years, and we have been collaborating with the local Navajo basket weavers from the very beginning. Over that time I have watched as Mary Black has gone from a vibrant young mother instructing her offspring in this traditional craft to an elderly weaver. I have also seen her children grow from inexperienced, uncertain basket makers to acknowledged masters in their field. The evolutionary cycle has been both exciting and frustrating. Along the way there have been soaring successes and a few colossal failures. Overall, its been a stunning experiment. It is my hope Grange and I will look back on his time on the wrestling mat with the same emotion.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Tapestry

2011-11-25T11:45:00.004-07:00

At a young age William W. "Duke" Simpson and Roseline Marie "Rose" Simpson did their utmost to infuse a strong work ethic and clear sense of responsibility into their five children. By the time we were in our early teens, my siblings and I were adept at managing a small gas station and accompanying second hand store. Although, at the time, I suspected our parents might be running afoul of child labor laws, I am now forever grateful for their insistence that we learn small business administration from the ground up. Much of our time was spent pumping gas, changing tires, drinking grape soda and Pepsi packed with peanuts, filling propane bottles, loading and unloading used furniture, eating Twinkies and chips and interacting with customers. When we were not devouring the profits, we were actually working quite hard.

I recall that at the time Duke showed up with an antique Motorola phonograph neatly contained in a suitcase style container. It was to be to sold in the second hand store, but I coveted it. After an animated debate, I finally won my bid to own it. Although most of the revenues we obtained through our work related efforts were put toward growing the family business, we assistant managers were granted a small stipend for our efforts and almost always had a copper or two in our pockets. Once I obtained the player, the next logical step toward musical bliss was to amass a record collection. Rose, however, forbade me to join the Columbia House Record Club. I remember her saying something about responsibility and financial commitment.

No problem! The friend of a friend was willing to sell me an entire collection of used albums, at a discounted rate, just to help me get started. The Black Market! I blew my entire savings on that deal, and in doing so learned several of life's most valuable lessons. First, and most importantly, the term "used" is most often associated with "scratch and dent." It was also as a result of that deal that I realized it is usually best to pick and choose, paying a slightly higher price for the good stuff, instead of buying it all cheaply and winding up with a few good pieces and a load of unusable junk. The only good that came from that deal was the song Brandy from a one hit wonder band by the name of Looking Glass and the fantastic Carol King album Tapestry.

As far as I know, Carol King never released her interpretation of the song. She, like many great artists, left that to the imagination of the listener. The song is definitely mysterious and, to me, speaks of Christianity, the Father and the Son, the passing of time and the loss of innocence. It seems to speak of the tapestry of life, and the threads that combine to make it whole. Those threads often fray and have to be unbound and rewoven to make the creation a thing of beauty. It is a song of dreams and desires, and of living a life of promise. I believed it was a great message and I played that song and Carol's album until the record was completely woren out.

It was Tapestry, and my initiation to it, that popped into my head when I first heard of the passing of a dear friend.

My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision of the ever changing view
A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold.

Edith Martin

Edith Martin was a believer, a wife, a mother, a weaver and an artist. Her heart gave out at the age of forty, and she will be greatly missed.

As I watched in sorrow, there suddenly appeared
A figure gray and ghostly beneath a flowing beard
In times of deepest darkness, I've seen him dressed in black
Now my tapestry's unraveling, he's come to take me back
He's come to take me back."

It is lucky for us that Edith's tapestries remain, are possible for her family and friends to hold, and will not be unraveling any time soon. Go forth Edith and worry not, you will be remembered well.

Sincerely Barry Simpson

Winter

2011-11-18T10:48:00.004-07:00

It was a quiet Sunday morning at Twin Rocks Cafe. But for the cooks, servers and dishwasher sitting together in one location, all booths and tables were empty. I stood at the easterly window, gazing out over the Jones farm, listening to the light chatter of the weekend employees and searching the highway for travelers. There were none; no mouths to feed and no patrons to engage.

Gaines’ Crack in the Cliffs

The sandstone cliffs embracing the town were crowned with low-lying clouds, which reminded me of milk chocolate ice cream topped with Cool Whip. A light mist began to fall, leaving minute drops to accumulate on the large pane of glass. Winter had arrived.

The last crop of alfalfa had been harvested and the field’s short brown stubble glowed golden in the early morning, reminding me of the crew cuts Rose gave Craig, Barry and me when we ran wild during our early summers in Bluff. In fall and winter our unruly locks, cowlicks and all, were allowed to grow to a modest length, but once school let out, it was good-bye to any strand over one-sixteenth of an inch. After each shearing, we would run our hands over each other’s prickly mops for days, enjoying the wiry feel and taunting one another with epithets like,”cue ball,” “egghead” or “baldy.”

Winter came sooner than I had hoped this year. While it is already mid-November and I should have been prepared for its arrival, somehow I am not. I am not ready for hard frost on car windows and heavy blankets on the bed. Looking out over the lonely road, I wondered whether we had in fact skipped a few months this year, and whether it should actually be July or August. I reasoned there had been many times when I believed it was Friday, only to find it was actually Tuesday, Wednesday or even Monday. No such luck this time I concluded.

Turning to look back towards the still sleeping town, I thought I saw three toe headed boys with skin the color of our Navajo employees and patrons racing for the cliffs. The sun bounced off their closely cropped heads and their white T-shirts gleamed in the warm daylight. The three whooped and hollered as they approached Gaines’ Crack, a cleft in the rock that led to the Sand Cave located just west of the Twin Rocks. That must have been their intended destination.

I was reminded of a summer day a several years ago. I had taken a book out on the porch next to the house above Twin Rocks Trading Post to enjoy a little solitude. As I sat there bathed in light, reading the novel of the moment, I heard someone say, “Hey dad, look at me.” Glancing up at the base of the twin monuments, I saw six or seven year old Grange looking for all the world like someone who had just scaled Mount Everest.

Suppressing my fear, and telling him I would come join in the fun, I headed up the steep and rocky trail. In my youth I would have hastily scrambled up the rugged path, but I was not young anymore and my muscles and joints did not like the challenge. When I arrived next to him, I rubbed his own short wiry hair and together we surveyed our community. He, like Craig, Barry and I at his age had no fear of the land’s vertical characteristics. For me, that was no longer the case.

No, I am not ready for winter.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Family Matters

2011-11-11T15:43:00.004-07:00

The other day a long-time acquaintance walked into Twin Rocks Trading Post and said, "I have known you and your family nearly 20 years and have never, not once, been in this store." "What brings you in now," I asked. "Those stories you and Steve write," he replied. "I wanted to see for myself where those parables originate." We had a good laugh, and then, because our children are of the same age group and have grown up together, I asked how his kids are and where they are living. As we spoke of his offspring, I saw great joy and satisfactions in his eyes. I know he and his wife are focused and diligent when it comes to their children, and from where I stand they are top notch parents.

As we went down the list of his children, we came to one of his sons. This young man is attending college on the other side of the state and has recently married. At this point, I recognized a disquieting sadness in my friend's countenance. "Is your boy okay," I asked, concerned for his well-being. "Yes," he replied, "he's fine, doing well in school and happily married, though his new companion doesn't think much of my wife and me. She doesn't like where I live, how I live or how I make a living." "Sounds like an outspoken young woman," I quipped. "To say the least," was his reply.

Without knowing it, my friend had touched a nerve, uncovered a concern I have about future relations with my kids. My wife and I are extremely close with our children, and I will find it extremely disturbing if I lose that bond because of an uncompromising daughter or son-in-law. I have seen it happen much too often not to be aware of the possibility. None of our brood are married, but I often worry what it might be like if a future in-law finds me . . . unacceptable. Because of his close connection to his children, this man and his wife must be deeply hurt by this unfortunate turn of events.

Twin Rocks Trading Post Interior

Time and again over the last several days my thoughts have returned to that conversation, and it has caused me to reflect on my own humble beginnings. I clearly recall living in a single-wide trailer-house behind the Plateau gas station, which was located on the south end of Blanding. Even though that mobile home had been burned out and only partially refurbished, we found it quite manageable, even comfortable. Through our middle school and and much of our high school years Craig, Steve and I slept on the floor of the living room, while Susan and Cindy shared a room and Mom and Dad occupied the master suite at the far end. There were wool blankets for doors and one partially finished bathroom, where, because no one bothered to knock, you learned not to settle in too comfortably or too long.

My brothers and I thought we had moved uptown when mom and dad had a small 1950s trailer parked next to the larger model. We built beds into the new-old trailer and moved out. Our bathroom was 30 yards uphill in the gas station, which seemed a mile during the dead of winter. It was only later we learned the move was motivated by our sisters. It seems they were less than appreciative of us barging through the door flap when they were indisposed.

Along with the gas station, our parents ran a secondhand store. Through this outlet they bought items others no longer needed and sold them to those who did. Our parents worked extremely hard to better our situation, the harmony and balance of their young, veracious brood was their singular mission. Through those and successive businesses, our parents taught us a strong work ethic, the qualities of integrity and honesty, the value of education and, mostly, the strength and security of a tightly bonded family.

I wish I could say I was never embarrassed by our circumstances, but that would be dishonest. Because I knew mom and dad were devoted to us and would support us as far as the great beyond, and beyond, I do not recall ever regretting being born into this family. I will be forever grateful for the most valuable of lessons our parents taught us, to love and to properly and frequently express that emotion.

There are two lessons to be learned here: (1) I should probably maintain an educational outlook and enroll in the Atlas School of Manners and Proper Protocol; this might help me to get along with just about anyone, and (2) be careful of what you say and do while visiting Twin Rocks Trading Post and Cafe, you just may be mentioned in one of our missives. In this case I have sworn to protect the anonymity of my friend, so his daughter-in-law will not give him hell for sharing family secrets.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Blue

2011-11-04T13:21:00.002-06:00

Blue bracelets, blue bolo ties, blue rings and even blue Navajo baskets and rugs; at Twin Rocks Trading Post we have lots of blue things. Recently I realized there was yet another blue item to take into account. This realization came last Tuesday as I sat in Stephanie’s barber chair.

Although the day dawned bright and beautiful, I did not. Thinking I might have a slower, more relaxing morning, I did not crawl out of bed as early as usual. I had been working late at Twin Rocks Cafe the night before, and thought I might sleep in a bit before heading down to the trading post. Unfortunately, the telephone rang at 7:00 a.m. Not much later my cell phone alarm began to chime. In spite of my reluctance to do so, I reached over to discover what I had overlooked.

Looking at the illuminated screen, I noticed it was time to get moving. I had forgotten my monthly hair cut, without which I would begin looking like the mop head I was in the 1970s. I had been forward thinking enough to set the notice 45 minutes ahead, so I had approximately 15 minutes to shave, shower and get on the road to Blanding; a 30 minute drive. That was cutting it closer than I thought prudent. Reasoning that I could look a little like Grizzly Adams until the following day, I forewent the razor and jumped directly into the tub.

Arriving at Stephanie’s salon a few minutes late, I slipped into the chair like I had full command of my schedule. Since my record was generously tarnished from prior mishaps, Stephanie knew better. I fully expected her to say, “So, you almost forgot again, didn’t you?” She is, however, kind and did not bring up my previous tardies and absences.

As she clipped my still damp locks, we talked about our children, the local sports teams and a variety of other topics. As the conversation continued, hair began to build up on the apron laid out in my lap. As the pile grew, I noticed something funny about the accumulation. It looked . . . well, blue; not dark brown like it had when I was young, not salt and pepper like it was when I was not so young, but blue.

Steve Simpson

Now I had heard of the blue hairs of Arizona; those older individuals who drive their Cadillacs slowly around Phoenix, Sun City and Tucson, causing freeway delays and pileups on an almost daily basis. Barry and I had even seen a few of them in the trading post. I had looked on in wonder as they paraded through the store, seemingly unconcerned about the shade of their tresses. I had even considered whether I would suffer the same fate. I had not, however, intended to be one of them so soon. What did this mean? How was I to act? What would I do? Like the moment I received my first AARP notice, there were so many unanswered questions, so many serious concerns to address.

For years after the divorce, when I arrived at her door to retrieve Dacia for our monthly visits, my ex-wife would offer to dye my hair. I had always assumed she was concerned that my appearance might somehow reflect poorly on her. Never mind that she is five years younger. Now, however, I knew the truth; she had anticipated this moment, she had foreseen how soon it would arrive and wanted to minimize the trauma.

Heading back to the trading post with my newly styled pate, I had yet another realization; I would surely have to hit Barry up for a raise. How else would I afford that Cadillac my new status required or find the additional time necessary to slowly drive around Bluff disrupting traffic?

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Mirror, Mirror

2011-10-28T10:16:00.004-06:00

The other day a man and his wife, who were likely in their late 60s or early 70s, strolled into Twin Rocks Trading Post. The man had a pasty complexion; a wrinkled, bumpy and sparsely tufted top knot; and a raspberry mole in the cleft of his left nostril. Splitting up as soon as they entered through the Kokopelli doors, he veered right and she steered left. Before long, I heard the man making low, distressful . . . grunting noises. I could not immediately determine the source of his problem, but there appeared to be significant emotional suffering going on behind his dark brown eyes. His wife, who looked attentive enough, was either unaware of her husband's plight or was choosing to ignore him altogether. There were two other couples in the store looking over the silver jewelry and Navajo rugs, so I became concerned about the disturbance this man was creating.

Twin Rocks Trading Post

As he walked in front of the full length mirror located at the east end of the store, the man let out another low, mournful sound and I began to think he might be practicing Halloween scare tactics. At that point one of the other couples abruptly left the store, probably because the situation was becoming somewhat uncomfortable. "If he continues to run off customers, I will have to ask his haunted soul to depart," I thought to myself. The other couple, either oblivious to or unaffected by the situation, continued browsing. Watching the old guy closely now, I noticed he was approaching a small counter top mirror. At that point I thought to myself, "I wonder?" As he came upon the mirror, he paused, looked into its reflective surface and perceptively flinched. His hands went to his head and he briskly rubbed it all over, as if trying to rearrange things. Another plaintive sigh emerged. By this time the guy and his hairdo were both wildly askew.

Smiling uncomfortably to myself, I looked around the store to see if anyone else had realized what was going on. Sure enough, the other man was looking at me with questioning eyes. The last outburst had finally captured the attention of the man's wife. Standing there with his bowling ball belly peaking out from his striped red and white rugby shirt, which hung over his manpris and his off-white boat shoes, the man said out loud, "Oh man, I just can't stand to look at myself in the mirror any more." "Then don't," his wife, who was dressed in a surprisingly similar fashion, said in a matter-of-fact voice. They did not seem to care that the rest of us had heard the initial comment or the off-the-cuff response.

Now I knew for sure it was the mirrors scattered about the store that caused the man such grief; or more accurately, what he was seeing therein. Looking for a bit of solace, the man pushed his narrow hips and drooping shoulders through the swinging doors leading into the rug room. As he headed into the museum, because of several mirrored surfaces in there, I knew we were in for yet another outburst. Sure enough, I heard a gasp of grief echoing from the room of simulant surfaces. The man's wife followed him into the back room, gathered up her frail companion and led him outside. "Poor fellow," I thought.

Twin Rock Trading Post Rug Room

As I stood there reflecting on the occurrence, I realized the other man had come up next to me. "I have three suggestions to help that man on his way to feeling better about himself," said the New Yorker. "What might they be," I queried, looking after the departing couple. "Number one: Never wear a costume that makes you and your wife look like the Bobbsey Twins; that's unmanly! Number two: Diet and exercise. That's a beer belly if I ever saw one," he said. "And number three," I questioned. "Get a can of Freon." "Freon!" I exclaimed. "Freon!" he confirmed. "Okay, I'll bite, what does one do with a can of Freon," I asked. "Freeze and flick." he replied. "One can of Freon can help get rid of all manner of warts, skin tags and the like. I keep one at home at all times." "Humph," I said, pulling at a bothersome blotch that had come to roost on my neck. Freon, you say?" "Indeed." came his reply. "You a psychologist or a M.D.," I asked. "No," he replied "a mechanic."

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Listen to What The Man Said

2011-10-21T17:34:00.004-06:00

Not long ago, a woman from one of the nearby communities stopped by Twin Rocks Trading Post to peruse our inventory of turquoise jewelry, baskets, folk art and Navajo rugs. As she browsed, we talked, and after a time I realized I knew her son and daughter-in-law. During our conversation she mentioned that, after several years in corporate America, her boy had decided “working for The Man” was not his idea of fun. At that point he quit his job, returned to southern San Juan County, bought a semi-trailer truck and begin driving for a living. Apparently he is much happier now.

Duke Simpson father of Barry, Susan, Cindy, Craig and Steve Simpson

Her comments brought back memories of my earliest encounter with The Man. My experience was not, however, associated with a big corporation. Instead, it was a matter of working for William W. “Duke” Simpson, my father and first boss.

During my ninth year, at the end of a 24-month stint in the Bay Area, Duke decided he’d had enough of Northern California and moved his young family back to Southern Utah. Not long after the relocation, he borrowed $200.00 and leased a filling station on the southern end of Blanding. Although the business was within the city limits, it seemed a long way from town; logistically and sociologically, rather than geographically.

Parking what we used to call a trailer, now referred to as a mobile home, behind the gas station, we established ourselves on the premises. That way there would always be someone available in an emergency. It was at this point Duke informed Craig, Barry and me that we had been drafted into the family business.

Every school day, the three of us, along with our two sisters, Susan and Cindy, walked the mile or so (uphill both ways, generally in the midst of a blizzard and always without shoes) to Blanding Elementary. After school Craig, Barry or I took over the petroleum operation, filling gas tanks, washing windows, checking oil levels and inflating or changing tires while Duke searched for additional sources of income. At nine, ten and eleven, we were not experienced in the ways of business, so Duke began to tutor us.

Looking out into the parking lot, Duke would say, “See that trash? Go pick it up. We have to keep this place clean. What kind of message do you think it sends to our customers when we don’t take proper care of things?” We never understood how he could spot the smallest bits of paper at 200 paces when piles of cans, bottles and other discarded items were universally invisible to us, or why it mattered when soon the garbage would blow onto someone else's property and become their problem, not ours. Duke was firm, however, so out we would trudge; even when it was raining, sleeting or snowing, which was most of the time, even in summer.

“Don’t eat all the inventory, we have to have something to sell” Duke would advise when he noticed our bellies distended from drinking Pepsi with salted peanuts or consuming too many packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. “Always be honest, nobody likes a liar,” he counseled when we were less than forthcoming about just how much Pepsi we had drunk or how many Peanut Butter Cups we had eaten.

“Always be on time, people are counting on you,” he admonished us when we showed up late for work, missed an appointment or caused our patrons to wait.

It was a long while before we realized Duke was teaching us the fundamentals of business and the skills we needed to succeed in life. Although we did not pay close attention to Duke’s advice at the time, decades later Craig, Barry and I find ourselves directing our children and employees to pick up the trash, keep the property clean, not eat the inventory, be prompt and always be honest. Maybe Paul McCartney was right when he sang, “Listen to what the man said,” and maybe The Man knows more than we ever thought possible.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Someone I Know

2011-10-15T00:03:00.003-06:00

"BUS!" Priscilla called from the store. "Oh, crap a crayon!" I said to myself. I was in my office trying to meet a writing deadline for our website and it was not going well. Steve was away supporting Kira at the Region cross-country meet, so we were slightly understaffed. By my tone, one might guess that bus tours are not an experience I cherish. I do not hate buses, I simply disapprove of their tactics. Tour companies confine those poor people for hours and, unless it is an emergency, prohibit the use of on-board facilities. The bus companies have decided it is best to find an agreeable facility every 200 miles or so and turn those suffering souls loose for fifteen minutes, period; schedules must be met. In this time frame the travelers are supposed to find a bathroom, dehydrate, rehydrate, shop and reload. It puts them in a bad mood. For the tourists, and for us, this does not allow for the most satisfactory shopping experience.

So, when I heard Priscilla call out her warning, I figured we were in for a mad rush of toilet seeking torpedoes in a foul frame of mind. Happily, I was mistaken. Upon being set free, the group strolled about the parking lot taking pictures. They then meandered through the cafe, gift shop and trading post at a casual pace. The travelers were a mixed group of English and American nationals willing to make conversation and share their experiences. One middle-aged woman even showed me special attention, walking right up and talking as if we had known each other all our lives. When other people would interrupt with questions or comments, she wandered off and returned as soon as I was free. It was not long before the bus started its diesel engine, which is a sure sign departure is imminent. My new lady friend said good-bye and headed for the door, but stopped at the threshold as if contemplating. She then turned on her heel and came back. Walking right up to me once again, she said, "You look and sound exactly like my brother, it is absolutely uncanny." I laughed and said, "He must be a handsome devil." "Yeah . . . nnno, but I love him dearly." We had a good chuckle, then she gave me a hug, walked out the door, climbed back on the bus and departed for somewhere in middle America.

It must have been my month for look-a-likes, because a couple from Arkansas came into the trading post and told me I look just like their Baptist minister back home. "Don't get me started on religion," I warned, "I can deliver a sermon with the best of them." Luckily they chose not to call my bluff. Another couple told me I looked just like their neighbor. I guess he still owed them $500 from a short term loan proffered several years ago. Even I know you do not borrow money from family, neighbors or friends if you want to maintain good relations. Lastly, while attending a volleyball game in Richfield, Laurie, Alyssa, McKale and I were having breakfast in a local restaurant when a man came in, sat across from us and proceeded to stare in our direction. As we left the cafe, he followed us out, stopped us and said that I look just like his boss. The man was from Price, Utah, as was his boss. He assured us I had a twin. Either I was cast from a rather generic mold, or four of us were separated at birth. My dear, sweet mother swears this is not the case, but I wonder.

Navajo Large Handmade Yei Vase - Nancy Chilly (#25)

As it happened, the people from the bus spent a good 30 minutes with us and turned out to be a delightful group. I may have to update my opinion of tour directors, bus drivers and the like. Because we were given a little extra time we were able to send a very nice turquoise bracelet home with one man, a present for his daughter. A woman took a piece of Nancy Chilly pottery with her. Priscilla and I had the opportunity to meet and greet a bus load of extremely nice people. I also met a sweet sister I was altogether unfamiliar with, and learned of a pseudo brother. Laurie pointed out that in each and every case of mistaken identity I did not, not once, get the name and address of my "strikingly similar siblings." She claims that it is because I am afraid to face myself! I do not know where she comes up with all this psycho babble, but I am sincerely troubled by it.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Tales of a Trader’s Dog, Part 2

2011-10-07T13:30:00.004-06:00

I arrived in Bluff on the 11th day of April, 2004. Unlike Mary Jeanette’s journey in 1913, the trip from Albuquerque to my new home was more or less uneventful. Georgiana, a small, willowy woman of approximately five feet four inches and just over 110 pounds, transported us in a large, chestnut colored Ford pick up with a silvery-gray fiberglass shell affixed to the bed. The size of the truck and its driver seemed incongruous, but the arrangement proved successful as we traversed the nearly 250 mile route.

Twin Rocks Trading Post

Being young and untested, I was not allowed to travel in the cab with Georgiana and her two offspring, Kira, age 7, and Grange, age 4. Instead, in order to avoid an unpleasant mishap, I was relegated to the camper. Although the back of the truck was comfortable enough, I, having already grown fond of them, longed for the companionship of my two young compatriots. That, combined with the uncertainty of what lay ahead, made me more than a little melancholy.

As I pressed my nose to a side window, wondering what the future held in store for me, we left the bright lights of metropolitan New Mexico and headed north. As the moon rose over the Sandia Mountains, we passed through Bernalillo, San Ysidro and Cuba. Turning west just outside the small agricultural community of Aztec, we nipped the corner of Arizona not far from Shiprock and arrived at the border of Utah, my new home state. Although I did not know it at the time, we had passed not too far north of Salina Springs, the destination of Mary Jeanette on her maiden voyage into this still untamed land.

Utah, I had been informed by the beagle living next door, was known as the Beehive State. Its motto is simply “Industry,” and the beehive is proudly displayed on its coat of arms to indicate hard work and diligence. I wondered whether this meant my new owners would hitch me to a plow or make me herd sheep, cows or other livestock. My breed was not meant for such activity I ruminated. I am a gun dog, bred to retrieve downed waterfowl and upland game birds during hunting and shooting parties. Menial labor is not in my DNA.

We sailed through Aneth, nothing more than a wide spot in the road, and navigated Montezuma Creek, with its thumping pump jacks and modern high school, eventually passing the Episcopal mission known as St. Christopher’s. In 1942 the Reverend H. Baxter Liebler of Greenwich, Connecticut, traveled through the Navajo lands of southeastern Utah. Stopping in the tiny settlement of Bluff, he learned the language and customs of these indigenous people and later built St. Christopher’s, which became the first Episcopal school for the Navajo.

Only two miles further west and we came to Twin Rocks Trading Post, which is located near the intersection of Utah State Highway 162 and U.S. Highway 191. In the moonlight I noted that the store, and the cafe immediately adjacent to it, were parked at the foot of a monstrous geological formation known variously as the Navajo Twins and the Twin Rocks. Perched on a slight promontory rising above town, these sandstone masterpieces are named for the mythical Hero Twins of Navajo legend. Sculpted by wind and water throughout many mellinea, these towers have stood guard over numerous civilizations, the earliest of which was established in approximately 650 A.D. These silent sentinels now watch over the trading post and the town of 250 modern day pioneers who choose to call Bluff home.

We drove to west entrance of the store, parked the truck and began unloading kids, packages, luggage and groceries. As I jumped from the tailgate to the concrete pad below, I noticed an inscription which read “Dacia Simpson 7-8-94.” That was a name I did not recognize, and it was not until I had settled into life at the trading post that I learned Dacia was yet another member of my family, a daughter from an earlier marriage.

It was at that point I heard a door squeak. Looking up, I spotted him, my new master, Steven P. Simpson, Steve as he is generally known, emerging from the apartment located on the second floor of the building. My heart pulsed. Was he kind? Would he take to me? Would he become this dog’s best friend? Those and many other questions raced through my mind as I stared at the tall, inscrutable figure backlit by the yellow porch light.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

What are the Odds?

2011-10-01T12:20:00.003-06:00

It was a Monday evening at the Twin Rocks Cafe, and the flow of diners was light but steady. It was my shift until Steve closed the trading post at 6:00 p.m., whereupon he would take over and I could go home. I was casually sweeping dust bunnies from beneath unoccupied booths and visiting with patrons as I moved about. The soft golden glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the interior of the restaurant in a warm, pleasant manner. As I worked, I enjoyed a low volume of easy listening music over the intercom and casual quips of soft spoken conversation surrounding me. Reaching the entrance of the cafe, I proceeded to clean the tile rug pattern inlaid on the floor. As I did, I noticed a cream colored Cadillac pull up near the front steps. A portly gentleman of approximately seventy years exited the vehicle. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair, wore a pink polo shirt snugly tucked into tan slacks and brown penny loafers, no socks. As I watched, the old boy limped his way up the steps and in through the glass doors.

Navajo Collage Basket - Peggy Black (#342)

Pushing his way inside, the guy spotted me and nearly shouted; "What are the odds I could get a menu?!" It was like a mini percussion grenade went off in the building. Our diners seemed to hunker down a bit, wincing from the impact of his amplified inquiry. "The odds are good!", I said handing him a menu. "Where are you from anyway, New York City?' "Close," he bellowed, "Brooklyn. How did you know?" "Lucky guess." I said, guiding him to a booth. "No, really," he queried, "how did you know?" "Well," I said, "Don't take this personally, but several people I have met from "the City" can be rather . . . loud. That, your accent and your license plate clued me in." The man guffawed hardily and said " Where I come from you have to be loud to be heard." "Well," I replied, "here people appreciate the sound of silence." The man laughed again, this time at a slightly lower decibel. He then settled into the booth and bent to study the menu.

A few minutes later, as I was brooming my way toward the back dining area, the man waved me over and pointed to a particular portion of the menu. In a hushed, almost conspiratorial, voice he asked a question. Because of his unexpected tone, I did not hear his query. I stood there looking at him, confused and wondering if he had taken my comment about his clamorous nature to heart. Had he made a life altering decision to change his boisterous ways right then and there? The man gave me a frustrated look and waved me closer. "What are the odds that these marinated steaks are tender?" he whispered, "I just got new teeth and can't tolerate a tough steak." "Oh," I said, " the odds are very good, I haven't had a bad one yet." "Excellent!" he boomed, making me and everyone around us jump. "Give me the 6 oz. marinated steak." I looked to Tara, our server, who gave me the "I got it" nod and began punching in the order.

The "New Yorker" kept up an amplified dialog all through dinner, dominating the atmosphere of the entire restaurant. The steak proved tender, and the guy was happy with his meal. The one good thing about his outspoken attitude was that everyone coming and going knew of his contentment. As he came to the register to pay the bill he leaned in close and whispered, "Thanks for that steak, one day you too will loose your teeth and need some tender vittles." "Not me", I told him, "I just visited the dentist and he assured me my teeth would go in the box with me. I worry about a few other body parts, but my teeth are sound." "What are the odds?" he boomed, making me and everyone around us jump again. "What are the odds?" I said as I waved him out the door.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

White Buffalo

2011-09-23T12:15:00.003-06:00

Three or four times a week I can be found peddling my bicycle from Blanding to Bluff during the early morning hours. Jana and the kids leave for school around 5:00 a.m., and I usually tag along. After dropping Kira off at dance practice and a little speed training with Grange at the high school track, I climb aboard the bicycle and head south along Highway 191.

Great Pyrenees

About five miles into the ride I approach a small farm located just west of the road. Although I have driven past it countless times, until I began riding this particular route on a regular basis, I had not paid much attention to the property. On the first morning I road my bike past the parcel, I noticed two enormous white dogs inhabiting the property. Dog breeds are not my specialty, but these looked an awful lot like they might be of the Great Pyrenees variety.

Working hard to cover the distance from the intersection of Center and Main in Blanding to the porch of Twin Rocks Trading Post in under an hour, I did not notice the canines until they came thundering across the field. Mentally gauging my speed against theirs and the distance they had to cover versus my own, I assumed I would soon be doggie treats for these flashes of white lightening. My calculations did not, however, take into account the gate, which is about 30 feet from the pavement. So, as they crawled under the barricade I safely sped past, leaving them empty-handed.

After this same scenario played out with similar results over the next two weeks, I became comfortable in the knowledge that I could outrun the hounds. Once my fear subsided, I was compelled to name the largest and fastest of the duo, giving him the title “White Buffalo.” This was in honor of his size, color and the white turquoise of the same name that is found near Tonopah, Nevada.

Having successfully evaded the mutts for several days, I decided it was time to even the odds, so I began howling at them to signal my approach. I once again tried to gauge our individual speeds so their notification arrived just in time to allow for a safe margin of error.

Although my edge continuously declined, this contest continued successfully for about a week, with me avoiding their assault each time. Then one morning, I did not see the dogs milling about the outbuildings where they usually awaited my approach. As I came abreast of the gate, I noticed the tall weeds in the bar ditch along the roadway begin to sway. To my surprise, White Buffalo sprang from the tall grass, barking excitedly, but holding his position on the edge of the blacktop. I squealed out a horse note and cranked the pedals wildly. He just stood there as if to say, “I could get you, but I choose not to.” It was then that I realized he was enjoying our game of pursuit as much as I.

The next few mornings, I would bark out my signal and White Buffalo, far ahead of his companion, would come catapulting across their land in plenty of time to stride along side me a few paces before I pulled away. Never trying to nip my heals or upset my progress, he seemed to understand that we had forged a bond, dog and cyclist.

Determined to strengthen the tie we had developed, I decided I would stop and give him a pat on the head or scratch behind the ear during my next journey. As I approached the farm, however, there was no movement. When I arrived at the gate, I noticed a large white patch lying quiet and still about 15 feet from the roadway. “It was surely White Buffalo,” I thought, “His latest ploy.” I slowed my speed in anticipation of stopping to say hello. It was not, however, a trick. He had apparently been struck a fatal blow the night before, and our game was eternally over.

These days, as I ride past his deteriorating body I wish I had stopped before the great tragedy. While White Buffalo’s carcass rapidly returns to Mother Earth, I realize you can never predict where you will meet your next best friend, or how soon he or she will be lost. Best to let them know as soon as possible how much they mean to you.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

I Remember It Well

2011-09-16T10:02:00.003-06:00

The sun was resting on the western horizon as I exited Twin Rocks Cafe and made my way down the front steps. Soft raindrops gently touched my face as I dodged a bus and several other vehicles while crossing the graveled parking lot to my car. My ride was parked under the protective branches of a large cottonwood tree across the narrow strip of roadway at the edge of the Gaines property. It had been a long day, I was tired and focused on getting home to my wife and family. I opened the car door, dropped into the bucket seat, turned her over, pulled out and pointed her east. A French tourist, whom I had met earlier at dinner, jumped off the bus with a camera in his hand and sprinted to the middle of the road, right in front of my moving motor vehicle. Consequently, I very nearly picked up a Nikon hood ornament for my Nissan.

Navajo Storm Pattern Rug - Pauline Lee (#013)

The now wide-eyed tourist smiled apologetically, bobbed his head and held out his camera as if to say, "So sorry! But . . . I am in a great hurry to take a marvelous picture." He stepped from in front of my car, moved to the right side of the road and made his way toward the intersection of Highway 191 and Navajo Twins Drive. As I pulled past the man and rolled up to the stop sign, I looked up to the cliff tops and saw what had captured his attention. There, at the crest of Cow Canyon was a magnificent rainbow backed by a roiling and altogether angry dark purple storm cloud highlighted by the orange-red glow of the setting sun behind me. The view, I realized, was well worth the risk of an early demise. As I sat there in awe, the Frenchman caught up with me and, smiling brightly, pointed at the spectacular spectacle, gave me the thumbs-up and quickly began snapping images. I smiled in return and forgave the manic man his trespass, pulled out onto the highway and headed north.

In anticipation of the view I might have at the top of Cow Canyon, I picked-up speed. Reaching the top in no time what-so-ever, I was far from disappointed. To my right the rainbow remained as brilliant as a minute before. It arched over the textured landscape as if to bear witness that yes . . . this really was a magnificent place. The thunderstorm behind it was rolling rapidly across Recapture Ridge, like the raging waves of a turbulent ocean. I powered down my windows, heard the rip and tear of thunder and watched as lightning split the near darkness. The air was static with electricity. To my left the scattered storm clouds remaining from an earlier shower caused the setting sun to blaze like a bonfire fending off the night. As I cruised up the highway, I wished that I had clipped that Frenchman and made off with his camera. No matter, my spirit was reinvigorated and my mind refreshed. I will remember this scene well.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Where Have all the Indians Gone?

2011-09-09T15:04:00.004-06:00

Kira and Grange have recently returned to school, so the Simpson family is once again entangled in the helter skelter of another educational cycle. During this first term Kira has an American history class that is exceptionally challenging, so Jana and I have been closely monitoring her progress to ensure there are no catastrophes of historic proportion.

Priscilla

While reviewing her text book last week, I noticed the introductory chapters focus on Native America. Although at times I act as though I have extensive knowledge of all things Native, when pressed, I am quick to admit my reach is limited. In any case, it is interesting to see how the academic community represents this aspect of the American experiment.

As one might guess, when it comes to Native culture, my experience is strictly “on the job”, which is not likely to translate well in the classroom. Although I have a few good stories to tell, I should never be given the responsibility of instructing the nation’s youth on this particular topic, so Kira has not received the benefit of my wisdom.

Since Kira and I do not regularly attend services, we are usually assigned to work Sunday mornings at Twin Rocks Cafe; she as cashier and I as janitor, chief bus boy and manager. During our most recent shift, in order to stay current with her class work, Kira brought her history book to the restaurant. Leaving it open on one of the tables, she left to pursue her traditional activities.

Since it was a slow morning, after a time I noticed our two Navajo servers, Josh and Josiah thumbing through the text, skimming the initial chapters with great interest. Josh and Josiah are young and intelligent, and seemed amused with the book’s content. When I quizzed them on what they had learned about their Native brothers, Josh jokingly asked, “Aren’t they all gone?” Everyone had a good laugh, but Josh’s comment “started me thinkin’”.

On many occasions during my tenure as trader at Twin Rocks Trading Post, I have had travelers ask, “Where can we see Indians?” When I point to Priscilla and say, “Right there”, they protest vigorously. “No, no, no,” they say, “we want real Indians.” Apparently, they wish to see the half naked, feather wearing ones who sit astride a painted war pony whooping and hollering; movie Indians. Consequently, Priscilla does not fit their expectations. When I tell them we do not have any of those left, they are disappointed.

Although it is easy to write off these inquiries as cliché or trite, surely Native culture has changed in ways a large percentage of the population has not anticipated. As Josh’s joke points out, however, in many respects Native people are generally indistinguishable from the rest of mainstream society. One might rightly ask whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. My guess is that it is just a thing, neither good nor bad, or maybe, depending on the individual, both good and bad.

With their hats turned backward, baggy trousers and smart phones, you would not know Josh and Josiah from any other young person. As I have told our inquisitive visitors, running around half naked, whooping and hollering only gets you into trouble with the neighbors, so no one (except Barry, who is not Indian), does that around here anymore.

Funny Barry

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Wishful Thinking

2011-09-02T14:46:00.004-06:00

Not long ago, I was sitting in my office at Twin Rocks Trading Post, bumping my head on the desk in an attempt to dislodge a thought or memory worthy of putting down on paper. This week's missive was due, and my creative well had run dry. As I sat there, I heard the door sensor announce a visitor and began to raise myself to discover their purpose. About the same time, I heard Steve greet someone and knew the guests were in good hands, so I sat back down and continued my personal assault. Half-listening in on Steve's conversation with the obviously German tourists, I heard someone say there was a hummingbird loose in the store. This is a common occurrence these days, so no one gets too excited about it. I heard Steve explain to our German friends that it was best to let the high strung aerialists calm down a bit, and that when they do we corner them, carefully execute our capture techniques and release them back into their sugar-saturated habitat.

In short order I heard the tourists take their leave. Shortly after they exited Steve began running through the store in pursuit of the hyped-up hummer. Before long Steve called out to me saying, "Come out here and look at this!" I reluctantly raised myself up again, thinking we would have to tag team the feisty little critter to be done with it. I walked into the trading post just in time to see the hummingbird fly into Steve's office. Before he closed the door to settle the debate, Steve pointed up and to his right saying, "Look at that!" Scanning the wall in question, I saw a small, brown, fuzzy thing, about the size of a Hot Wheels car, attached to the wall. It hung on the wood paneling, right next to our 1970s style cottage cheese and glitter ceiling. "A Bat," I questioned.

"A Bat!"

"This could be a windfall," I thought to myself, recalling what the Navajo people believe about these nocturnal beasties. Bats are some of the earliest recognized beings, they are of the first world of Navajo myth and legend. These flying fright-mongers are thought to be mediators, favored representatives of the "great gods". They occupy the humblest seat near the door of the ceremonial hogan, but their input is respected when it comes to matters of importance. "Humph!" I thought to myself, "I could use a little mediation, an intervention between me and the man upstairs". Steve came out of his office with the hummingbird in one hand and a small plastic bag of corn pollen in the other. We are in the habit of sprinkling each hummer we catch with pollen before we release it. This is because Priscilla tells us that will bring good luck. Although she refuses to adopt us into her clan, claiming the letting and joining of blood is no longer safe, she has let us in on a few minor secrets. Steve and I powdered the tired bird with the yellow substance, had Danny (our new internet manager and adjunct photographer) take images, said a little prayer and set the hummer free.

"Now for you my little pretty," I said to the bat. Steve had to run to the post office before it closed for lunch, so the deed was left to Danny and me. Danny found an empty, clear plastic CD container which I used to cover the flier. We then slid a piece of heavy card stock between the container and wall and gently dislodged the flittermouse. Realizing it was trapped, the hairy little beast let out a tiny scream of indignation. Steve must have taken the corn pollen with him and Priscilla denied having any, so I called Toni over from the cafe. Toni, I thought, would certainly have corn pollen, and she could use a little mediation of her own. My assumption proved correct, so, using Toni's stash, we powdered the bat's behind. When it screamed again we called another moment of silence. I then took the fanged one upstairs and let it loose in a deep dark area behind the building. "Mediate well," I said as I shook the bat from its containment. It screamed back at me one last time, as if to say, "Yeah, I'll do just that." As the bat disappeared behind a board, an ancient memory came to mind.

In the 1960s there were few street lights in Bluff. Those that did exist were situated on the curves of the main highway passing through town. Because of the sparse artificial illumination, it got dark quickly when the sun went down on southeastern Utah. Without those weak but effective street lights, the narrow, snake-like strip of asphalt would have claimed many an unfamiliar traveler. As kids, we discovered early on that those languid lamps drew bugs like moths to a flame, and where there were flying insects there were bats. On cool summer nights, the interaction between supersonic winged mammal and captivated creepers was too much of an attraction for my brothers and me to resist.

In an attempt to bring down those blood thirsty varmints, it became our habit to stand under the lights, scoop up hands-full of pea gravel and fling it at the bats. Either our aim was askew or our firepower under-funded, because I do not recall ever felling one measly bat. I do, however, remember having fallen behind on one summer's eve and coming up on Craig and Steve in full assault mode. As I approached, I could see them peppering the creatures flittering above their shaved heads. I also recall an incredibly dark blue evening encased by an over dome of magnificent points of starlight. From a short distance I viewed a solitary street lamp shining down a conical beam of soft yellow light. Two brothers, one dark like his mother, the other light like his father, aggressively tossing stones into the palpitating abyss. To me the scene was altogether singular, somehow set apart from the rest of my compressed understanding of the world. Time stood still, and I envisioned a real life snow globe. That scene remains with me, a treasured memory, to this very day.

Yup, I was sure that bat was going to do me proud.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Tales of a Trader’s Dog - Part 1

2011-08-26T16:16:00.004-06:00

My name is Buffy the Wonder Dog, but my friends call me Buffy. I am a seven year old Golden Retriever, and this is my tale.

Buffy the Wonder Dog

Some time ago I was introduced to a fine little book entitled Tales of a Trader’s Wife, which was published in 1965 by Mary Jeanette Kennedy. Mrs. Kennedy is the grandmother of Georgiana Kennedy Simpson, wife of Steven P. Simpson. Steve and Georgiana, along with their children, Kira and Grange, are my owners. Georgiana comes from a long line of Indian traders; Steve, not so long.

Having been exposed to Mary Jeanette’s memoir when I was just a whelp, I have recently become inspired to document my own experience, which, if successful, will be serialized in the well known and widely circulated literary column Tied to the Post. This weekly bit of fantasy, which some unkind individuals have from time to time referred to as yellow journalism, is written by my owner and his brother, Barry Simpson. Barry and Steve are the proprietors of Twin Rocks Trading Post.

Twin Rocks is a lonely outpost located in Bluff, Utah, just two miles north of the San Juan River. This watercourse, which forms the northern border of the Navajo Indian Reservation, is host to a number of extremely small communities in which residents attempt to scratch a living out of a desolate desert environment. My early experiences provided no indication I would eventually spend my days at a trading post in the wilds of southern Utah, but here I am.

I was born in Clines Corner, New Mexico during the winter of 2004, the offspring of purebred parents. My sire’s family, while of good stock, had fallen on hard times, and after my birth it was discovered that my mother’s bloodline was afflicted with hip dysplasia. So, while the trunk of my family tree is solid hard wood, my particular branch is not sterling.

Born the forth of eight, my parents assured me I was the pick of the litter, and that I, like Rocky Balboa, could be a contender. Early on I was encouraged to set my sights on the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Alas, with the discovery of dysplasia in my genetic code, and my somewhat crooked teeth, that dream was never to be realized. Instead, my breeder elected to convey me to an older couple living in Albuquerque’s North Valley.

My new owners, John and Georgiana Kennedy, had deep roots in the Indian trading business, but at 91 and 84 years of age respectively, they were in the twilight of their careers. John’s father, George Kennedy and Mary Jeanette had established a trading post at Salina Springs, Arizona in 1913.

John was the owner of Gallup Indian Trading Company, located in Gallup, New Mexico, for many years. Decades before I was adopted into the family, the business had been passed down to John’s sons and subsequently closed. He, however, continued to trade, and at 91 was still active in the business.

When John’s old blue Chevy van, which likely had 250,000 reservation miles on its chassis, was stolen, I was brought in to guard the Kennedy compound against further thievery. Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, however, quickly realized they had overestimated the extent of my security training, and discussions were convened that would ultimately land me a new position at Twin Rocks Trading Post.

To be continued.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Sticky Sweet!

2011-08-17T13:03:00.003-06:00

In the heart of the Santo Domingo Pueblo, in north central New Mexico, acclaimed lapidary artist Ray Lovato and his family sit together in their small kitchen to work, eat and socialize. Often Ray gathers his tools and supplies and bellys-up to the table to string the beautiful, hand-ground turquoise beads he has just made. Ray has a gregarious, easy-going way, so his grandchildren are incredibly fond of him. Conversation is lively as Ray sits there contently, smiling and tossing in creative quips intended to keep the dialogue lively. As his grandchildren eat toast and jam, the discussions often grow more and more animated. With Ray's gleeful prodding, the situation frequently spirals into a chaotic melee. Such is the way Ray rolls; his family is his most valuable asset, and a sounding board for his latest jokes. Ray's beads are considered some of the best in the Native American art world, and as a result he enjoys a lucrative business which supports the growing brood.

Santo Domingo New Lander Calcasiderite Bead Necklace - Ray Lovato (#33)

Our friend Bob recently called about a Ray Lovato Blue Gem turquoise necklace he purchased from Twin Rocks. He was concerned that some of the beads appeared to be fused together. To be honest, I could not conceive how such a thing might happen, but then I recalled Ray's last visit, when the Kokopelli doors blew open to expose an explosion of Native children and a smiling, laughing Ray Lovato. The kids were dancing about as if fueled by pure cane sugar, and their hands and faces were colored red and blue with sticky substances. I knew for certain the glass counters would need a thorough scouring after this boundless bunch finished their tour. Ray dropped off the beads we were anticipating, along with two loaves of Santo Domingo bread, a bag of blue corn cookies, flattened wedges of a pie-like offering and several off-color jokes. He then pocketed his cash, rounded up his herd and left for southern skies.

As I spoke with Bob, addressing his concerns about his "natural" necklace, I recalled Ray's recent visit and evaluated what I knew of Ray's work space. A light came on, and I began to suspect the reasons why several of those Blue Gem beads were stuck together. In Ray's world the opportunities for sweet and sticky goodies abound. I explained my suspicions to Bob, advising him to soak the beads in cold water before sending them back to me for inspection. Bob laughed at the thought, but agreed to give the plan a try.

Several days went by and I had not heard back from Bob, so I e-mailed him, asking how the recommended solution had worked out. Bob replied that he had not soaked the beads, but had instead forced his fingernail between them and separated their sticky surfaces. Bob also mentioned that he had found two more beads attached in a similar manner. He had apparently been tempted to sample the tacky stuff to confirm our suspicions, but, believing the evidence was clear, he decided against it. Fortunately Bob has a good sense of humor and found the experience added a more human aspect to Ray's art. I now inspect Ray's beads a tad more closely. Along with the bread and cookies Ray so generously gifts us, I am on the look out for something extra sweet in his jewelry.

When I shared this sticky story with my parents, they laughed merrily and reminded me how they had raised their young family during the late 1950's and early 60's. The outpost of Bluff City left our parents far from any modern convenience, so mom and dad would load up on "supplies" whenever they went to town. Large quantities of Blue Bird flower, Crisco shortening, salt, sugar, dry yeast and butter were essential to stock the pantry. Dad reminded me that there was usually an entire beef in the freezer, much of it hamburger. From those stores mom would deliver 10 to 13 loaves of bread per week, and there was generally a large pot of chili beans on the stove to compliment the baked goods. When those hot, fresh loaves emerged from the oven, anyone familiar with mom's baking skills would show up for supper. Susan, Craig, Steve, Cindy and I would have to have been tied to a post, or trapped under a large rock, not to make an appearance.

Mom claims her five children, dad and other family and friends would go through 4 or 5 loaves of bread, a pound of sweet butter, a quart of jam, a couple gallons of milk and an entire pot of beans in one sitting. Talk about a hungry hoard! At that time, dad owned and operated a small filling station on the main highway, at the base of Cow Canyon. Each evening he would return from work and lay out his daily barter on the kitchen table for all of us to see. I cannot remember a time when there were not rugs, baskets or jewelry on or within close proximity to our table. Mom and dad assured me that beans, bread crumbs, butter and preserves often found their way into those trade goods too. What is a little sweet and sticky among friends anyway?

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Just Use It

2011-08-12T21:44:00.002-06:00

As a young man of the 1970s, I well remember the custom vans of that era. Likely an outgrowth of the 1960s VW microbus craze, these elaborately painted, wildly windowed and chrome wheeled vehicles captured my attention, and my desire. It was likely Sammy Johns’ song entitled Chevy Van, however, that sealed my fate; one day I would have one of my own.

1936 Chevy

Well, the 1970s came and went, as did the country’s taste for those beautiful, boxy automobiles, but my hunger for the custom cruisers never abated. And so, when 2005 rolled around and my cousin from Grand Junction came to visit Twin Rocks Trading Post I was still thinking of the ‘70s. Since Tye is a builder of antique autos, our conversation naturally gravitated towards old cars. “I have always wanted a classic van,” I told him. He shook his head knowingly, sympathetically. He obviously knew more than he was letting on.

A few weeks later, a copy of Hemmings Motor News arrived in the mail, courtesy of my cousin. Splashed across the front was a photograph of three 1936 sedan deliverys; a Dodge, a Ford and a Chevy. Although they were not at all what I originally had in mind, I picked up the telephone and informed Tye that was exactly what I wanted. “Good,” he said, “I know where there is a Chevy just like the one on the cover.” I found myself committed before I knew what was happening, so a month later Jana, Kira, Grange and I went to Grand Junction to view the prospect.

Having had his eye on the car for a long while, Tye assured me he knew exactly what to do with it. So, I took a leap of faith, bought the van and set Tye to work. Six years later the car is in the final stages of its reincarnation.

Now that it is getting close to completion, I have begun fretting about what to do with this vehicular work of art when it is finally delivered. Consequently, I called Tye to express my concerns. “I can’t drive it,” I said, thinking about how I would feel if it became scratched or dented. Taking a cue from the folks at Nike, Tye said, “Just use it. It’s a car, it’s meant to be driven.”

“Humm,” I thought, having never considered that it really is just an automobile, and recognizing that, when it comes to Navajo rugs, that is the advice we give people who visit the trading post.

Barry and I often chuckle at the visitors who come into the store and walk around the rugs we have scattered about the floor. We see them tiptoe past, cautiously circumnavigate and even jump over these handmade beauties. Echoing my comment to Tye, they say, “We are afraid to walk on them.” “Nuts,” we say, assuring them the rugs are made to be used, and that in all likelihood they will outlive us all. We note that we believe the weavings give the trading post a lot of character and that we love having them on the floor.

At the old Jens Nielson House and Mill, which is located just around the corner from Twin Rocks and is also where the Simpson family lived during my whelpage, I vividly remember Duke and Rose having Navajo rugs three deep on the floors. Back then nobody gave a second thought to walking on them. Those weavings seemed strong as iron, and made for an extremely colorful and comfortable home. So, when that old van finally arrives in Bluff, I will get myself a Sammy Johns tape, throw a Navajo rug in the back and “Just use it!”

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Creature Companions

2011-08-06T14:49:00.005-06:00

Tuesday was turning out to be a day of creature features. First of all, I opened the cafe at sunup and was greeted by a flock of Rufous Hummingbirds with very territorial attitudes. Our hummingbird population must be the most photographed in the county. Tourists just love to sit on the porch, watch the sunrise, eat breakfast and snap images of those bickering birds. The hummers brawl with and badger each other over drafts of Jenelia's slow-brewed sugar water. A few hours later, we opened the doors to the trading post and in flew one of the many Great Crested Flycatcher's that had been devouring winged bugs that were still attached to the outside walls after a night of illuminated attraction. It took awhile to catch and release the feathered phenom back into its augmented environment. The flycatchers are replaced by our cleanup crew of Collard, Spiny and Plateau Striped lizards, just to name a few, that emerge when the temperatures rise in the late morning, early afternoon.

Navajo Big Horned Sheep Carving - Marvin Jim & Grace Begay (#344)

At noon, I was still schlepping tables at the cafe. I went outside to sweep crumbs from under the patio tables when a family of six walked up and asked if they could bring their dog onto the porch. They wanted to get her out of the hot car and have a lite lunch for themselves. I told them we do allow dogs on the porch, so long as they are non-boisterous, do not beg and/or bother other people. Most importantly, I do not, will not, cannot tolerate incontinence in species! Looking around for the aforementioned pupster, I saw the woman pop a pooch out of her handbag, attach a leach and set it down. The miniature Mexican Chihuahua was primped in a sundress of all things. The Lilliputian Chiquita hunkered under a chair as if embarrassed by her attire and began licking crumbs I had missed. I felt badly for the little beastie, but I was certain we were going to get along just fine.

Seeing that poor pooch dressed to impress humans caused me to recall how Navajo lore speaks of how all animals once walked upright. At that time, they stood with humans and aided in the creation of the world. Traditional stories such as these speak of respectful conversation between all living beings, of equality, honor and friendship. The community stood strong and united; interaction was highly personal, harmonious and balanced. Animals played prominent roles in these myths. For example, raptors, both great and small, were strong and dominate aerialists. These magnificent birds of prey were often portrayed as intermediaries between the real and spirit worlds. When it was essential that a prayerful message be delivered to the upper realm, a raptor was petitioned to deliver the dispatch. At that time, dogs were considered highly intelligent and had the gift of tongues. Canines were exceptionally close allies with humans, and were known for their unselfish acts of protection and due diligence.

Each and every animal held a position of importance within the cultural community. Their assistance helped make the world an enjoyable place to live. Life was prosperous and pleasurable. Unfortunately, in an imperfect world relationships are often destroyed by less than subtle indecencies. Greed, jealousy, lapse of compassion and understanding; the mistakes and missteps so common to man that occur and reoccur with regularity crept in. These sins of man forced the separation of the animals and humans. Our creature companions discarded their garb and now, basically, choose to ignore and/or not to communicate with human kind. During the separation each went their separate way and ignorance destroyed harmonious and beneficial relationships. The stories of old remind the Navajo people of their past mistakes and attempt to teach them how to avoid revisiting such inappropriate and destructive behavior.

Later that day I was working the trading post when a young man and his parents pushed in through the Kokopelli doors. The parents were fifty-something and dressed like tourists outta be. They wore airy shirts, khaki shorts and sandals. The young man's attire was something else altogether. As the youth entered the building he caused a ripple in the tide. Everyone in the store stopped, stared for a moment, recalled proper protocol then regained their step. The youth was in the neighborhood of 17 years of age, he was tall, relatively good looking and by the way he greeted me I deemed him well mannered. The reason he caused everyone to stop and stare had everything to do with the way he was dressed. Riding upon his head of shoulder length brown hair was one of those heavy, crushable, brown leather, adventurer-style hats which was encircled by a porcupine quill band. His dark eyes shone bright from under that temperate topper, as if he were living life's perfect dream.

The upper torso of the young buck was encased in, first, a black silk shirt, then a mid-thigh black leather, Ralph-Cactus coat sporting fringe at the breast, back and under the arms. The heavy coat was adorned with brightly colored, 3" wide bands of imported bead-work over the chest, shoulders and across the back. It also had circular medallions at the cuffs. Black Levis' and a pair of dull, pitch black boots completed the ensemble. As the youth circled the store he repeatedly raised his arms and extended them fully. This action allowed the foot long, leather fringe streamers under the sleeves to hang freely. For all intents and purpose the kid looked like a giant California Condor floating about the store. The event was rather entertaining.

Smiling to myself, I thought back on Navajo legend. I contemplated discussing issues of personal space with hummingbirds, learning the finer points of aerodynamic acrobatics from a Flycatcher or climbing the walls with lackadaisical lizards. I laughed out loud when I conceived of having coffee and crumpets with a chic Chihuahua or a conversation with a California Condor about how young people express themselves these days. Life would certainly be more interesting if animals walked and talked with us once more. But, just as sure as sin, someone would mouth-off, open old wounds and cause a collapse of companionship once more. Aren't we humans something to behold?

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

How The King Lost His Tail

2011-07-29T10:45:00.004-06:00

As Barry and Priscilla will readily affirm, in my world there is, and always will be, one and only one “King”. Forget about King George, Henry VIII, King Abdullah or even Larry King, for me Elvis is the one true King. When Jana and I got serious about teaming up for life, I worked hard to convince her we needed to get married in Las Vegas. I harbored a secret hope that we would be wedded by Elvis masquerading as an Elvis impersonator. Like my good friend Austin Lyman, and many others, I am convinced Elvis lives.

Tailless King Collard Lizard

So, when Barry recently wrote his article about the King of Twin Rocks Trading Post I was excited. When I discovered the story was about a reptile, I was dismayed. It was only after Barry assured me he did not mean any disrespect and Priscilla played Elvis’ Greatest Hits on the trading post stereo that I consented to its publication. From that point forward, however, I kept an eye on Barry’s so-called King. I would see him from time-to-time lounging on a rock or skittering across the porch and always looked upon him with disdain. “King, my . . . kiester,” I thought every time he appeared.

So it was until recently, when Monday morning dawned hot and humid. On Sunday the mercury had skyrocketed to 105, and all indications were there would be no break in the temperature for a day or two. Kira is working on her goal of running 200 miles during the summer break, so we were on the road early that day, trying to beat the heat. As we exited the House Above the Trading Post, I noticed him, Barry’s King, peeking out from under a large rock. “Look at that,” I sneered to Kira, “reptilian royalty according to your uncle.” “He looks pretty majestic to me,” she replied. “Bah,” was all I could say.

Over the years, Barry and I have discovered the only way to efficiently catch the lizards that scurry across our porch is to spray them with a garden hose. The water freezes them in place and you can then simply reach down and pick them up. We have, however, rarely imparted this knowledge to the little ruffians who inhabit the trading post property during summer vacation. Consequently, our resident reptiles are rarely in jeopardy of being captured and packed off to far away lands.

On this particular day, however, the tide seemed about to turn. As I walked across the landing to Twin Rocks Cafe to secure a glass of iced tea, I noticed a posse of French children beginning to form. I could hear them scheming in a language I was ill-equipped to decipher. It was easy to see, however, something was up, and it did not bode well for Barry’s King. As he clung cockily to the side of the Sunbonnet Rock, the Franco hoodlums closed in, inching cautiously closer.

During their first attack they misfired and the large lizard easily burst out of reach, circumnavigating the rock and stopping only when he was confident the children had been evaded. All would have gone well, except for the large cup of icy soda one of the attackers held in her unsteady hand. As the group lunged a second time, this young woman stumbled, splashing the cold, sticky liquid onto the Lizard King, freezing him in place. In an instant, her brother seized the lizard, grasping him by his thick tail. Screaming and shouting, he hoisted the reptile aloft.

Finally regaining his composure, the lizard began to wriggle and snap his jaws, causing the children to shout even louder and dance about as though they were performing a war dance. After a few moments, that must have felt like an eternity for the creature, the King liberated himself. The cost, however, was dear. As he tumbled to the sidewalk and beat a hasty retreat, his detached tail remained in the hand of his captor and continued to wave back and forth as though it were still attached to its owner.

Realizing what had happened, the exhilarated assailant released his grip on the severed appendage and let it fall to the ground. As if to fully and finally terminate its life-force, the group began stomping on the royal tail. Once that task was accomplished and the severed part ceased to pulsate, the hoodlums faded off towards their RV, leaving the ghastly remains of their hunt ground into the cement. In deference to Barry, I retrieved the tail and gave it a proper burial, concluding the brief ceremony with my own tortured rendition of Crying in the Chapel. And that, my friends, is how the King lost his tail.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Stink!

2011-07-22T14:59:00.003-06:00

Shirley was not happy, in fact she was rather put-out, and her disdain was finely focused on me. Earlier that morning Shirley had called from Pinon, Arizona and talked with Steve. She had just finished weaving a large storm pattern rug and was ready to sell. Steve explained that although we were not, not buying rugs, we were being hyper-vigilant concerning quality of weave, symmetry and color; the rug had to be first rate before we could even consider buying it. I overheard Steve reiterate this point several times, saying "Please do not make a special trip unless your rug is fine and well finished; otherwise it will be wasted time." As Steve hung up the telephone and walked past my office, I gave him my, "You know she is going to drive over here no matter what" look. Steve countered with his, "You heard me tell her not to come unless it is a great rug" look. Because Shirley puts her heart and soul into each and every rug she creates, she feels they are all good. Unfortunately, as we have learned the hard way, not everyone agrees. It was my bet Steve was about to get his proverbial teet in a ringer.

Navajo White & Red Ganado Rug - Clara Toney (#2)

Two hours later, in walks Shirley, followed closely by her man. Shirley was packing a rug, which had been folded and placed in a white plastic bag. My heart sank, because Steve was across the street helping Craig and Jeremy (the driver of Le Pew's septic service truck) pump out our exhaustively active and overly-supplied system. "Stink!" I said under my breath. I looked to our long-time associate Priscilla for help, but she moved off several paces as if anticipating what might occur. What ran through my mind was that Shirley can weave exceptional rugs, many of which we have bought and sold through Twin Rocks Trading Post. On the other hand, Shirley can also weave, let me put it delicately, rugs of a lesser standard. Those have not been bought and sold through the trading post. I figured the odds of a nice weaving coming from that bag were about 50/50. Through the years Shirley, Steve and I have had several thoughtful discussions. During those conversations we have informed Shirley that there is a good market for high quality American Indian art, but no market for the mediocre. For some reason, which still baffles us, she often times chooses to disregard our comments. Some lessons are hard to learn.

Thus, when they walked through the Kokopelli doors, Shirley spotted me, stopped in her tracks and said, "Where's Steve?" "Ober dere." I said, pursing my lips and pointing them in the direction of the clean-out crew. Priscilla gave me the, "Reservation slang humor might not be appropriate at this point" look. I guessed she was right, but I was attempting to keep the mood light. Shirley stalked toward me, pulled the weaving from its wrappings and unfolded her prize as if it were the most beautiful rug in the world, and she was daring me to contradict her. Over the last 40 years I have been working in this business, I have developed what I consider buyer/seller triage. I can look at something a seller brings in and quickly decide if we can use it in the store or not . If interested, I go into discovery mode and begin to look ever so closely at the offered product in order to determine quality, desirability and value. If I am not interested, I do not waste the artist's time, and let them down as easily and respectfully as possible. Most artists we do business with consider me more . . . opinionated than Steve; he is an easier mark. My thoughts were that this particular rug was not well made.

The problem was that I know Shirley, I like Shirley and I want to buy her rugs. I knew there were months of hard, meticulous work represented here, and I knew she, and the guy staring me down, had just driven that worn-out primer gray and grass green Ford Focus two hours to get here. I was hating life about now. Just to be sure I had not made a critical error in judgment, I went into discovery mode. I spread the rug on the floor behind the counter, got down on my knees, said a brief prayer, dropped to my hands and knees and began to look the weaving over as carefully as possible. To my great dismay, I found that the rug was wider at one end than the other, the symmetry of the pattern was off, warp was poking through in several places and the weave was loose and uneven. My original diagnosis had been correct, unless I wanted to throw $1,200.00 out the door, this rug was a goner! I sighed inwardly and looked up, directly into the face of dear Shirley. She had been hunched over the counter, inspecting me just as closely as I had been inspecting her rug. Apparently she could read my body language and facial expressions. Shirley had not liked what she had seen any better than I. Her right eyebrow was raised, her left lowered and there was a look of consternation in her big brown eyes.

I did not want to do this; be the one to turn her down. I got up off the floor and looked across the road to where Steve was cleaning an underground tank with a high pressure hose. "I'll be back," I said, coming around the counter and heading in his direction. I was intent on bringing Steve back into this equation. After all this was his baby. When I arrived at the offensive opening, Steve was hunched over the tank looking into its detestable depths with a scowl on his face. Seeing me approach he looked up and said, "My Ray Bans just fell in there!" I could tell Steve was experiencing a purgatory of his own. By the look on his face, and the malodorous aura surrounding him, I suspected he was also feeling inconvenienced by the shallow minds and clouded vision of those responsible for our ongoing sewer woes.

"What's up?" Steve asked, sitting back on his haunches and placing his hands on his thighs. "Your buddy Shirley showed up with her rug," I said accusingly. "Good or bad?" he asked, trying to remain focused while kneeling in front of that grand, offensive opening. "It's a stinker!" I told him. "That's unfortunate", he said shaking his head sadly. I am sure the loss of his sunglasses played into that statement as well. "Well", he continued, "we can't be throwing good money down a black hole can we," he said, looking into the septic tank. "You heard me tell her we were only buying great rugs. We should pass on it," he continued. I wasn't going to get any help here, so, in a foul mood, I walked back to the trading post.

Shirley was waiting for me. I pointed out the reasons for the unwelcome rejection in hopes it would help with future negotiations. Shirley and her man were upset indeed when I told them I could not buy the rug. They even drove across the parking lot and confirmed the negative response with Steve before driving away in the worn out Focus. As they went, I was feeling terrible about the entire encounter, as, I was certain, was Steve. I hoped the next go-round would prove more beneficial for everyone involved. Shirley, on the other hand, would probably rather have shoved us both into that nasty tank, replace the lid and been done with it. Surely, in her mind we were the stinkers!

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Turquoise Mosaic

2011-07-15T11:52:00.003-06:00

Jana, Kira, Grange and I recently attended a wedding held at the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Gallup, New Mexico. Posted over the entrance to the sanctuary is their mission statement, which begins, “We the members of the Roman Catholic Community of Sacred Heart Cathedral . . . like a mosaic, will blend our individual talents and multiple cultures to form a unified, working parish.”

Turquoise Mosaic

That statement started me thinking about mosaics in general, and specifically about a turquoise encrusted cow skull purchased not long after we built Blue Mountain Trading Post. It was the 1970s, and the Indian art business was booming. High quality turquoise was both plentiful and inexpensive. Artists and traders frequently combined resources to make squash blossom necklaces, bracelets and concho belts set with enough turquoise to exhaust the supply of a small mine. Stones from all major deposits; Morenci, Bisbee, Kingman, Cripple Creek and even Lander Blue were readily available and widely circulated.

Although much of the jewelry produced at the time was too large and heavy to be worn any appreciable length of time, the industry was not concerned with that particular complication. Nor were the customers, every woman had to have a set. Some of those monumental pieces can still be found hanging on the walls or residing in the display cases of trading posts that have survived the economic vicissitudes of the last forty years. They are a sight to behold. I recently saw a necklace fashioned during this phase that was large enough to fit an Amazon . It would have hung down to the knees of any ordinary woman, and there was enough blue in the stones to illuminate the sky.

As traders and artists exhausted their portfolio of concepts for over the top wearable art, they began scratching around for new ideas. One of the most interesting things I remember seeing during that period was turquoise inlaid skulls. I believe the original was a buffalo head featured on the cover of the January 1974 issue of Arizona Highways magazine. Once the idea caught on, however, there were cow, horse and even goat heads decorated in a similar fashion. That is when we aquired ours.

What fascinated me most about the skulls, and the mission statement of Sacred Heart Cathedral, was the concept of blending so many individual elements to form an unusual and intriguing outcome.

I often think of Twin Rocks Trading Post as a mosaic, with all the artistic personalities forming tiles of different colors, shapes and sizes, and its most interesting aspects becoming apparent only when the pieces are inspected independent of each other. Whether it is the calm, teacherly characteristics of Mary Holiday Black; the helter skelter nature of Elsie Holiday; the differing shades of Joann Johnson; the maticulous, steady pace of Allison Lee; or the wildly unpredictable creativity and madness of Lorraine Black, each segment of the trading post mosaic is fascinating in its individuality. Like that turquoise buffalo scull, our trading post mosaic is a striking, and strikingly complicated, work of art.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

The Kitseallyboy Rug Affair

2011-07-08T10:50:00.002-06:00

Working in the office at Twin Rocks Trading Post, I heard the door chimes announce a new arrival. Pushing back my rolling chair, I peeked into the store. Although I could not see who came in, I noticed Priscilla near the cash register. She greeted the guest in Navajo, so I assumed she must be speaking to an artist, or maybe one of the many locals who frequently visit the store to peruse our parlor of particulars. In an attempt to finish the project I was working on, I quickly rolled the chair back to my desk. In short order Priscilla poked her head through the office door and said, "Parnella has a rug to show you." "Parnella," I thought to myself, "who the heck is Parnella?" Seeing the confusion on my face, Priscilla continued, "Kitseallyboy." "That helps a great deal," I replied. I could not recall having bought a weaving from Parnella Kitseallyboy. I am, however, more forgetful all the time, so it was possible I had forgotten something.

Navajo 1950's early 60's Red Mesa Rug - Mary Kitseallyboy (#01)

"Curiouser and curiouser!" I said to myself as I got up and went into the store. As I navigated past her, Priscilla chuckled at my confusion. As though she was trying to help me make the connection, Priscilla said, "She drives the Red Mesa school bus for my grandkids." Emerging from my space, I looked into the large brown eyes of a pleasant, less than middle-aged Navajo woman. Her husband was standing nearby. We greeted each other, and she asked if I wanted to see her rug. Only an hour earlier Steve, Craig and I had discussed cash flow and burn rates, so I hesitated. In these times of economic uncertainty, we have tried to adhere to a strict financial plan. Needless to say, since we are moved more by emotion than common sense, we have been wholly unsuccessful in that respect. "Well, you are already here", I said, "so let's see what you have."

I gave Priscilla a questioning glance, which she ignored. I suspected Priscilla of having advised Parnella to bring the weaving in without first telephoning to find out whether we were buying rugs. For us, it is easier to say no over the telephone than face to face, and more and more artists are becoming aware of this weakness in our character. Consequently, I suspected Priscilla knew more about what was happening than she revealed. As it turned out, the weaving Parnella rolled out on the counter was an eyedazzler, one of my favorite styles, and it was truly impressive! As I inspected the rug, I realized it was of an earlier vintage, 1950s or 60s. The weaving was hand-spun of native wool, with a wonderful combination of browns, grays and creamy whites. There were two vegetable dyes of a tan/yellow that I attributed to rabbitbrush and wild carrot. The weave was gorgeous; smooth, even and symmetrical. I was more than impressed.

By this time the rug had been spread out on the floor and we were all sitting around it cross-legged. Inspecting the weaving closely, I realized I was loving it more and more all the time. "Please, tell me about it," I said to Parnella as I stroked the weave. Priscilla sat on the stool behind the counter, smiling knowingly. Everyone knew I was in trouble! Parnella explained that the rug had been created in the 1950s by Mary Kitseallyboy. Mary had passed away three years ago at the age of 103. The rug has been closely held by the family and passed down from mother to daughter over the last 60 years. Parnella, Mary's granddaughter, was the third to inherit the rug. She brought the weaving to us because she needed to address certain pressing family needs. It saddened me to hear she had to sell the rug, but Parnella assured us Mary would be happy to know she had helped in a time of crisis.

I struggled with my desire to buy this weaving. I would be breaking a vow of cash flow celibacy if I allowed myself to give in. My mind worked furiously, looking for loopholes and backdoor strategies. All of the sudden I came upon a plan . . . Traders in Training! This was an idea Steve's wife Jana had come up with a few years back that allowed our children to learn about the trading business. By allowing them to invest in art that is sold through the trading post, we give them a chance to expand their horizons and earn money for college. Surprisingly the kids bought into it. Silly children! I went into my office and withdrew the sacred envelope from my desk drawer. "Would there be enough," I wondered out loud. Parnella said there was, so we struck a deal. My children now own Mary's (Parnella's) rug, I am safe from chastisement and the trading post has an exceptional piece of art on display. Nuts to cash flow, I love a win-win situation.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

You Gotta Know How to Shear the Sheep

2011-07-01T11:25:00.003-06:00

Once the trading post is closed and all the turquoise jewelry, sand paintings and Navajo rugs have been sold, Monday nights find me managing the affairs of Twin Rocks Cafe. No, there is no Monday Night Football for me.

Twin Rocks Feathery Escape Rug by Lucy Yazzie

The employees next door have long since arrived at the conclusion that I am a softy, so they pay little attention to my managerial directives. On one recent evening, the servers moved from table to table, delivering food, checking drink levels and picking up empty plates. As they did so, I toured the mostly empty back dining room, searching for wayward crumbs and French fries that had fallen to the floor; anything to appear busy. The staff was experienced and it was an exceptionally quiet evening, so everything was comfortably in order.

At a back table, a family enjoyed crispy rounds of fry bread and bowls of homemade beef stew. The mother and father were well turned out; scrupulously clean and well manicured. From their speech and the way they addressed their offspring, I could tell they had been well-educated and were experienced in the ways of the world.

The two daughters, likely in their early twenties, were also attractively dressed and well spoken. The young ladies each wore nicely crafted turquoise bracelets and their mother’s strong hands indicated she was, or had been, a rug weaver. From all this, I concluded they must be Navajo.

Although I knew it was impolite, that Mother Rose would be disappointed in me and that I had been better trained, I could not help eavesdropping on their conversation. So, acting like I was straightening catsup bottles and wiping marks from the tables, I lingered; engrossed in their dialoge.

What caught my attention was their animated discussion of intertribal marriage. Having spent the majority of my life as a white male in a mostly Navajo community, I have always been fascinated by how minority groups relate to each other. At times I have been absolutely astounded by the bias I have seen in those who have themselves felt the sting of discrimination. Rather than being more patient with, and tolerant of, individual differences, those comprising minority groups can be less understanding. That has always confounded me.

As the conversation continued, the family discussed social and societal differences, personal choices and lifestyle diversity at length, ultimately concluding that one must seek a partner who has had similar experiences. Race and ethnicity, they decided, was an issue, but not necessarily the determinative one.

As I moved away, sure I had overstayed my welcome, I heard the mother admonish her children, “Remember, we are a family of weavers. You gotta know how to shear the sheep.” The girls nodded in approval, acknowledging that their mother was reminding them to always remember their roots.

As the matriarch of the family stated, surely we must remember who we are and where we came from; never losing sight of our history. Just as surely, we should remember that others have equally important histories that help make us a diverse society. Variety, it is said, is the spice of life. So, in addition to the sheep, maybe we should also understand how to shear the llama, the goat and the alpaca.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

The King of Twin Rocks

2011-06-24T13:19:00.003-06:00

Recently, I was standing behind the counter of the Trading Post closing out a sale on a pair of Ella Toney's silver hoop earrings. The customer was a seventy-something-year-old matron, coolly dressed in a light floral print blouse, brown wool slacks and spiky heeled open toed shoes. I wondered to myself just how effective those shoes had been in traversing our gravel-encrusted parking lot. When the woman first entered the store she seemed a bit high strung and jumpy but calmed noticeably as we walked the cases and spoke of the artists and their creative nature. I felt that the woman bought Ella's earrings more on my explanation of Ella and her gentle, easy going ways than the look and appeal of the earrings themselves; maybe she was searching for a calming influence.

King of the collard lizards.

The Kokopelli doors were flung open wide to let in the splendor of the day, but I was contemplating closing them and turning on the refrigerated air. It was afternoon and the outside temperature was hoovering at the 90 degree mark. I estimated the temperature in the building to be in the low 80's. I thought either Steve or Priscilla would have attempted to cool things down by now but neither one of them had. Steve was in his office on the phone and Priscilla was in the rug room folding and hanging handmade textiles. They were probably too busy to think about it. Looking into the woman's hazel eyes and along her salt and pepper hairline I did not notice any trace of perspiration. The rule of thumb around here is: if the customers are not sweating, conserve the energy.

As I ran the credit card transaction I looked out the wide picture windows to my left and noticed that the parking lot in front of the Cafe was jam packed. People were strolling about the wide, shaded porches taking in the sights and wandering through the gift shop and Trading Post. I saw a middle aged couple and what looked like their two young grandsons stopped in front of Steve's "We Give Bear Hugs" sign hung outside between the windows. They were laughing and nudging each other as if saying, "You go first!" Steve, Priscilla and I have been getting a whole lot more affection since that proclamation was placed. I personally have a stronger testimony regarding the difference between an affectionate embrace and a serious snuggle. Anyway, just as this woman was signing her credit card receipt we heard an explosion of high pitched screams and a thunder of commotion. I looked up again and saw a low to the ground torpedo shape figure sprint past the front doors followed closely by two young boys, screaming merrily and manhandling each other in an attempt to catch the scurrying creature.

Because of the strident squeals and tumultuous upheaval going on behind her the poor lady jumped perceptively and scratched and tore the paper she was attempting to sign with her pen. She whirled around and let out an oath that would have made a sailor blush. I know it did me! The woman watched the boys rush down the porch then turned to face me once more. My wide eyed look and reddened complexion must have given away my surprise at her hellish oath because she also blushed. Regaining her composure and focus the outspoken woman signed the ripped check and handed it back to me in a most delicate fashion. "Oh my goodness, that frightened me so." she said in an attempt to lighten the mood. "The boys were chasing 'the King'." I said sheepishly. "The King of what? Do you mean Elvis?" "No, not Elvis", I laughed. "The king of the collard lizards." "An uproar like that over an itty-bitty lizard." the woman said to herself as she exited the building.

'The King', in actuality, is no "itty-bitty" lizard. As far as we know he is the fourth generation of Giant Collared Lizard to have earned that title. Our children have chased and held these brutes for as long as the Trading Post has rested beneath the towering Twin Rocks. The current title holder measures somewhere around ten inches from the tip of his spindly tail to the end of his brutish nose and is a good two inches around the middle. He is not the largest of his line but a 'bruiser' all the same. The boys never did catch the royal roughneck, that is a tough challenge to inexperienced handlers. He is an elusive creature, we see him from time to time but we know he is here more by the expletives he is appropriated..."Did you see the size of that @#$%&*! thing?"

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

The Highway or the Byway

2011-06-17T20:05:00.004-06:00

The other day Jana and I attended a two day conference at the Brian Head Ski Resort near Cedar City. After closing the trading post, we packed the car and prepared to head out. There were a number of things that needed to be done to ensure Kira and Grange were properly attended while we were away, so we went to Blanding to take the necessary action.

Stark Beauty

Having completed all the assigned tasks, we left town at approximately 7:30 p.m. Since Brian Head is on the opposite side of this extremely large state, we elected to head north, intersect Interstate 70 West at Crescent Junction and speed along the freeway until we ran into Interstate 15 South, about an hour and a half north of our destination. Our goal was to arrive at the lodge before 2:00 a.m. Since it was both late and dark as we traveled the freeway, there was no sightseeing, only straight driving.

At the completion of the conference, Jana and I sat in the parking lot debating whether to return via our original route or take the longer, slower way over the mountains. The freeway would be faster and bring us home sooner, but the scenic byway offered an abundance of beautiful scenery and a number of small towns to investigate. As we discussed the two alternatives, it struck me that a similar choice had brought me to Twin Rocks Trading Post. Over 20 years ago, I had decided to exit the professional life I had begun and moved to Bluff. Little did I know the impact that decision would have on my life.

Realizing southern Utah offers the largest concentration of natural wonders in the United States, Jana and I chose the mountainous route, which, even though it was early June, was still beautifully blanketed in snow. The first town we visited was Panguitch, which is embraced by the majestic mountains we had just traveled. This quaint little town is adjacent to Bryce Canyon National Park, and offers a naturally colorful view of the Aquarius Plateau.

Our visit coincided with the Annual Quilt Walk. Apparently Panguitch, which is a Paiute word meaning “Big Fish,” had been settled during the frigid year of 1864. An early freeze killed the crops before harvest, leaving the pioneers without winter stores. As the deep cold settled in, seven brave men volunteered to go over the peaks to the more established settlements to secure flour to feed the starving population. The men spread quilts over the deep snow to prevent them from falling through the soft crust. The quilt walk commemorates their heroism.

As we drove through Red Canyon near Bryce, over the pass to Boulder, down the mountain to Torrey, past Lake Powell and across U.S. Highway 95, I could not help thinking of all those heroic individuals who had tried to settle this still untamed land. Their journeys had paved the way for the rest of us. Although they may have made some inroads, there remains a vast geography of land that will never be subdued.

Southern Utah is a stark beauty that cannot be fully appreciated from the windshield of a car speeding along the freeway, or from the office of a city high-rise. Like Bluff itself, she must be experienced on a personal basis, slowly, in all her lonely isolation. As I discovered all those years ago, however, it is a byway worth taking.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Pastoral

2011-06-10T14:49:00.005-06:00

When people first enter the Trading Post it is our pleasure to strike up a conversation; to make them feel comfortable enough to get to know and trust us. As our dear old Daddy puts it: "You have to sell yourself before you can sell your product!" Because Craig, Steve and I are less than toothsome and showing plenty of wear and tear, we can not rely on good looks to make the introduction easier. As sister Cindy is fond of saying: "You have lost your luster." Because we are not and do not have the where-with-all to be "a character" like our father, we must put forth the effort to become better conversationalists. With this in mind, we do our best to steer clear of the easy and over-used intros, such as: "Can I help you?", "Where ya from?", or our three year old sidekick Lalana's favorite opener: "What's your name?"

Navajo Pastoral Scene Basket by Alicia Nelson

We are not, however, adverse to falling back on our surroundings to begin the banter. The main topic of conversation around the Trading Post these days is of the local lifestyle, the land, the vacillating seasons and, the hottest topic of all....moisture or the lack there of. After listening to us speak so eloquently of our fair landscape one thirty something year old, red-headed lass from the Emerald Isle told us: "You people are pastoralists." Not sure if I was being insulted or not I moved over to the computer behind the cash register and began to Google Pastor....I froze up on the spelling for a moment but was aided in my quandary by the young woman. She had slipped up behind me as if anticipating my action. "alists", she finished the spelling for me. "Leprechaun!" I muttered under my breath. It turned out that the pretty young lady was a teacher and proceeded to upgrade my vocabulary. The adjective pastoral refers to the lifestyle of pastoralists, such as shepherds herding livestock around open areas of land according to seasons and the changing availability of water and pasturage. It also refers to a genre in literature, art or music that depicts such shepherd life in an idealized manner, for urban audiences. As a noun, a pastoral refers to a single work of such poetry, music or drama. "That describes us perfectly!" was my satisfied reply.

There are some that understand and appreciate our bucolic attachment to local surroundings and others who do not. Steve was recently speaking with a visiting Hungarian economist and his family who became comfortable enough to blatantly ask "How can anyone live in this desolate place of rock and sand?" If Steve had not been so calmed by the influence of country life and a humble perspective toward nature he may have taken offense. My brother and business partner understands that sentiments of an ideal pastoral life is often something that is lost to those caught up in a cosmopolitan existence. We are but stewards of the Garden.

We do not always effectively present the philosophy we preach either. A couple of weeks ago I wrote a musing around a flight I took with a visiting pilot. In part it read: I shook my head, thinking, "No don't do this," and keyed the mike, which, of course, had a short in the wiring. As John glided left and dropped over the edge of the chasm a sense of calm overcame me. I breathed in the stream of cool, fresh air blowing across my face and relaxed into the dive. We leveled out somewhere around 500 feet above the brownish-red river, lined by green tasseled tamarisk. I looked up to the canyon rim and marveled at the highly textured rock formations drifting by. I was overwhelmed by the stream of stimulating visual impressions. We drifted over the roiling river and dipped our wing tips to the rankled rafters floating lazily below. As I watched the upturned faces and waving arms, I realized they were saluting us in an unfriendly manner. John informed me later that river guides do not much appreciate rip-roaring airplanes disturbing their peaceful float trips. No sense of humor I guess.

From this missive I received the following e-mail; Sorry Barry, Steve and the Team, I'm in agreement with "the river rafters"; I do not believe one human being should gain their pleasure by invading the space being used by others simply for their thrills. I have followed "Tied to the Post", stopped by for some good meals, purchased from Twin Rocks Trading Post, and encouraged friends to stop in when they were passing through Bluff. But I can't remain true to my belief that individuals should be considerate of others and stay on your mailing list, please remove me from your email list. Joe L.Meeker, Co., Talk about a faus pas. , much to my chagrin I made Joe angry. Unacceptable, unacceptable indeed! Sorry Joe and anyone else I may have offended. Time to get back into a more pastoral mode. While researching my word for the day I found a poem by Christopher Marlowe from The Passionate Shepherd. I have adapted but one word.

Come live with me and be my friend,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Boat Building

2011-06-03T12:26:00.004-06:00

Millions and millions of years ago Bluff was part of an inland ocean. From time-to-time visitors to Twin Rocks Trading Post claim they can still feel the primordial waters. It is almost as though, for them, the surging energy of those ancient waves continues to lap against sandy beaches that have over the millennia hardened to stone.

The Wreck of the Turquoise Trader

Most travelers, however, only see the desert, with its stark, barren, solitary beauty. Personally, I fall into that category. With only seven inches of annual rainfall, it is difficult for me to comprehend this land inundated with water.

As any desert dweller knows, moisture is revered, and there is no taking it for granted. Large bodies of water are not, however, anything I have to manage on a regular basis, so the ability to navigate them has never been part of my resume. It may come as no surprise then that I am less than competent when it comes to building floating objects. That, however, did not deter Grange and Kira from coming to me when their homework projects required constructing something that could be propelled across a tub or reservoir.

Since Grange and I had only recently completed his powder horn project to satisfactory standards, I was the natural choice when it came time to manufacturing a small, self-propelled water craft. Not knowing where to start, we drove the mile and a half across town to the Desert Rose Inn to consult Uncle Amer. Amer has a master’s degree in electrical engineering, so I reasoned he must also know about building floatable objects. “Not so,” he said, reminding me that he also originated in the desert.

He did, however, give us the key to his wood shop, cautioning us against the loss of digits. Taking a cast-off piece of 1” thick lumber from the trash heap, Grange and I cut a 5” x 6” rectangle, affixed two narrow strips of wood we hoped would serve as pontoons, fashioned a frame akin to those I had seen on air boats and attached a battery powered propeller.

By the time that had been accomplished, the clock was striking 11:00 p.m. Since the competition was only hours away, there was no time to test our engineering, so it was the proverbial sink or swim scenario. The following morning Grange placed our masterpiece in the trough specially built for the contest. His confidence rose as the boat chugged out past the halfway point. His was, however, false hope, for not long after reaching the center of the watercourse, the craft sputtered to a stop and promptly sank to the bottom of the canal, resting sadly in its shallow grave.

Overlooking my initial failure, Kira enthusiastically searched me out when it came time to build a cardboard boat sturdy enough to transport her across Recapture Reservoir. “A cardboard boat?” I questioned. “Yes,” she assured me, “it can be done.”

Having located a sturdy box measuring about 21/2’ by 31/2’, we designed a hull with a shallow draft and pointed prow, inserted the crate and attached . . . pontoons made from long narrow boxes the trading post uses for shipping Navajo rugs. After duct taping every possible seam, Kira painted it turquoise blue, sealed it with bee’s wax and declared it ready.

Imagine my apprehension as we set the craft in the water, and my elation, when it and Kira actually bobbed on the surface, riding comfortably on top of the water. “Yes,” I thought, silently thanking the Water Gods. As Kira paddled across the approximately mile long course, my confidence soared. Knowing our luck may not last, I encouraged her to work harder. Kira’s style is, however, more la-la-la than rat-a-tat-tat, so she maintained her slow progress, chatting with a kayaker along the way.

When Jana and I noticed she was getting close to the finish, we got in our old Ford truck and raced around the reservoir to retrieve her. Arriving at the other side, we discovered Kira’s pontoons had failed, water had rushed in and she had sunk, just yards from her final destination.

The moral of this tale: “Prehistoric oceans and ancient dunes do not guarantee successful pontoons,” or “The older we get the more we realize there are no morals, only stories.”

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

We Flew!

2011-05-27T13:38:00.004-06:00

We flew the other day, flew above the giant, gnarled cottonwoods and the buff red cliffs. From the air, the cadaverous-like trees looked as if they had been thrust up through the sand. Their heavily veined, wrist-like trunks and claw-like branches reaching, stretching skyward, threatening to snatch us from our low glide. Passing over the tiny, contrary hamlet the Mormon pioneers baptized Bluff, we approached the cliff tops which appeared as porridge stifled in mid-boil, a conglomerate of monstrous, solidified bubbles, heavily dimpled and scoured by blasted grit. The humps and bumps were burnt white from tens of thousands of stifling hot summer days. We swooped up Cottonwood Wash, racing our shadow along the towering vertical cliffs stained with desert varnish and cracked by wind, rain, freezing and thawing. Botanical gardens bisected numerous upright cliff faces and the rough and tumble slope of talus rock. The zones of green growth appeared and disappeared as we barnstormed past their secluded alcoves. Appealing impressions and upright, stand-alone islands in the sky rushed beneath our rigid wings.

Navajo Eagle Man Carving

Circling back to the west, we rushed over a lonely sage and rabbitbrush-encrusted desert mesa. In short order we approached the rumpled, rocky spine known as Comb Ridge. My stomach flip-flopped when the bottom dropped out as we dove over the western edge, banked a hard left and skimmed the muddy wash below. We drifted south by southwest, then quickly veered left, slicing through the man-made cut, dissecting the skeletal backbone of the once Great Snake. A hard banking right turn brought us directly over the lower portion of Butler Wash. We hung there a brief moment, then dropped right into the gullet of the beast. My fingers, toes and derriere gripped all available surfaces, nostrils flared, eyes went wide and blood rushed to my head as the low and slow flying Super Cub twisted and turned its way through the tumultuous rift in the earth.

I unclenched for a brief moment and sighed in relief as our canary yellow bird shot out of the raggedy, blossom-like opening blooming into the river valley of the less-than-mighty San Juan. The Mule's Ear diatreme reared up and flashed before my eyes, just over the right shoulder of my pilot, Captain John Gregory. He was jammed into the seat directly in front of me, expertly maneuvering the plane, but still causing me to overthink my mortality, and his. Even though there were controls within reach, I greatly doubted my ability to land this balloon-wheeled beast on my own. I prayed John's heart was strong, reached up to my left and slid the little window open a good three inches, leaned forward and breathed in new life. Reinvigorated, I looked around and discovered we were zipping across the heavily scored and whitewashed plateau of Lime Ridge. Just then, John darted to the left and whisked us to the edge of the river gorge located between Mexican Hat and Sand Island campground.

I shook my head, thinking, "No don't do this," and keyed the mike, which, of course, had a short in the wiring. As John glided left and dropped over the edge of the chasm a sense of calm overcame me. I breathed in the stream of cool, fresh air blowing across my face and relaxed into the dive. We leveled out somewhere around 500 feet above the brownish-red river, lined by green tasseled tamarisk. I looked up to the canyon rim and marveled at the highly textured rock formations drifting by. I was overwhelmed by the stream of stimulating visual impressions. We drifted over the roiling river and dipped our wing tips to the rankled rafters floating lazily below. As I watched the upturned faces and waving arms, I realized they were saluting us in an unfriendly manner. John informed me later that river guides do not much appreciate rip-roaring airplanes disturbing their peaceful float trips. No sense of humor I guess.

It was not long before we popped out of the eastern end of that uplifting canyon and spied the sawtooth surface of San Juan Hill to our left. Thinking back on high school history lessons and a hot, dusty handcart trek my family and I once experienced, I recalled the monumental struggle early, undaunted pioneers endured while pulling themselves up that malicious incline. The jagged trail looked even more impressive from the air than it did from ground zero. In a brief moment Captain Gregory was banking left and turning into the wind to bring the bird down at the Bluff airport. He opted not to land on the asphalt strip but chose the rutted and cross-cut dirt road parallel to the runway. I figured the more difficult landing was meant as an exclamation point to the flight. It worked!

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Social Entrepreneurs

2011-05-20T09:17:00.006-06:00

Until recently Barry and I viewed Twin Rocks Trading Post as one of those culverts you see under roads and streets. Since we have never taught ourselves the art of saving or the magic of cash flow, like those conduits, everything that comes in goes out. We have long since come to understand that we are essentially a pass through organization. Cash in, cash out is our philosophy, although we also subscribe to the theory that you don’t have to have it to spend it. Isn’t that why God invented checks, loans and credit cards?

Jana, Steve, and Barry Simpson

Several years ago I read about an ingenious man who began mining the larger culverts located in northern California. Apparently, as the run-off flowed through these enormous pipes, the ridges incorporated into their design caused gold suspended in the water to settle out and collect in the channels. The guy made a fortune before everyone else caught on. I have always assumed that, like this exceptionally bright, or extremely lucky, individual, Barry and I would one day discover the gold in our diversion. Although I realize it had been over 20 years and we still have not come up with any nuggets, I remain optimistic. As someone once said, “Gold is not the only thing that glitters.” Barry is confident I just made that up, but I am sure I read it somewhere.

Only recently did I begin to understand that my vision of Twin Rocks Trading Post has been seriously flawed. Although my conservative friends will be aghast at this disclosure, my revelation came while listening to a segment on National Public Radio. During the broadcast, the host mentioned the term, “Social Entrepreneurship.” That was an expression I had not heard before, so I turned up the volume on the car radio and paid closer attention.

As it turns out, social entrepreneurs are individuals who believe they have better, more innovative solutions to society’s most pressing problems and use their entrepreneurial skills to organize and manage ventures to achieve societal change. Rather than leaving those urgent needs to be attended to by others, these progressives find what is not working and create entrepreneurial solutions that have never been tried. While business entrepreneurs focus on making a profit, social entrepreneurs focus on creating social capital.

Although the concept was new to me, I later discovered that Susan B. Anthony, who fought for women’s rights in the United States, and Florence Nightingale, founder of modern nursing, are both considered social entrepreneurs. The term was apparently first noted in the 1960s and 1970s, but did not come into wide use until the 1980s or 1990s. Since Bluff is generally at least 50 years behind the times, it is probably not surprising that I have only recently stumbled onto the topic.

As champions of Southwest art and culture, Barry and I have frequently used trading post resources to promote and support local artists, often with no sense of how we were going to generate a profit. When I unveiled my latest discovery to Barry, he was amazed. “You mean we are actually social activists, and not just poor managers,” he asked. “That’s the way I read it,” I replied, nodding my head and smiling widely. “Who knew!,” he said, utterly impressed with himself. I could see his self-esteem improve as we talked.

Years ago a friend and I sat down with a local business owner to have a frank discussion about what we viewed as a pressing community issue. When my sidekick said to the man, “Well, you understand, you are a businessman,” the fellow jumped straight out of his chair, saying, “A businessman? Well, I have never considered that. I will have to tell my wife. She will certainly be surprised.”

I have often wondered how one could operate a business so many years and not recognize himself as a businessman, but now I fully appreciate his ignorance. I always thought Barry and I were just running a small family enterprise and helping the local folks in the traditional trading post fashion. Imagine my surprise when I realized we are actually social engineers, even though we barely passed algebra. Now we can continue to lose money with a clear conscience. If only our bankers would see it that way.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Smart!

2011-05-13T13:18:00.004-06:00

It was a sunny day at Twin Rocks Trading Post. Earlier that morning Steve had thrown open the Kokopelli doors to let in the beauty of the spring. Although the sun was shining brightly, Priscilla and I were almost frozen. It had, however, warmed considerably, our shivering had ceased and we were truly enjoying the fresh air streaming into the building. When the door bell sounded I was facing away from the open portal, reconstructing a lost invoice. The amplifier of the "dinger" was situated right in front of me, so when it went off I was initially surprised, then agitated. Distracted by the disquiet, I moved to my right and continued the errand. When I did, I heard the most interesting baritone voice I had ever experienced.

Navajo Wedding Basket

Priscilla was standing behind the cash register welcoming the people who had set off the bell. Steve was down the counter talking with a woman about a legal issue. I was intrigued by the rich, sing-song, well spoken nature of the baritone, so I just stood quietly listening. Because the man's voice was so intriguing, and since they were having such a grand discussion, I did not want to disrupt their flow of their conversation. They were a couple, I could discern that from the tender voices. The woman seemed full of life and patience. The man, the baritone, was in a jovial mood and laughed often. Just as they walked up to the counter behind me I turned to see for myself who it was that displayed such infectious intonation.

The couple that stood before me was not at all what I expected. The woman was seventy-something years of age with a stocky build. She wore her shoulder length brown and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. Perched on her head was an old black ball cap with a brown bill. She was dressed in a blue, well worn long sleeved t-shirt, wrinkled Wrangler jeans and once white tennis shoes. The lady's eyes were brown and radiated intelligence. The man was eighty-something years of age, tall, pear shaped and sported a full head of white hair capped with a light brown, Indiana Jones-style hat. His scraggly beard was of the same hue. His eyes were pale blue and there was a big smile spread across his pleasantly wrinkled face. He wore a plaid flannel shirt of an off-white base color with thin blue and red stripes. His nondescript jeans looked as if they had gone unwashed for awhile, and they were held-up by a bright red pair of elastic suspenders. On the man's feet were a pair of worn, black Converse-like sneakers. The couple also looked well worn, but seemed altogether happy.

Looking at the man, I said, "With a voice like that you must have worked in radio or television." "Both", he answered, launching into an interpretation of the time he spent in advertising while living in Seattle. At this point the woman wandered off and struck up a conversation with Priscilla. She likely had heard this story before. As I listened to the magnificent baritone tell his tale, I witnessed him falter for a brief moment. He then reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a button and held it up for me to see. As smoothly as you please, "The Voice" transitioned into a tale of how hard he and Deanne, the woman he was with, had laughed when he inadvertently asked her to sew a shirt onto that very same button. I must admit, I was startled a bit and figured I must have missed the common thread between the two stories. Then, I noticed that the crooner every so often would stop in mid sentence, his eyes briefly losing focus. When they refocused he would start in on a whole new thought. It was like a hiccup of happenstance!

After this conversational "change up" occurred a few more times, I began to anticipate them and decided these radical course changes did not matter much to me. I was caught up in his unforced, eloquent and musical manner of speech. What I did learn was that this man had lived a very interesting life and that he was incredibly fond of Deanne, because she made him happy. In between "hiccups" I learned that Deanne spoke five languages; English, Spanish, French, Russian and Chinese, and that she held two advanced degrees, one in science and one in math. "The baritone" said Deanne was so smart she easily out-paced him in thought and deed. One "for instance" he shared was that when "The Voice" decided it was time to travel to Arizona to see his brother one last time Deanne thought it through before making any major decisions. After much contemplation she decided that, because their #1 mode of transportation was unreliable, they should take two cars to ensure a safe return to home base.

Deanne and The Voice made me realize that each of us needs somebody to love and correspondingly needs someone to love us in return. Love is as essential to life as oxygen. Deanne made "The Voice" laugh and appreciated his special qualities, just as he did hers. They were happy together and that, my friends, is all that really matters. It was not long before the cute couple left the building and headed towards the parking lot.

Priscilla and I migrated to the front of the store and watched through the plate glass windows as they walked hand-in-hand. They approached what Priscilla and I have decided was a faded, two-tone, medium brown with a lighter brown top, 1985 Ford Fairlane. The Ford was towing a light blue 1979 Datsun 210. Both cars were covered in dust and packed to the gunwales with stuff. There were a couple strands of heavy electrical wire connected to the back of the Ford, running across the hood and to the backside of the the Datsun ending in a set of those magnetic brake lights. As Deanne and "The Voice" drove away, I said to Priscilla, "That was smart." Priscilla bobbed her head in agreement, "Crazy Smart!"

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

My Life as a River

2011-05-06T09:22:00.002-06:00

When I arrived at Twin Rocks Trading Post and was introduced to Navajo history, legend and belief, I immediately became frustrated with the lack of continuity I noted in various explanations of the same ceremony, rite or process. My background and training had left me wanting everything straight forward, fixed and certain.

Goose Neck River

It was some time before I realized that lack of conformity in the stories did not necessarily indicate inconsistency or incompatibility. Rather, the various themes were indicative of how each individual interpreted that particular tradition, and what part of the experience was most important to him or her.

Since the Navajo people did not have a written language until 1939, their history was transmitted orally. Therefore, for example, a mother’s story flowed to her daughter and then from the daughter to the granddaughter , evolving with each telling. Thus the endless variations.

Having been raised in a family of Western thinkers and taking my formal education in business and the law, I had been led to believe life is linear. Consistent with this philosophy, you are born, go to school, find a girlfriend (maybe two or three), graduate from college, get a job and start a family. Then the kids grow up and you retire. There did not seem much deviation in the progression, so I followed it accordingly.

At the trading post I learned that many Native American people believe life is circular, cyclic. As Black Elk, an Oglala Sioux Holy Man said, “You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the Power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round. The sky is round, and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and so are the stars. The wind, in its greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nest in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours . . . Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”

Meaning no disrespect to my parents, my educators or Black Elk, I must disagree. To me, life seems more like a meandering river then a circle or point to point journey. As much as I have tried to keep my life on the straight and narrow, it always seems to be cutting a new channel or overflowing its banks.

For a while I was able to follow the guidance of my parents and teachers; I grew up, went to school and got a job, a wife and a child. Then life took an unexpected turn and I found myself in Bluff, without the wife and child. That surely did not fit into the preordained plan, and my linear life began raging out of control and pioneering a new, completely unexpected path.

Since that time, I have often gone to Goosenecks State Park, which is located just west of Bluff and is one of the deepest river meanders in North America. As the San Juan River made its way through Southeastern Utah it cut deeply into the bedrock, bent back on itself many times and eventually made a strikingly beautiful mark on the land. Standing on the edge of this massive ravine and looking down into the deep trench, I have from time-to-time thought, “Yes, that is a perfect illustration of my life.”

In its countless layers, which have been etched over eons, I envision a record of my own journey on this earth. I can see patterns of Navajo rugs, baskets and turquoise jewelry Barry and I have purchased and sold at the trading post; I can vaguely make out images of my wife, children and artists who have sold us their unique creations; and I glimpse friends and acquaintances who have come and gone.

No, I do not see my life as a direct line in the Western way of thinking. Nor does it appear to be a circle as the Native Americans propose. Instead, to me, it looks to be linear or circular only in an indirect, curving bending, swirling, snaking, sometimes straight, sometimes circular, river like manner.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Patience . . . or Not!

2011-04-29T11:17:00.004-06:00

The other day a woman walked through the Kokopelli doors closely followed by two teenage boys. I could see a man through the plate glass windows, walking along the porch toward the chairs placed for impatient husbands, so I assumed the foursome was together. I was unsure why, but the song "Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix popped into my head. The woman was thirty-something and had a pleasant face. She wore shoulder-length, medium-red hair; gold rimmed glasses; a white knit pullover, short sleeve shirt; Levis' 501 jeans; and simple brown sandals. The boys were good-looking young men, I guessed 15 and 17 years of age. Like their mother, they were of a fair complexion and had striking auburn hair, worn below their ears. The youths were dressed in Levis', running shoes and windbreakers adorned with team logos. I do not recall which team or what sport the jackets represented, because the boys did not stay long. They exited the building, briefly spoke with the man sitting out of sight on the porch and walked towards Twin Rocks Cafe.

Twin Rocks Trading Post Pottery and Jewelry Art

There were a couple other people in the store at the time and Priscilla and I were engaged in running conversations with them as they looked over the merchandise. I greeted the red-headed woman and let her know we were available for show and tell if she wished. She smiled broadly and said she was fascinated with Native American art and wanted to see everything before asking questions. I invited her to take her time and let us know when she was ready with queries. About 10 minutes later I heard a three-toned "Beep, Beep, Beep" from somewhere in the trading post. I looked around the store and no one was reaching for their telephone, so I guessed it was the fax machine in Steve's office. I ignored the sound and struck up a conversation with a brown-eyed woman, looking at earrings near where I stood. The red-headed lady was nearby when I heard a different ring tone . "Is that you?" I asked the woman in front of me, "No." she said, "I don't sound like that."

I laughed at the way the brown-eyed woman indicated it was not her phone. Just then the red-headed woman reached into her back pocket, pulled out her telephone and looked at the screen. Apparently she was not interested in communicating with the caller, because she turned off the phone and replaced it in her pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man on the porch stand up with a phone to his ear, squint through the glass, frown and sit back down. The red-headed woman continued to browse. Shortly thereafter I saw the man pop up again and walk to the Kokopelli doors. Pushing his way into the store he walked in the direction of the red-headed woman.

The man was something to behold, he was on the far side of 30, short in stature; maybe 5' 6" at best. His medium brown hair was not long, but full. Resting on his head at an odd angle was a black baseball cap embroidered with a purple insignia I did not recognize. Covering his eyes was a pair of small round, gold-rimmed, John Lennon style sunglasses of a violet hue. The man's shoulders were narrow, and his ample belly protruded a good 5" over his belt. Draped over his unique torso was a grape-colored, Grateful Dead, Watch Tower, tie-dye t-shirt. He also had on a pair of European Capri trousers; black in color, with dark purple tiger claw slash patterns on the thighs. There was about six inches of pale calf poking out of the bottom of the pants, and his sock-less feet were encased in a dark purple pair of Converse deck shoes. "Dang!", I thought to myself, "I have been caught out in public in some strange outfits in my time, but never intentionally, and never, ever in anything quite like this."

The red-headed woman and the amethystine adventurer were now standing less than 10 feet away from each other. She was looking in on a case full of bracelets, the "Purple People Eater" was staring at her rather expectantly. You could tell he was not a happy monster. Finally, he cleared his voice and spoke, "The boys and I are running out of patience. Let's go!" The red-headed woman was unshaken; she didn't even look up. In a calm voice we could all hear, she said; "You would have had to have some to begin with to have lost it!" The little man blanched and froze, his shoulders hunched as if he had been struck. The brown-eyed woman looked at me, smiled merrily and mouthed, "Touche!" "A public flogging", I thought to myself, "That will leave an emotional scar!" The now "Purple Man" turned on his heel and exited the building, stage left. The red-headed woman rounded the case and looked up; our eyes met. "Ouch!" I said. "Once too often," came her reply as she continued her tour.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Will Work For Art

2011-04-22T10:16:00.003-06:00

Whenever I am in a major city (Bluff, for better or worse, does not fit into that category) I often see people sitting on street corners, reclining at major intersections or standing in the median with cardboard signs inviting passersby to contribute to their support. For one reason or another, these folks are unable to sustain themselves and require assistance from the rest of us. At times, some, rather than requesting a handout, display signs stating, “Will Work for Food.”

Seventeen Beautiful Butterflies Basket

While there have been times at the trading post when I thought Barry and I might also wind up with tin cups soliciting contributions to our general welfare, so far that has been avoided. I realize I worry unnecessarily when it comes to economic issues, and that I also typically exaggerate the risks. For example, I often think of the time when, as a newly minted lawyer with a comfortable salary, I fretted about having a child. The issue was not whether I would genuinely love the new arrival. No, my primary concern was how I might afford the cases of diapers necessary to keep an infant adequately Pampered.

With panhandlers, trading posts and Pampers weighing heavily on my mind, I recently tackled The Undaunted: The Miracle of the Hole-in-the-Rock Pioneers, by Gerald Lund. This historical novel tells the story of the Mormon settlers who left their comfortable homes in Cedar City and St. George, Utah territory, to settle in the wilderness of southern Utah. While that story is exciting enough by itself, the author has added a few fictional characters for good measure.

While slogging through this massive work, I was inspired by the words of Jens Nielson, the leader of the expedition and first bishop of Bluff. As he urged his flock across the untamed and impossibly “slantendicular” landscape towards what would ultimately become their home, Jens advised them, “Even when there is no way to go through, you must go through!”

Jens’ comment reminded me of the early days of Twin Rocks Trading Post, when the challenges ahead seemed as impossible as getting wagons through the Hole-in-the-Rock, over the Colorado River, around Grand Gulch and across Comb Ridge to Bluff. These financial obstacles were not, however, unique to us; the local Navajo artists had for many years before we arrived been attempting to overcome similar difficulties. Southern Utah is a land of vast beauty and equally vast economic hardship. Navigating the canyons and valleys of this stark land, whether physically or financially, is never easy.

Despite the obstacles, neither the settlers, the artists nor Barry and I gave up and turned away. Instead, we all found a way to go through. The Mormons scratched out a community that has endured more than 130 years. The artists chose to develop entirely new styles of rug weaving and basketry that have excited collectors and museum directors for decades. Since innovation and rapid evolution have always been a way of life for the Navajo, it must have seemed almost natural for the local weavers and basket makers to develop their new motifs based upon traditional legends and the monumental landscape of their homeland.

As for Barry and me, upon seeing the stunning work these Navajo artist were creating, we knew our role was supporting the innovators while they pursued their passion for art. As a result, Barry and I adopted the motto, “Will Work for Art,” and we have been doing so ever since. Jens, a Danish convert to the LDS church with a flair for the English language, might have admired our “stickie-ta-tudy.”

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

Cranked!

2011-04-15T08:49:00.003-06:00

In an effort to entice the warmth of the day and the fragrance of spring into the trading post, I had just propped open the Kokopelli doors. A moment later, acting as though they were on a discovery mission, two elderly women strode across the threshold and into the building. Both white haired women looked to be on the far side of 70. One was plastered in polyester and wore a multicolored, hand-hooked, acrylic afghan poncho on her broad shoulders. She was the one who was just about to tick me off! The other woman wore an off-white, ribbed, long sleeved, knit top and 501 Levi's. The encounter began well, the women were quite complimentary of our inventory and mentioned how effective our displays were at presenting the art. I thanked them for the kudos and credited Priscilla with arranging the cases. The women smiled pleasantly and wandered to the southwest corner of the store. That is when relations began to sour.

Navajo Natural Kingman Turquoise Quash Blossom Set by Allison Snowhawk Lee (#145)

Something I have noticed about people who begin to loose their physical senses is that they tend to exaggerate the loss. For instance, when I struggle to see well I look longer and harder at people or things in order to get a better, clearer, more complete picture. This gets me a punch in the eye from time to time, but hey, such is life! Another example is that when people begin to lose their hearing they compensate by speaking louder. This was the case with the serape-shrouded sister. As she approached the far counter, she began whispering to her companion how our products were over-priced, the stones were not natural, the quality of workmanship substandard, etc., etc., etc. Her whisper was more than a little perceptible, and my blood pressure was beginning to rise. The other woman, whose back was to me, hunched her shoulders and tried to withdraw within herself. She was excruciatingly aware her companion's tone was clearly audible.

Don't get me wrong, I am not shy about asking why and how questions myself, that is the way I learn and grow. The trick, however, is to be open and interested enough to hear and recognize the truth when you hear it. Some of us gain a little knowledge and experience and figure that is all there is to it; we risk spreading false witness. Craig, Steve and I make every effort to bring high quality Native American Indian art into the trading post. In fact, we are obsessive about it. Together we have about 100 years experience on the subject and continue to educate ourselves daily.

I am not saying we know it all, but I guessed we knew a whole lot more about turquoise, silver, wool and sumac than that old girl. Emphasizing the word "stuff," I walked over and asked, "Where did you learn so much about this stuff?" The woman must have realized she had been overheard, because I could see the realization in her eyes. She could, most likely, hear irritation in my voice. She looked at me closely, made up her mind, expanded like a Puffer fish and said, "I spent two years in Gallup, New Mexico and learned all about it." "That explains it," I said. What irritates me most, is when people who have only a rudimentary knowledge about a complicated subject openly spout off and criticize, sharing their ignorance.

The woman gave me a harsh look, her steel-blue eyes bored into mine and she thrust her jaw out in defiance. She was not about to back down. I was looking back at her, giving her the stink-eye for insulting my inventory and taking it as a personal affront. Several caustic comments and rude remarks came into my head, but fortunately I held them in check. The woman's friend could see I was upset, and was trying to become invisible. I had to give her credit, she was embarrassed, but had not deserted her friend. As we stared across the counter at each other, an image of my dear departed grandmother came to mind. Unlike this contrary cuss, Grandma Correia was a sweetheart, always joking, laughing and being altogether nice. "This woman is surely someone's Grandmother," I thought.

I sighed and looked sadly at the woman, embarrassed at being drawn into a no-win situation, and picking on Grandma Audacious. The old girl had really "cranked" me. Her friend was walking her to the door, hoping to get out without a full-fledged battle. Just before they crossed the threshold I lost my restraint one last time and said; "You're wrong ya' know." "No I'm not!" she whispered to her friend as they hustled down the porch steps.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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!

Gotta Share the Beauty

2011-04-08T12:26:00.004-06:00

Over the years I have come to realize that I am a big fan of the
people. I can often be found watching interesting individuals,
wondering in amazement at their distinct characteristics or the
activities they engage in. Correspondingly, it has always fascinated me
how those same people touch us in the most unexpected ways; sometimes
big, sometimes small.

Elsie Holiday with Mirage BasketThe
other day Priscilla and I were working the floor at Twin Rocks Trading
Post, straightening the store and, in hopes of putting a few dollars
into the till, talking animatedly with the customers who wandered in
through the Kokopelli doors. March is characteristically a slow month,
however, so we did not have high expectations.
Historically, sales at the trading post do not begin picking up until
after April 15th. It seems people are more inclined to treat themselves
to a rug, basket or piece of turquoise jewelry
after their tax returns have been filed. Barry and I have considered
petitioning the IRS to require semiannual reporting, so people will be
twice as inclined to spend their hard earned cash. You can imagine how
much happier people will be when they have to file two income tax
returns a year.
On that beautiful spring afternoon one woman stayed on longer than the
rest. The elderly lady lingered around the Zuni fetishes, asking questions and gathering information about their origin and history. Priscilla and I explained that the handmade animal, bird
or human figures were originally carved as talisman used to ensure a
plentiful and successful hunt. We informed her that in the 1800s the
federal government worried so much about the power of these carvings
that they sent Frank Cushing, a noted anthropologist, to the Zuni
Reservation to research their mysterious powers. We also mentioned that
in 1994 a fetish had been sent into space on the shuttle Endeavor .
Apparently by then the government, or at least NASA, had overcome its
earlier reservations.
“It is a beautiful culture, isn’t it,” she asked rhetorically,
referring to Native Americans in general. Affirming her earlier
statement and nodding her head vigorously, she said, “Yes, you gotta
share the beauty.” When the woman left Priscilla asked if I had heard
what she said. By that time I was mulling over the woman’s comment in
light of what we do at Twin Rocks. “Yes,” I said, remembering all the beauty I had experienced while running the trading post over the past 21 years.

Priscilla reminded me that beauty is fundamental to Navajo culture
and that the Beautyway ceremony exemplifies this belief. Although the
term does not directly translate into English, Beautyway is said to be
an expression of balance, success, well-being and happiness all wrapped
into one ritual. During this rite, the medicine man helps his patient
reestablish a sense of order in his or her life. The reasons one my
become unbalanced are numerous. For Navajo people, however, there is
only one cure, finding and sharing the beauty.
The Beautyway brings the patient back into harmony with all things and
all people, with all objects, all animals, all feelings, all plants and
even the weather. The result is being at peace, serene in the knowledge
that all around you is healthy and well.
Without knowing it, the elderly woman had reminded us why we are here,
and why we do what we do. Our purpose has always been to share the
beauty of southern Utah, its people and their art. In beauty we trade.
With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team
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!

The Bluffoonery

2011-03-25T11:45:00.004-06:00

The day began like many others, spring was in the air, the trees were budding out and the birds were singing their favorite songs. At Twin Rocks Trading Post, patrons and artists came and went in the regular, unending cycle of buying, selling and trading. Rug weavers, basket makers, folk artists and silversmiths had all been in by early afternoon, taxing our checkbook, but stimulating the local economy.

Bluffoon

At Twin Rocks Cafe, breakfast and lunch were complete. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, hamburgers, Navajo tacos and fry bread had been consumed in significant volume. The customers smiled, greeted each other pleasantly and whistled happy tunes. Winter was surely on the wane, tourists were arriving and everyone was feeling fine.

In Bluff, many of the residents refer to themselves as Bluffoons. As a result, a few years ago Barry coined the term “Bluffoonery”. As originally conceived, the word is loosely defined as a “colorful cast of characters”. In this community, there are always colorful characters, whether they be indigenous, imported or transient. This day would prove the point.

In addition to the snowbirds migrating north, spring also brings its share of wanderers, those who seek a warmer climate on a strict budget. Over the years we have witnessed veritable troops of these adventurers. As one might guess, the restaurant is a magnet for the untethered traveler who is hungry and in need of support. Sorting the needy from the merely creative can be a challenge.

On this particular March day, the first roamer to arrive was a slight man of about 50 years named Doug. Doug was turned out in a blue Nike wind jacket, reasonably clean trousers and climbing shoes. He rode a good quality mountain bike, wore a sensible helmet and at least outwardly appeared to be far from needy. His closely cropped hair, however, highlighted a pair of penetratingly blue, red circled, darting, troubled eyes that revealed Doug was not fully in control of his emotions or his addictions.

Asking if we had any work, Doug explained that he wished to earn a cup of joe and a plate full of biscuits and gravy. Since we could not imagine what needed to be done at that particular moment, and since deeper investigation indicated he was sincerely in need of a little help, Melissa and I sat him down with a large mug of steaming coffee and a batch of biscuits smothered in white gravy sprinkled with sausage.

As Melissa and I had guessed, once Doug had consumed enough to refuel, he explained that he had for many years wrestled with his intense fondness for alcohol and illicit substances. In 2006 he had taken to the road on his bicycle and had been soberly peddling the Southwest byways ever since, stopping only long enough to accumulate the capital necessary to keep himself and his bicycle operational. After a couple years he had developed a routine and, although I had never seen him before, Twin Rocks Cafe had become an annual stop, biscuits and gravy his favorite meal.

Once Doug was tanked up and was on his way, I got in the old Ford truck and headed west towards the Desert Rose Inn to retrieve Grange, who had been visiting his cousin Tarrik. Standing directly in the center of Highway 163 was a young man sporting dreadlocks, worn baseball cap and dirty shorts. Following logic I had not previously witnessed in hitchhikers, this youth had apparently decided he could go either way. When the traffic was proceeding north, he hitched north, when it was going south, he hitched south, with no apparent regard for where he might ultimately wind up of his personal safety.

“Hey,” he shouted as I entered the stream of traffic, coming dangerously close to him, “how about a couple bucks. I’M HUNGRY!” Thinking his show was more theater than substance, I passed him by without making a contribution. “Bah,” he said, stamping his feet. Not long after Priscilla noticed him walking away from the K & C Trading Post carrying a large package of beer, looking all the world like the cat that ate the canary.

Surely our experiences in Bluff are not altogether different from what happens in mainstream America. The size of the town, however, causes the interactions to be closer, more personal. As a result, we quite often learn the rest of the story behind these eternal explorers who comprise our own private Bluffoonery.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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!

The Pond That Was

2011-03-18T11:55:00.002-06:00

A long time ago, in a not too far away place, was a pond. This small water source was a magical niche, a supernaturally placed source of life and comfort. The pond was located in a small, high desert river valley, in an alcove formed by vertical sandstone cliffs rising 300' on three sides. Within this natural bowl was an artesian water source that bubbled up from an ancient aquifer far below the surface. On the southern lip was a small grouping of undaunted cattails which forced their way up through rocky soil where nothing else grew. Just to the west, two massive cottonwood trees thrived in the sparse runoff provided by the a slight breach in the pond bank, the heavy foliage of their gnarled and twisted upper branches providing shade from the hot afternoon sun. To mark the spot and let humans know of its sacred nature, directly above the pond, where cliff and talus slope intersected, the Gods placed a zone of moisture; a hanging garden containing cave dwelling primrose. This was an oasis in the desert.

Navajo Frog Basket

Unlike the muddy, unmanageable, freely flowing river a mile or so to the south, the pond was most often crystalline, sweet and pure. Except after thunder showers, when mud and debris from the outer world briefly clouded its tranquil waters, the pool's 10' depth was easily visible. Within its 12-15' circumference lived four large bullfrogs, the only inhabitants of this secluded and sacred spot. The pond was a gifted home to the frogs. Among them was one black and one blue frog, representing the east and west, they were male. There was also one white and one yellow frog, females, representing the north and south. All frogs had white streaks down their backs, signifying armor and dawn, and spots corresponding to differing types of corn. The center of their spines were black, like dark water with outlines of foam, pollen and rainbows. They also had rainbow bars, representing heavenly strength and protection which blazed brightly on their sides. The water and the frogs were blessed and caressed by the sun's rays. The frogs had once been people who planted maize and explored herbalism. Because of their talent for counteracting disease and ailments of the bones and joints, the Gods had turned the people into amphibians and granted them deity status.

Just below the pond, on a flat, fertile bench was a plot of corn and tobacco which was tended by the frogs and nourished by the sacred waters. The corn provided sustenance for the frogs and the pollen required to bless and sanctify their food and medicinal plants. The tobacco had power to calm pain and suffering, and was provided for the benefit of humans. If the Earth Surface People approached the sacred pool with reverence and respect, did not disturb the frogs and offered the required prayer sticks, they were allowed the benefits of this hallowed ground. For nearly 1,000 years the pool, the plot and the attendants remained pristine. Humankind benefited greatly from the blessings of the supernaturals, the diligence of the frogs and the sacred harvest. All was well.

As time passed and life ways progressed, or, depending upon your personal perspective, regressed, the Earth Surface People forget to revere this place. Respect for the deities began to fail them, as did their honor and integrity. Humans began to visit the pond in a less than humble manner, they swam in the pool, harassed the guardians, tromped through the garden and spoiled the harvest, taking whatever they liked without showing homage or deference to protocol. The frogs became upset and turned their favor against the people, thwarting the dissidents with pain and suffering, disallowing the intended benefits of this sacred place and its holy plants. These were dark times.

In anger and frustration over their mistreatment, the frogs appealed to the Gods to strip the benefits of the pond from the profane people. The supernaturals were saddened by the actions of their subjects, but hesitated when it came to taking something so precious and beneficial from them. The frogs, however, were adamant, and because of their long-term sacrifice and service were certain to prevail. The Gods decided that both frogs and man needed a respite from each other. Time to contemplate negligence and loss was needed on both sides. After all, they reasoned, there was always hope that knowledge and understanding were still possible. Those who created the pond and its majesty came to earth and conducted a ceremony to place the pond and its inhabitants in the Mirage World to await a better day. To remind humankind of their loss, and mark the valley as the location of the pond, the Gods left the hanging garden in place.

There is this small alcove in the cliffs of Bluff, where, if the light is just right and there is a sense of peace, harmony and balance in the world, a veil seems to appear, illuminating something just beyond mortal vision and comprehension. Here in Bluff, we choose to believe there is a wondrous, majestic and magical place just beyond that illusion; a place where deities await the day when humans and supernatural guardians once again come together.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

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!

Flours in My Hair

2011-03-11T11:00:00.004-07:00

After a full day spent on the mats coaching Grange in his first wrestling tournament of the season, the following morning came too fast. As I struggled out the door towards Twin Rocks Cafe for my Sunday morning shift, my joints were stiff and sore, so I hobbled a bit. Napping in their car, Janelia and her daughter Menvalia, our morning cooks, waited for me to arrive. About 100 yards west on the deserted Twin Rocks Drive I could see Corri, the waitress, and Kory, her boyfriend, walking towards the restaurant.

Steve, Lalana and BlueBird flour.

As I approached the front doors, I noticed a large ball of black fluff lying on the door mat. “Oh no, another stray,” I thought. As I got closer, however, I realized this was not just any abandoned dog, this one was obviously well fed and well loved. Around his neck was a new collar adorned with several tags identifying himself and his owner.

After opening the doors for the crew, I reached down to give the dog a pat and check his ID. As I do so, he rolled on his side, requesting a scratch on the stomach. As he went over, I noticed his eyes were clouded and he creaked when he moved. “Kindred spirits,” I said as I stiffly patted his head and read his information.

“Bosco,” the tag said, “435 . . . - . . . .” By this time Corri and Kory had arrived. Being young and wired, Kory promptly reached into his pocket, pulled out his telephone and in a matter of seconds was speaking with Bosco’s owner. “I’m just around the corner,” the dog’s master excitedly said, “I’ll be right there. I’ve been looking for Bosco all night.” Five minutes later a truck sped across the gravel parking lot toward us. After explaining that Bosco was mostly blind and had wondered away late the previous night, the pet owner reached down, gently took hold of the dog’s collar and towed his best friend away. As Bosco rigidly waddled down the porch, guided by his master, I reiterated, “kindred spirits” and shuffled inside.

“I need two flours,” Janelia said as I entered the cafe. Instinctively understanding what she meant, I walked to the storage room and retrieved two 50 pound sacks of Blue Bird enriched flour. Throwing one of them over my shoulder like a longshoreman, and in the process raising a terrific white cloud around my head, I delivered it to the kitchen and returned for the second bag, repeating the process.

At the restaurant, frybread, a regional favorite, is one of the biggest sellers. We use it to make Navajo tacos, Navajo burgers, sheepherder’s sandwiches and as a side for soups and stews. The recipe is simple, one cup unbleached flour, one-fourth teaspoon salt, one teaspoon powdered milk, one teaspoon baking powder, one-half cup water and a little vegetable oil for frying. As anyone who has ever made frybread will tell you, however, not just any flour will due; Blue Bird is essential. Just as every New Mexican agrees Hatch produces the best chile in the world, every Navajo knows you never make frybread without Blue Bird.

Having been raised in a traditional Navajo family, Janelia can turn out frybread like Henry Ford turned out automobiles. Her traditional upbringing dictated that she learn Navajo before coming to English. As a result, she often comes up with inventive terms that are highly intuitive. The week before we had been talking about her car when she referred to her radiator as a “waterator.” Just as Baxter Liebler, the missionary who established St. Christopher’s Mission in Bluff, knew that “Boil My Heart for Me” meant he needed his jumper cables, I knew what Janelia meant. So, when she said she needed two flours, I understood no florist was required.

Having delivered the bags of flour, I resumed my duties. As the morning wore on and customers came and went, I notice several glancing at my hair and looking quickly away. The first few times, I did not pay much attention to the furtive looks, but after a time decided to peek in the restroom mirror to see if something was amiss. Looking back at we was a face I knew well, but with hair white as snow. As Janelia would say, “I had flours in my hair.”

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Moonlight Musing

2011-03-04T11:12:00.004-07:00

The other morning I was out early, walking for exercise and enjoying the invigorating predawn experience. It was cool enough that I could see my own breath. Pushing my pace up the mountain road to keep my heart rate up, I was not having much trouble doing so . . . keeping my heart rate up that is. My wheezing fight for air and the regular bursts of steam emanating from my lungs must have caused me to look and sound like a mini Iron Horse trundling up the asphalt. These are the reasons I work out alone and take my covert excursions by dawn's early light or after dark, and why I am seldom found on well traveled byways. As I moved steadily up the hill, I noticed my shadow leading the way just out in front and to my right. Looking back over my left shoulder, I witnessed a full and luminous moon spotlighting my upward moving motion.

Navajo Monument Valley Basket

Earlier, when I left the house and initiated my journey, the moon lay screened behind a curtain of cloud cover; I felt shadowed, protected from view. But now, with the advent of the new moon, I felt . . . illuminated and exposed. My once secluded perambulation had turned into an outright promenade. Now I understand why Navajo people believe their ancestors might have seen the moon as an eavesdropper. When Anglo people first appeared on the scene, the Dine' must have seen the transparent face of a white man looking down upon them, leaving them to feel a bit betrayed. It is hard to go incognito with this illuminating inhabitant of the Sky World hanging over your head.

As I trudged onward, the moon began to sink on the western horizon and the cloud cover began to dissipate. The atmosphere surrounding my walk caused me to start thinking about local cultures, and how so much of the Native American experience is on the verge of extinction. I suppose every belief system experiences change or, worse case scenario, downfall. Upward moving spirituality develops into dominant society, which overtakes and overcomes those less advanced or unwilling to adapt. The trick to denominational survival seems to be assimilation of knowledge and understanding, while holding onto the basic building blocks of morality, compassion, respect and, mostly, love. Hopefully the best of all worlds will eventually survive. That ancient orb slowly disappeared beyond the edge of the rugged landscape and was eventually swallowed up there. The moon would surely return, altered slightly, but ever faithful no matter what we think of it.

Reaching my upper limit for the morning, I stopped, turned and bent to stretch that pesky nerve running down my hip and leg. As I straightened up, my eyes were drawn to the east, where life began and begins anew each day. There lay Sleeping Ute Mountain, layered in blankets of colored stratus cloud. There were wispy bands of gold, peach, rose and abalone created by the promise of a new day. Directly over the heart of the great resting mythological relic was a short thin band of multicolored cloud. This rainbow bar rested there as if assuring the world life remained within. To me, the mountain is reminiscent of a nearly lost culture; a sign that age old thoughts and perspectives can and will disappear if not progressive. It is my guess that the monumental Ute sleeping there will remain at rest forever more.

As I moved down the roadway and dawn began to break, the great sailing ship of the desert became visible in the distance. Shiprock, the massive volcanic dike that pushed its way up through the Rhyolite rubble and rises 2,200 feet from the floor of the surrounding New Mexico desert could be seen over 100 miles from where I stood. To me it was yet another reminder that we must all leave port, push our bounds and endeavor to grow as much as humanly possible, At least this is what I tell my children. I constantly remind my offspring that we must all embrace the future to survive and progress. As knowledge and understanding grow, so does perception. I also let them know that they will forever be loved and cherished in their home port. As I briskly walked in the direction of my bay of contentment, I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jacket to keep them warm. My chilled fingers contacted an iPod. I happily brought forth that magical device, plugged in the earphones and hit shuffle. From that mini-megaphone came the voice of LeAnn Rimes singing: Can't Fight the Moonlight.

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

Reach for the Sky

2011-02-25T14:12:00.004-07:00

The old medicine man walked into Twin Rocks Trading Post looking for all the world like he had just emerged from a Shanto Begay painting. If I had not already become accustomed to feeling the trading post was an anachronism, his bowed legs, slightly soiled 501 Levi's, print shirt, traditional bull hide moccasins and red bandana tied round his still jet black hair, would have made me wonder whether I had somehow stumbled into the wrong era. As it was, I instinctively put my hand to my chest to ensure I was really real and not simply a character in some academic’s romantic rendition of a time long past. Realizing what I had done, I blushed slightly. Hoping he had not noticed, I said a little too loudly, “Ya’ at’ eeh ahbini, good morning.” He just nodded and grinned.

Coyote and First Man Placing the Stars

The healer must have been in his late seventies or early eighties, but still projected a strong and assured presence; one that surely gave his patients the necessary confidence in his ability to cure whatever ailed them. His back was what I have heard people who know horses refer to as “ramrod straight’, and I imagined him sitting a horse in the classic manner. Not being a horseman myself, I was unsure what the “classic manner” was, but I had seen enough John Wayne westerns to make some assumptions.

The man was carrying a white plastic bag printed with large red characters spelling out the words “Thank You”. It was the kind you find at any neighborhood grocery. Whatever was in the bag protruded in a circular fashion, and I concluded he had a ceremonial basket or two to sell. On occasion, John Holiday, another Navajo medicine man, brings us baskets he has used in his healing rites. John, who lives in Monument Valley, has been visiting us for decades, so we are not completely naive when it comes to this situation. John always arrives laughing and joking, although his humor is mostly lost on us because our Navajo speaking capabilities are limited.

As John accelerated past ninety years, he began wearing pajamas when he travels. John has also stopped getting out of the car and coming into the trading post, so when he drives up we are summoned by his apprentice to come out into the parking lot and bargain for his baskets. Barry and I universally purchase them, almost without concern for the asking price. We find these medical instruments smeared with corn meal or pollen an essential link to Navajo culture.

While John speaks only Navajo, our new acquaintance annunciated in near perfect English, no doubt the reason he grinned at my awkward greeting. Holding up his plastic bag, he announced, “I have baskets to sell.” As we negotiated the price, he glanced about the room, surveying the unusual geometric and pictorial weavings created by the Black and Johnson families. Barry and I find Navajo people who have not previously been in Twin Rocks are dazzled by the explosion of color and diversity of design local weavers incorporate into their baskets. It is common for them to purse their lips, indicating towards the baskets, and ask, “Paiute?” When I say, “No, Navajo,” they are genuinely surprised.

One basket in particular caught the healer’s attention and he asked me to take it down from the shelf. The design was one we usually refer to as “Coyote Placing the Stars.” This weaving tells the story of how First Man had his mica stars laid out on a buckskin and was cautiously installing them in the heavens. As he deliberately constructed the constellations, Coyote wandered by and began pestering First Man to allow him to assist. Knowing Coyote’s reputation, First Man resisted the overtures. Since Coyote was unrelenting, in frustration, First Man finally consented to allow him to place three red stars.

After a time, Coyote, master of chaos, became impatient at First Man’s slow progress, grabbed the buckskin, shook it and blew the remaining stars into the night sky, thereby creating the Milky Way. This motif, which was originally conceived by Barry, is one of the earliest designs to develop in the contemporary Navajo basketry movement. It has also become one of the most recognizable.

In what I took as a sign of approval, and not some indication he intended robbery, the old gentleman adjusted his headband, gave me a deep Santa Clause wink and said, “Reach for the sky.” Over the years, Barry and I have kept his advice in mind, and have often passed it on to the Navajo basket weavers as they struggle to keep their art fresh and interesting. Although once in a while Barry and I see Coyote’s influence on their work, surely the weavers have succeeded in following the old man’s counsel, their art is nothing short of stellar.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Tag, you're it!

2011-02-18T15:27:00.004-07:00

Lately, I have been playing tag with the sun. I leave Twin Rocks Trading Post each evening enveloped in an air of sundowner anticipation. My goal has been to photographically capture the magnificence of late winter Southwestern sunsets in the most photogenic spots along Highway 191 between my home and work. To appropriate an outstanding image of the majesty and glory of such an occurrence seems far beyond the digital capability of my little Canon Power Shot camera, but the fun has been in the chase rather than the eventual image. Most recently I have been motivated to abduct an image of the sun just as it disappears below the horizon in the west, at one particular place and time. The place is a small farm owned by the Flavels, just south of Shirt-Tail Junction, a couple miles south of Blanding.

The exact moment of sunset, as I have discovered, is relatively indeterminate, and depends on specific conditions, some of which are constant, some of which are not. Because of my quest, I have learned that technically sunset and the best time to photograph it occurs when the body of the sun is already about one degree below the horizon. Obviously the time varies throughout the year, and is determined by the viewer's position on this planet, specified by longitude, latitude and elevation. Small daily changes and noticeable semi-annual variations in the timing of sunsets are driven by the axial tilt of the earth, its daily rotation, the planet's movement in its annual elliptical orbit around the sun and the earth and moon's paired revolutions around each other. And to complicate the issue even more, to allow a show of outrageous candle power and spectral exuberance worth embracing, there needs to be an outstanding cloud base to allow for a highly distorted ray path of light from the setting sun.

For me, all of that scientific mambo-jumbo is a bit too confounding and technically disturbing to get a firm grip on. Rather, I choose to see such things in a more mythological manner, embracing the Navajo cultural significance of the close of day. This is: One day after a ceremony based on the coming of age of a young girl and a naturally immature boy, the People watched in amazement as the earth swooped down and the sky swooped up and bumped each other. From that exact spot sprang forth Coyote and Badger, brothers and children of Mother Earth and Father Sky.

Ma'ii, Coyote, chose to stay and linger among the Surface People, causing chaos and forcing them out of their comfort zones. Nahashch'id, Badger, on the other hand, dug a hole in the ground and to this day remains mostly out of sight. His role is one of support, harmony and balance. So now, every time I see a sunrise or sunset I think of the birth of Coyote and Badger. They cause me to contemplate the clash of cultures going on around the world; disagreement, discord and fighting, and the opposite side of the coin too, which includes compassion, unity and compatibility. These natural occurrences cause me to consider the constant contact between those of an indifferent attitude and those of a concerned nature.

On one particular day I was speeding north, listening to the evening news on the car radio and frowning at the discontent around the globe. Coyote was a busy boy on this particular day. I was also keeping an eye on the western horizon, appreciating the sporadic cloud cover and hoping my timing was in sync with the sun's downward descent. This was my lucky day, the sun and I arrived at the farm at precisely the same moment! I whipped the Previa around, popped out of the car, clomped through the mud to the fence and began taking pictures. The sunset was amazing, the western horizon was ablaze in colors of red, orange, yellow and black. The lone windmill and barren tree were back-lit by the display; they appeared cold, lonely and forlorn. The contrast was perfect. The image in my mind will remain forever. The picture? What one might expect of a pocket camera. I stood admiring the view until the lights went out and the glow faded.

Making my way back through the goo, I climbed back into the van, checked traffic and swung the vehicle back around in a northerly direction. Just as I regained highway speed and passed Shirt-Tail Junction, I recognized an oncoming diesel truck, a big refrigerated unit being towed by a massive Kenworth tractor. Because of the curve of the road and the speed of the approaching behemoth, I moved further to the right side of the roadway to give the big boy plenty of room. As the truck and my van closed on each other I caught a glimpse of movement sprinting, low and fast across the highway from north to south. I gasped as I recognized a badger moving quickly in my direction. I witnessed the truck barely miss the creature, but I was bearing down quickly and feared the worst possible outcome. Because of the oncoming truck I dared not slam on the brakes or swerve right or left. I unintentionally humped-up in my seat and drove right over the top of the poor beast as I was buffeted by the passing big rig.

Oh Man! I thought to myself, I just upset the harmony and balance of nature and the human race by leaving an imprint of Badger's metaphorical meaning smashed on the asphalt. My dismay at the demise of such a benevolent creature caused me to slow down and turn around at the next side road. I felt I should at least remove the poor thing from the highway and give him a proper burial. Returning to the spot where I interrupted the forward motion of the creature caused me confusion, there was nothing there! I knew for a fact the car had run right over the top of the badger. I had not felt a bump, but I figured that was because I was so intent on avoiding the truck that I had not recognized it. To be sure there was nothing there. Just then I saw movement to the south, there, striding in traditional badger fashion across the stubble of the hay field went the badger. He had survived! The creature must have flattened himself on the roadway at the last possible second and allowed the van to pass right over. Seriously? The fate of man and nature would survive after all. Coyote would not have the upper hand and eventual downfall of humankind would not occur. I had not disrupted the life of one of God's precious creatures. Hallelujah! "Tag, you're it, you lucky devil!" I yelled after the retreating Badger. He paid me no never mind.

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

As the Windmill Turns

2011-02-11T12:22:00.002-07:00

During winter, Sunday mornings often find me staring out across the small and lonely avenue stretching between Twin Rocks Cafe and the home of Betty and Melvin Gaines, waiting for bacon to fry, coffee to perk and customers to arrive. Several years ago, when home numbers first came to Bluff, this street, which forms the easterly portion of Bluff’s Historic Loop, was renamed Twin Rocks Drive. As the sun breaks over Sleeping Ute Mountain and begins warming the structures along this uneven patch of pavement, Bluff is chronically tranquil. Even the Canada geese, which have homesteaded the nearby Jones farm, seem reluctant to activate in the frosty dawn.

Barry and I once visited the Demele and Burnham turquoise mines located just off Highway 50, which is commonly known as the “Loneliest Road in America.” I remember standing in the middle of Main Street, Austin, Nevada, thinking I could lie down on this section of highway and take a long nap without being concerned that I might wake to screeching tires and a blaring horn. Winter mornings along Twin Rocks Drive leave me with a similar impression. But for the cold, one might peacefully and comfortably rest there a very long time without interruption.

Betty and Melvin have lived at this location long before construction commenced on Twin Rocks Trading Post in 1989. In fact, they form part of my earliest consciousness. When Craig, Barry and I began climbing Bluff’s steep cliffs, they were there to watch over us. When we had dirt clod fights with Ray and Perry, the Johnson brothers, they were there to mediate. When we went to Dorothy Nielson’s Post Office, they too were there to retrieve their mail. They are inseparable from my thoughts of Bluff.

Because cement was in short supply, when Mormon pioneers built their Victorian style sandstone mansions in Bluff they used large stones as footers to support the weight of all those sculpted blocks. Melvin and Betty are like those substantial foundations, they have supported this community an exceptionally long time.

As a buffer against the red dirt that threatens to overrun everything in this desert environment, Betty maintains a small patch of lawn in front of her house. Along its outer perimeter flowers of soft color hang on the weathered cedar post and sheep wire fence. On summer evenings, I often smell the scent of freshly mown grass as Betty navigates her riding mower over this section of greenery.

In the northeast corner of Betty’s lawn is a windmill replica that stands five or six feet tall and is approximately 36 inches wide at the base. It is similar to the much smaller version placed on Johnny Johnson’s Cemetery Hill grave site. Johnny was the paternal grandfather of the Johnson boys. His fan untimely spun itself to death; the bearings failed and its wheel fell to the ground, leaving only its superstructure to commemorate Johnny’s life.

For years I have watched Betty’s windmill spin, pondering whether there is some larger meaning in its incessant turning. Like the gray that has crept into my hair in ever increasing volume, rust has invaded Betty’s blades and continues to expand its influence over the metal. Also, like me, the winds of change seem to buffet the windmill at every moment.

Ultimately determining it might somehow be a barometer of my economic fortunes, I used to carefully track its motion. When Barry and I had a particularly good rug, basket or jewelry sale at the trading post, I would glance out the plate glass windows to see if it was whirring. If things were slow, I would step out on the porch to test the wind and note whether the wheel had stopped altogether. I justified this superstition by noting that Navajo people at times have similar, seemingly unfounded beliefs that somehow make sense.

Try though I might, I have never been able to detect any consistent pattern in the movements of that wind driven mechanism. Its speed and direction seem to have no discernible impact on my financial or emotional well being. That has not, however, stopped me from noting its movements, hoping I will one day divine my future in its pitched blades or vertical tail. As Bob Dylan once said, “Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind.”

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

The Navajo Revolution

2011-02-04T13:47:00.004-07:00

First there was the American Revolution of 1776, then the French Revolution of 1789, next came the Russian Revolution of 1917, and finally the Navajo Revolution of 1994. This insurrection, at times referred to as the Sumac Revolution, did not involve throwing off the yoke of an oppressive king, casting aside an absolute monarchy or overthrowing a Tsarist autocracy. There was no political unrest and nobody is known to have been injured, maimed or killed during this uprising. Instead, it was quite, more like the Velvet Revolution of 1989, where peace, justice and tranquility reigned.

Mary Holiday Black at Twin Rocks.

The Sumac Revolution was about discovering and encouraging artistic freedom and was founded upon inspiring and innovative art. The movement grew out of the traditional craft of woven basketry, and its seeds were sown a decade or so earlier, when Navajo basket weavers Mary Holiday Black and her daughter Sally began to incorporate age old symbols into their art. Their new imagery included Yeis, the Holy People; the four sacred plants, corn, beans, squash and mountain tobacco; and sand paintings, representing powerful healing ritual.

Navajo rug and blanket weaving had actually gone through a similar stage approximately 100 years earlier. At that time, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, protests against this secret language being woven into a permanent format were held across the Reservation, death threats were heard by Indian traders who bought and sold the creations, and medicine men feared the decline of an ancient culture. Navajo weavers were informed that, should they persist in creating this new style, they would become gravely ill, their limbs become twisted and deformed, they would lose their vision, and they would not survive to enjoy their children and grandchildren.

So it was with Navajo basketry. Historically, there had been only three types, the pitch covered water jar known as to’shjeeh, baskets woven strictly for ceremonial purposes, and a wickerwork burden basket used for carrying peaches. When their art began diverging from the traditional wedding and ceremonial basket motifs they had previously woven, Mary and Sally Black were instructed by tribal elders to cease using these ancient and hallowed symbols in their weavings.

Seeking counsel from well respected medicine people in their own family, and not being able to suppress their burning desire to create these new works of art, Mary and Sally quietly persisted until they received word that there was in fact a ceremony to protect them from harm. The Beautyway ritual seemed to be just the remedy they needed, and their movement was allowed to progress.

A middle aged woman in traditional dress and a sweet faced teenager were unlikely candidates to spark a revolt. As is often the case, however, revolution springs from the most unlikely sources. Like Al Bonazizi, the poor 26 year old Tunisian who incited the recent unrest that ultimately toppled his government, Mary and Sally could not have predicted the impact they would ultimately have on Navajo art.

As far as Barry and I have been able to determine, the reformation smoldered for a long period and then burst into full flame when Mary created what has come to be known as the Fire Dance Basket. Incorporated into this weaving was a representation of the Mountain Chant, an ancient and almost extinct ritual. Initially, we at Twin Rocks Trading Post misread the significance of this weaving and believed it to be representative of the Apache Crown Dance.

This basket brought into full flower the now widely accepted practice of freely depicting important Navajo traditions and legends in basketry. The results of this movement can be seen every day in trading posts and art galleries across the Southwest, where exquisite weavings commemorate Navajo stories, life and lifestyle. These woven masterpieces celebrate Navajo culture and remind us of traditions that will one day be seen no longer. When Navajo culture has evolved from its present form, these weavings will recall a simpler, more richly traditional time. One often wonders what might have happened had Mary and Sally Black not had the courage and tenacity to pursue their passion; if their enthusiasm had been quenched in its infancy.

Many may be inclined to dismiss the Sumac Revolution as insignificant, unworthy of serious consideration. It would, however, be a mistake to underestimate the significance of the artistic liberation and economic independence it has brought to local Navajo basket weavers.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Encounters

2011-01-28T12:53:00.004-07:00

The other morning I went out for an early morning walk and unexpectedly became entangled. I was walking up the mountain road, north of town, before the sun began its journey across the heavens. The sky was a velvety blue-black in color, with brilliant pinpoints of starlight adding dimension but not much illumination. There was no moon, and it was pitchy dark. It was times such as this that had caused me to place a Mini Maglite in the pocket of my heavy Carhartt coat. I do not see well after hours, which causes me hesitation when striding the weather ravaged and narrow back roads of town. Enlightenment is essential, so I am not "Stumblin' in the dark!", like Noah of the old Sunday School song. I was feeling the thermal embrace of the canvas duck and quilted lining as it deflected the frigorific blast of arctic air blowing in from the north. My head was encased in an orange stocking cap, and my hands in black neoprene gloves . . . I was stylin'

Navajo Owl Carving
As I followed the narrow but helpful beam of artificial light, I saw an appealing plume slowly drifting across the blacktop. I shuffled left, clumsily bent over; hampered by my heavy coat, and attempted to grab the feather in my gloved hand. I felt like Ralphie in The Christmas Story; over-encumbered by exterior garb! I finally had to pull my right hand loose from the neoprene, kneel down and scoop up the quill. As I looked at the feather in the blue glow of the flashlight, I heard a noise; clip-clop-clip, clip-clop-clip. Quickly looking up in the direction of the sound, I found my beanie covering my eyes. I stood up, frustrated by hindered vision, pushed back my hat and shone the light up the road in the direction of the oncoming sound. There in the glow of my flashlight was an oncoming runner, tightly wrapped in a thin suit of Lycra, Under Armour hat and gloves and a fancy pair of fluorescent running shoes. I say runner, because the young woman was moving fast, she was definitely not a jogger. I moved over to the side of the road and felt a fresh breeze as she flew past, sprinting into the embracing gloom. I waved my new found feather after the less than languid lass and said: "Bless you sister!"

Smiling to myself, I recalled the time I successfully ran down a fine young filly of my own. It had turned out well, three fantastic offspring were proof of that. I refocused on the feather and found it to be about 7 inches long and 2 inches wide at the top end. It had a creamy tan body color, was horizontally banded in a medium gray, with smudges of lighter gray mixed in. The quill looked to have been dropped by a large bird of prey, my guess was a Great Horned Owl. "Humph!" I thought to myself, remembering the Navajo belief that the owl can be either a harbinger of bad tidings or, on the positive side, a guardian to ward off evil spirits. I choose the latter, thinking "Better to keep things focused on the up-side." As I went on my merry way, I stuck the feather in my cap and whistled Yankee-Doodle.

It was still dark when I found myself at the intersection of Reservoir Road and 300 West. In the distance I could see a jogger. Actually I could only see a halogen headlamp bee-bopping along. I knew there was a hound in tow, because I heard dog tags jingling. I turned my light to the side of the road so as not to distract them. Just as we passed on opposite sides of the byway, the headlamp hit me square in the eyes and I was blinded by the light. At the same time a mid-size English Bull Dog came running up and greeted me in doggie fashion. I pushed the nosy critter away from my backside and heard a woman say, "He's nice, he won't bite. All the while that light was flashing in my eyes and the dog circling my legs. I was trying to walk on by, but the dog, and now, the jogger were right there beside me. What I did not know, because of the excessive show of light, was that the dog had pulled free of its tether and was trying to become better acquainted while the woman was attempting to regain the leash.

All I knew for sure was that dog was way too friendly and the woman (with her Halogen bulb) was blindingly close. I was discombobulated by the unintended skirmish. I finally got a clue as to what was happening when the woman said, "Could you grab that leash for me?" I stopped, bent over (big mistake) grabbed the leash and shoved it toward the over bright light source and backed away. "Thank you!", said the female voice. "No problem!" said I, turning to high step it away from the overly-bold boxer. It took me several minutes of separation to regain my night vision and sense of dignity. By that time the dynamic duo had departed. I still do not know who that woman was, but I do know the dog's name was Mac. "Bad Spirit, that dog!" I said to myself. Taking the owl feather from my hat, I reached up and wedged it between the wood and metal of a nearby stop sign and left it there for someone else. Maybe it would bring them better luck than it had me. As I walked on I reflected on how the local Natives view dogs.

Navajo people believe the Holy Beings formed the dog; male and female. The first male dog was dressed with the dawn and was white. He traveled from the east. The first female dog was reddish or brownish yellow and she was dressed with the twilight. She traveled from the west-central region. On their ears sat the Little Breeze. Their ears were made from the winds, and at the tip of the tail also there is a breeze; (that has,certainly been my experience). So when a dog passes another dog he can tell from the mouth to the tip of the tail his entire history (that explains it). As he has the wind at the ears and at the tip of the tail he never gets lost. Burned food was put on their noses and they were black. A medicine stick was placed inside their stomachs, and they say that is why a dog never gets enough to fill himself. He knows many things, for he was sent to guard the doorways of the people. I made it home without further incident, walked in the back door and found Laurie standing at the stove making the morning meal. "Hi Hon, how'd it go", she asked. "Well", I replied, "I was gifted a fleeting glimpse of the good old days, tempted fate, was blinded by the light, and made a new, close, personal friend." "That's nice", she replied, refusing to take the bait, "breakfast is almost ready."

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

The Anti-Baker Street

2011-01-21T14:57:00.004-07:00

Sunday morning found me standing at the south facing window of Twin Rocks Cafe, with only two panes of glass and a thin layer of air between me and the outside chill. As I stood marveling at the numerous multicolored hot air balloons floating over our small community, I could feel the cold penetrating the glass and reaching through my light jacket. In the background Sirius Radio wailed out Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street .

In the song Rafferty sings, “He’s got this dream about buyin’ some land. He’s gonna give up the booze and the one night stands. Then he’ll settle down. It’s a quiet little town. And forget about everything.” Baker Street is a song about a disillusioned man who wants to move away from his neighborhood and buy a home of his own; a man who wants to reinvent himself and establish a more peaceful existence.

The restaurant was empty, awaiting the flash of customers that would arrive once the balloons landed and were safely stowed in their trucks, trailers and RVs. The cooks and servers wandered about the place aimlessly, anticipating the crush, but not knowing what to do with themselves in the interim.

To get a better look at the pilots who flew north and west of the building, I pressed my face against to the window and was reminded that the thermometer registered significantly below freezing. The pilots were, however, warmed by their burners, which created lift for these wonderful beasts and shielded the flyers from low temperatures.

Melvin Gaines, our neighbor and friend of many decades, shuffled over to his trash barrel and placed a sack of refuse into embers that still smoldered from the night before. After many years on the County Road Crew, using his long, narrow back to complete difficult tasks, Melvin is permanently bent forward about five degrees. This is a working man’s working man. It has always been interesting to me how this industrious, softly spoken, unassuming man commands the respect of virtually every citizen of Bluff; an extraordinary feat in a town where intelligent minds question every motive.

As the trash flared, Melvin trudged back to his front door and disappeared into the warmth of his modest home. Watching this elderly gentleman engaging in the simple task that would be frowned upon or altogether banned in a more developed environment, I was reminded that our isolation allows us a freedom unknown in more populated areas. For a moment I drifted back several decades to a time when Bluff was even more wild and free; when Melvin was a young man, when I was a boy and when Navajo people still traveled in horse drawn wagons.

Loud hisses of blazing propane punctuated the frigid air, bringing me back to the present and causing the balloons to rise and fall on invisible air currents. This was the final day of the 13th Annual Bluff International Balloon Festival, and the balloonists had been hoping to fly in nearby Valley of the Gods. Bad road conditions in the valley had, however, forced them back into town for a third day. Since it was my turn to man the cafe, I was secretly thrilled with what was otherwise considered bad luck.

As the haunting saxophone solo of Baker Street faded, the balloons sailed around eroded monoliths and kissed red rock cliffs; brightly colored silk juxtaposed against buff colored, desert varnished sandstone. Not long after Gerry Rafferty finished his lament, Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road came up on the playlist; yet another song about someone wishing for a simple, more meaningful life away from the city lights. “Was this a sign,” I asked myself, wondering whether the music contained a secret message.

My mind began to question, “Should I too be looking for a more simple existence? Since everyone else seems disenchanted, shouldn’t I be as well?” “No,” I concluded, “This is that quiet little town away from Baker Street, where you can forget about everything. This is a place where balloons carry warm, friendly, trustworthy individuals who make young people like Kira exclaim, ‘I love those people!’ It is a place where I can look out from my counters of turquoise and silver, from covered porches where sand tirelessly accumulates, and see Melvin tinkering diligently on his trucks, tractors and generators.” Bluff may very well be the dream at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, the anti-Baker Street in an otherwise chaotic world.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Roseto Ravens

2011-01-14T16:06:00.004-07:00

Driving down the road from Blanding to Bluff last Saturday morning was a visual delight. Nighttime temperatures have been so cold lately that the snowfall we received last week has turned crystalline. The sage and rabbit brush south of town still has scintillating flakes on the branches, and the juniper trees on the northern edge of White Mesa Ute Community remain naturally decorated with clumps of frozen flurry. That alone was truly appealing, but the angular sunrise was blindingly bright and the frosty ground cover of ice crystals sparkled like an unending carpet of diamonds. I was so enthralled with the sight that my speed must have dropped to half the prescribed rate. Before I knew it, I had three vehicles backed up behind me, jostling for position and maneuvering to get past. As the motorists blew by, speeding along their merry way, their frowns of disapproval only slightly diminished my feelings of pleasure.

Raven by Ray & Alondra Lansing

As always, I looked forward to the view from atop White Mesa Hill. This day the scene offered a long range exposure of offset mesas and monuments in contrasting shades of profound pastels. Puff clouds, and long, linear jet trails added to the picture perfect spectacle. There was less snow than just up the road, but the shadowed white patches of protected powder allowed for unusual highlights in places usually hidden or unrecognizable because of their subtle nature. I thought back to the previous week, when I found myself at this same spot at an earlier hour. Instead of this brightly lit and luminous scene, I overlooked a forbidding ocean of blanketing clouds, a vast seascape of white mist capped with gray and black tipped swells. "Wicked!" I thought out loud as I geared the Nissan down one gear and dove into the known, but currently unfathomable depths of that well. As I traveled through the super soupy mist, I lost track of where I was. I knew the road I traveled, but lost myself in space and time for a brief spell. I was lucky enough to travel the remainder of the road to Bluff alone, embraced and entranced by the ground cloud and nearly zero visibility.

This day was totally different, it seemed warm and sunny outside the vehicle, even though I knew the wind chill would be south of freezing. I topped the crest of the hill overlooking the Bluff Bench, descended into the sweeping curve, then lined out on the straightaway before Cow Canyon. Looking down the highway I noticed a moving ink spot up in the sky, in direct line to the highway. As I watched, the black dot dropped from the heavens and became a bird, and then, as I gained on it, I recognized an oversize raven. The charcoal cherub seemed unaware of my oncoming presence. It dipped out of the sky and lined out straight down the highway in front of me, on a southerly course.

The brazen bird leveled out about 12 feet above the blacktop and, because of his quick descent, sped along at an accelerated rate of speed. The meteoric maniac must have been enjoying itself because it held course, hurtling down the strip as if gaging speed by the fleeting flash of passing lines beneath its wings. I was gaining steadily on the feature creature. As I closed in, the raven looked as big as a feathered football, with a gracefully curved, pin feather wing span nearly five feet in length. The brawny bruiser looked like a stealth gunship on a strafing run. I fell in behind the feathered test pilot and for a brief space in time felt as if I were flying right with him.

The feeling was surreal; it was as if I became the bird. I experienced its elation at zipping along a personal, lonely drag strip. I envisioned its perspective and point of view. The experience was exhilarating; that big bird must have been having a blast. The acquaintance was short lived, however, because I let the car drift a little too close to the bird's back side. The massive raven must have sensed my presence, because it dipped one wing and zigged to the left, then a fraction of a second later dipped the right wing, zagged in that direction and shot off the main drag across the brigham tea and stunted brush-encrusted hillocks in the direction of Calf Canyon. Bummer! I am hoping it is psychologically harmless to imagine myself as a bird in boundless flight. If not, certify me and throw me in the proverbial bird cage.

That evening I was driving home as the sun was setting on the western horizon. Just before I exited the Bluff Bench I saw a congress of ravens freewinging it across the highway from east to west. The batch of birds were seen at the high point of the hill with the magnificent Blue Mountain range as a backdrop. The mountains are draped in a brilliant white coat of snow this winter, with deep blue stands of forest showing through in random areas. At that particular time of the evening the mountains present themselves surrounded by a baby blue aura, accented by a pink glow from the slanting rays of the setting sun. The view is spectacular. I thought I recognized my raven from earlier in the day in the midst of the group. All of the ravens present seemed to be having a grand time dancing across the sky. The beauty and tranquility of the scene, and the fact that I was going home to my family, caused me to reflect back upon an e-mail I received earlier in the day, one of those junk messages that catch your eye just before you dump them in the trash.

The message read, "Does friendship and family keep us well?" Yes indeed, the phenomenon is known as the 'Roseto effect' - firm familial bonds and being part of a tight social group can keep us healthy. It certainly seemed to be working with the local raven population. The close personal relationship they have with the land, the sky and each other, works well for them; they seem and act happy. As for the rest of us, I believe we are also well. How can one not be well in an environment such as this, with such a close knit family, good friends, open spaces and incredible scenery? If there is any place in the world where someone has a high probability of being well, this is certainly it. Enough said! Except maybe . . . Be Well!

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team

America's Coolest Small Town!

2011-01-06T15:43:00.005-07:00

Have you heard the news? Bluff is in the running for America's Coolest Small Town! Uh-huh! Thats what I'm talkin' about. Sister Cindy dialed me up the other day and informed me that Budget Travel magazine was holding a competition to decipher which small town, in this great nation, had the most "Cool" emanating from its pores. Someone was on the ball, in the know, when they nominated Bluff City, Utah. Now to be sure, our family members are forever throwing out abstractions for anecdotal missives. Mostly, Steve and I look down our wrinkled noses at such suggestions and shrug them off as undignified and/or disturbing but Cindy had something here. Bluff is way cool, she is near and dear to our hearts and always on our minds. The town of Bluff really is chic when it comes to a higher quality of life, space to breath, time to relax and enjoy, proximity to the natural world and the local services are, well, "small town" but packed to the cliff tops with customer service and attention to indulgent detail.

Balloons over Bluff

I mean to say, where else can one find such a wide and delicious variety of sustenance, from the quick and convenient K&C to sit down and entertaining Cottonwood Steaks, a Faybelle Burger, an organic minded River Kitchen, Comb Ridge Coffee and, wait for it.... Navajo Pizza and local ethnic feasting under the mighty Twin Rocks. Comfort food at its best! And, if you did not bring a bed roll you might sleep Inn with Kokopelli, Recapture the good old days at the lodge, Motel it with a Mokee, or forsake a cactus by settling down under a delightful Desert Rose. Too comfortable? How about ganging up at the old Decker House, parking under a Cottonwood or sequestering your Cadillac and Airstream at the Ranch. For a restful night's sleep come to where crickets are the night sound of choice and the stars, night lights worth warming up too. I read in the write-up that the magazine was looking for towns with an edge. Seriously? Have you ever stood on the edge of a 400' sandstone abutment overlooking Canyon Country? Now that will give you a tingle in your groin, I mean to tell ya'.

I understand a "Coolest Small Town" retains a population under 10,000 inhabitants. Bluff accounts for 250 people, in permanent residence, on our best day. But, the stand-out personalities living amongst the red rock houses and Sage Brush bungalows makes us appear much more robust denizens of the high desert wise that is. Character traits run deep and formidable in our fair community, thus the attraction to outside, habitual, interests. In Bluff you will not find quaint country retail venues, you will discover a Twin Rocks Trading Post owned by an unmanageable gang of Bluffoons and stocked with world class Native American art, an Yanito Gallery managed by the artist himself displaying personal works of wonder, a Dairy Cafe gift shop run by a dear disciple of self motivation and inspiration, supplied with an amazing variety of art and craft from local artisans of creative composition and a Cloudwatcher bent on exhibiting the magic and wonder of this region. All of which, as I understand the prerequisites, are essential to the moniker of "Cool".

One of the coolest of the cool aspects of Bluff is the great, great, great outdoors that surrounds us. High adventure awaits those fit and furious frontiers-people who dare to venture into our rugged back country. Whether it be on foot or in the clean comfort of a 4x4 the scenery is amazing and the atmosphere intoxicating. If you need a Far Out Expedition you might look-up Vaughan or take a trip down the mighty San Juan with Wild Rivers. High adventure is assured when you trip through our tulips....or cactus flowers as it were. If you want to access our self-assured village from a heavenly perspective you should stop in on our annual Balloon Festival in January. Drift over the endearing Bluff Fort and accompanying church house or the spires of Father Baxter Leibler's Episcopal Church up-valley. The cliff tops and side canyons are inspiring from on high. Serenity and tranquility abound in and over Bluff. Our town was first populated by ancient peoples as early as 650 AD and founded by exhausted Mormon pioneers on April 6th 1880. So if you are in favor of letting others in on our great little secret add your comment to America's Coolest Small Towns @ http://tinyurl.com/ptiscool . Give Budget Travel a heads up so we can let the world know of Bluff's coolness. Vote before the poll closes on February 11th; the top winners will be featured in the September 2011 issue of Budget Travel magazine. "We be Cool!"

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

A Pastoral Christmas

2010-12-17T10:15:00.004-07:00

As young men roaming the weathered landscape of southeastern Utah, Barry, Craig and I were infinitely unaware of the larger world. At the time we were primarily interested in adventures among the rocks and washes within and immediately adjacent to the small community of Bluff. We explored every nook and cranny looking for treasure, scaled sandstone walls, dug fortifications in the soft earth of eternally dry drainages and, when the desert became superheated, splashed in the local swimming hole. At that point in our development, we were as independent and rebellious as the South during the Civil War.

http://www.twinrocks.com/

Christmas at the Simpson home during this period was universally simple; a tree, colorful lights, clothing, carols, a few sweets and ongoing necessities. There was not a great deal of money for elaborate parties or gifts, but as many who lived through the Great Depression have said over the intervening years, “We did not know we were poor.” In fact, we universally believed we were kings; kings of the back country and kings of our individual destinies. What was happening in the rest of the world rarely, if ever, entered our consciousness. Cash dollars, since we never had any, were not a concern.

Likely the most memorable Christmas for me was the year I turned six years old. I vividly remember receiving several books from Santa. Although I do not remember their titles, I do recall being thrilled with the gift. Whatever else that had found its way under the tree has long since been forgotten. Why that memory has stuck with me so tenaciously I do not know; books were not luxuries in our house and played a prominent role in our daily lives. For some reason, however, that particularly year remains the highlight of my personal Christmas experience.

At Twin Rocks Trading Post the colorful lights have once again gone up in anticipation of another holiday season. In keeping with our early years, Barry and I have kept the decorations simple; a tree, a few colorful bows, four or five happily wrapped packages and holiday cards received from friends and acquaintances. Although the store is eminently empty as travelers head for more populous areas, there is a feeling of quiet peacefulness and restful satisfaction that permeates its interior.

When I am in the more metropolitan portions of these United States during this season, I am delighted by the abundance of decorations. Surely most people would not consider our barren cottonwood trees, sparse lighting, slow breeze nudging fallen leaves and lonely roads a match for such elaborate adornments. Recently, however, I stood on the porch watching Grange and Buffy meander back to the house above the trading post after feeding Jana’s diminishing equine herd. As they entered the gravel parking lot I was overcome with gratitude and a feeling of complete satisfaction. Even though there was no greenery to compliment all the scarlet, the redheaded boy wearing a crimson University of Utah sweatshirt, gentle red dog with her wispy tail merrily swishing from side to side and rosy red rock cliffs rising steeply from the valley floor all seem to speak of Christmas, goodwill.

While others may yearn for the show of the city, I am compelled to admit that the pastoral life in this tiny settlement on the banks of the San Juan River is fulfilling in many surprisingly unexpected ways. It seems the slowness of Bluff allows us to refocus our attention on the essential elements of life in general and the fundamental values of the season specifically.

As Christmas nears, we send out a simple, heartfelt wish: In the coming year may you find the peace, serenity and contentment we enjoy in our southeastern Utah sanctuary.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Driving Test

2010-12-10T13:16:00.004-07:00

My daughter McKale is taking a course in Driver's Education this winter; she is 15 years old and ready to experience the freedom a couple hundred horses will allow. It is usually my job to teach our kids to drive, but for some reason Laurie has taken over the reins and bumped me from my designated duties with our last child. It is my belief that Spenser gave me up for swearing at him after he, "Boldly went where no man had gone before", or should ever go during one or two . . . okay, on several training runs. Much of the time I spent trying to teach Spenser to drive was centered around him turning the radio up to drown me out and me turning it off. Between the two of us we wore out the knobs in my Previa "torpedo" shaped van. Alyssa was slightly easier to instruct on the rules of the road, because she actually listened. I am fairly certain I never swore at my eldest daughter, and she turned out to be an excellent driver.

Twin Rocks truck
McKale has taken to chauffeuring Laurie and me to Grandma Washburn's house for dinner on Sundays. Part of an effort to build up the 40 hours she needs to garner that most desired of teenage treasures; her driver's license. On one such trip, McKale, Laurie and I were returning home after dark. The road between Monticello and Blanding is notorious for being a crossroads for the local deer population. Laurie prefers to ride up front and place me on the back burner. From the back seat I calmly told my darling daughter that she was causing me a great deal of anxiety, because she was driving far too fast for existing conditions. "What did you say Dad?" she hollered over Rihanna wailing Disturbia. She must have been taking advice from her older brother, because her "wall of sound" effectively blocked me out. "I said." yelling over the music, "If you pop a deer at this speed things are going to get ugly quick!" She must have heard me that time, because she looked over at her mother (who nodded in agreement) and slowed down perceptively. Why is it, kids these days feel the need to verify all fatherly advice with their mothers? "And turn off that darn radio!" I yelled again. "Nothing heard, nothing said," Rihanna wailed. McKale looked to her Mother once more, which caused me instant aggravation. "Don't make me come up there!" I yelled over a refrain of "It's a thief in the night to come and grab you."

McKale turned off the radio and looked at me in the rear view mirror, as if contemplating my mood. In an effort at diplomacy she asked, "When did you learn to drive Dad?" "When I was three," I shot back, still agitated. "Seriously, Dad." she said like she meant it. "I don't remember exactly." I answered, trying to recover from my rude reply and then attempting to recall the first time I crawled behind a steering wheel. I told McKale that as kids, my brothers and I would try to drive everything on wheels. Our parents had a second-hand store in Blanding, south of town, by the Plateau gas station we also ran. Grandpa Duke would bring home Tote Goats, motorcycles, Dune Buggies and all sorts of used vehicles to sell or trade. There was an empty field south of the large tin building which housed the store, and we would drive those vehicles around that field every time Dad turned his back. We wore a dirt track around the border of that field in short order. The track was our place to practice driving and in Dad's words; "Destroy everything he brought home!" Good memories, those.

"When was the first time you drove on the highway?" McKale questioned. I thought back, pushed aside the cobwebs and recalled a trip to Grand Junction, Colorado with my father. Dad and one of us boys used to travel there nearly every weekend to attend two or three auctions. Either there or the Flea Market, at the Dog Track, in Phoenix. I recalled one trip where Dad and I drove to Grand Junction and bought so much furniture I was certain we would not get it all on the pick-up. I was 14 years old and well versed in packing furniture and roping loads with "truckers knots". We had a steel rack that extended over the cab which allowed much more room for such large payloads. After the auction I stood there looking at the massive pile of furniture and "stuff" sitting on the ground waiting to be put on the truck. I turned to my father and said, "We are never going to get all of that furniture on that truck." "Yes you will," said my father confidently. "Mike here will help you load it." I turned to see a young man Dad had hired to help me load the truck. He smiled a toothless grin and smacked his gloved hands together as if to say, "Let's do this." "It's too big a load!" I said to my father again. "You can do it boy," said my father, "just use a bigger hammer!" At that, Dad turned and went inside to settle his bill. I mumbled something about using a hammer on him which brought a chuckle from Mike.

If I recall correctly it took Mike and me over two hours to load that darn pick-up truck. Just exactly the amount of time it took Dad to pay his bill...how convenient! Just as I cinched down the last rope, Dad strolled out and eyeballed the load. He walked around the truck testing my lashings and returned to the driver's side, climbed in and started the truck. I climbed in the passenger side and asked, "Did you enjoy your hamburger?" "Yes I did son, and I brought one for you." he said pushing a greasy white paper bag and a soda in my direction. "Thanks!" I said sarcastically. "You did a good job boy!" said my father, "That load is not going anywhere." "Thanks Dad." I said again, this time with a more appreciative tone. I knew there would have been a long line of patrons waiting to settle their dues with the auction company. I never knew my father to shirk manual labor, I was simply angry about that oversize load. We drove south as I wolfed down that burger and fries and washed it down with an ice-cold Orange Crush. About 20 miles outside of Grand Junction, just over the hill from Mack, Dad began to get sleepy. He had been working a lot of overtime hours and must have been really tired. I started to worry. We still had 150 miles to get home, and it was just the two of us. I could just see us parked alongside the highway like a gang of Hillbillies straight out of Steinbeck's, The Grapes of Wrath. It was 9:30 at night and I had school in the morning. Dad pulled to the side of the road, looked over at me and said, "You drive." "Me?" I asked incredulously. "Sure," said my father, "you have driven every vehicle I have ever brought home, you should have no trouble driving this pick-up."

Dad got out of the truck, and checking the load one more time, walked around to my side. He opened the passenger door and motioned with his hand for me to move to the driver's side. I looked at him for affirmation and he said; "You can do it, I have faith in you." I felt a jolt of pride and confidence as I slid across the saddle blanket seatcovers and strapped in. Dad settled in as I grabbed first gear and jolted forward, ground out second then third and fourth. Dad never said a word about my less than practiced hand with the stick shift. The only thing he did say was, "Look down the road as you drive, it's easier to keep it straight that way, otherwise you are going to shake me silly trying to keep this thing between the lines." I searched out fifth gear as I hit 55 and looked over to my trusting father for assurance. He was sound asleep! Luckily that old road was fairly straight and I did not have to shift much, I gained confidence with each mile. As we passed Thompson Springs I began to worry about making the turn off the Interstate toward Moab. As I slowed and down-shifted Dad opened one eye the nodded off again. We did not make the greatest time, because I was not driving all that fast. We were, however, making progress. I drove through Moab and Monticello before Dad sat up and started paying attention. It was after 1:00 a.m., and the thrill of driving was starting to wear off. I began to slow so as to let him drive, but he waved his hand down the road and said; "You might as well finish it, we're almost home."

As I recounted my story to McKale, I recalled how proud I was that my father put so much trust in me; not only to effectively tie down that cumbersome load, but to drive him and our livelihood home safely. Either that or he was completely exhausted and beyond caring. I choose to believe the more exemplary explanation. As I came to the end of my reminiscence, I noticed my wife looking, in a Disturbia manner, at me over her shoulder. I am sure she was wondering at the point of my story. Was it all right to steal the car when your father wasn't looking, or to let an underage, untrained child drive on public thoroughfares, unsupervised? Good and fair questions for rational thinking people, but as we all know few are rational and even fewer sane. As Rhianna sings; "It is too close for comfort. Bum bum beedum bum bum beebum dum!"

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

Art is Not Concrete

2010-12-03T12:03:00.004-07:00

Last Saturday evening Kira and I decided to go for a run after I finished my Sunday shift at Twin Rocks Cafe. Sunday morning dawned cold and blustery, so as I turned the key in the restaurant door I seriously thought about canceling our outing. By early afternoon, however, the sun was brightly shining and the temperature had greatly improved. There was a slight breeze from the west, so we asked Jana to drive us to Sand Island so we could run into town with the wind at our backs.

Elsie Holiday with her Winter Butterfly Basket.

As is often the case, Kira was in a philosophical mood. Since it was Sunday, we began by talking about God and various world and local religions. By the time we arrived at the trading post we had gone through a great deal of spiritual material. As we sat on the front steps winding up our thoughts, I could feel the cold seeping into my bones from the cement porch. Thinking I was extremely clever, I pointed down and said, “Well, God is not concrete. Instead of being cold and hard like these steps, He is warm, flexible, compassionate, varied; difficult to precisely define.”

Since I know more about art than I do about God, I began to think about the statement in terms of the artistic creations we buy and sell at Twin Rocks Trading Post. It did not take long to realize that art too is not concrete. Trying to define art is a lot like trying to define love; there are simply too many permutations to actually get your arms around the concept.

Several years ago Gregory Holiday brought in a sculpture of four or five Kokopelli figures dancing across a piece of drift wood. This was before Kokopelli became well known, so the carving was extremely innovative. I remember standing behind the counter for what seemed like an interminable period of time trying to decide whether Gregory had made something extraordinary or just more firewood.

After about a half hour, Gregory became anxious and started shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Assuming he needed to use the facilities, I directed him to the back of the store. No, he assured me, he did not need the restroom, he was merely impatient for me to make a decision. One way or the other, he needed to move on.

About that time Duke walked in and said, “Hey, that’s nice. Why don’t you buy it.” Thinking he was probably right, I purchased the sculpture and put it up on a shelf in the back of the store. Less than an hour later, a customer came in, spotted the carving, raved about how beautiful and creative it was and insisted I sell it to him. “Surely,” I thought, “I have no idea what is and is not great art.”

Having spent over 20 years at the trading post, I have come to understand there are no strict definitions of art, and that art is not hard or static. Instead, the best art is fluid, simple, clean, warm, sophisticated, moving, touching, inspiring and many other things I cannot even begin to explain.

I have also realized that art is about the people who create, sell and collect it. For Barry and me, art is very personal. We feel the creators are at least as important as the creations. Much of what we do is in support of the people who live and work in the Four Corners region. Of course, we enjoy the constantly changing exhibits; each a masterpiece in his or her own right. Maybe it is the God in art or the art in God that convinces me neither is concrete or subject to strict interpretation. Both are very personal and subject to a variety of interpretations that are ever changing and infinitely beautiful.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Turkey Day

2010-11-26T15:04:00.004-07:00

The early evening was glorious, the air crisp and clean. The perfectly angled sunlight streaming into the still heavily laden red and yellow leaves of oak brush and wild maple visually set the fall foliage on fire. My wife Laurie and I, along with our three young children and Grandpa and Grandma Washburn, tromped through the few dead and down leaves in search of wild turkey feathers. We were exploring on my in-laws' property, which is located on the east flank of the Blue Mountains, just above Monticello. It was one of those autumn afternoons poets, the likes of Robert Frost and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, could only do justice through well crafted verse. We could hear Merriam turkeys chuckle across the way, but could not see them for the thick brush and stands of aspen and pine between us. We knew those wily rascals roosted nearby, because they left behind tufts of fluff and feathery fringe.

Navajo Turkey Carving

Laurie had a fistful of the flat-topped, white-tipped tail feathers and several striped brown, black and white wing plumes. The brown tones in the feathers were coppery and iridescent when viewed through the refracted light. Every time Spenser, Alyssa or McKale found one they would sprint to their mother, pass off the treasure and fan out in search of more. Because of his sharp eyes and intimate knowledge of terrain, Grandpa had a small handful of pompons himself. Grandma had even fewer finds because she and Laurie were more interested in the flora of the mountain lands. Earlier they had gathered a small sack of seeds from the dry pods of columbine in the nearby meadow. More often than not, mother and daughter were bent over some plant or bush, plotting a future of replanting their yards. I had the fewest finds of all, because I was more interested in antagonizing the kids than plundering plumage. Much to my wife's chagrin, I am the instigator of mayhem in our home. In an effort to teach them to predict the unpredictable, I do my darnedest to keep our children on their toes.

As we probed deeper into the stand of oak, we came upon a grouping of trees 8-10 inches thick, hefty for oak brush. The trees rose 6-8 feet, arched overhead and created an woven mesh of branches. With the mass of colorful leaves lit-up as they were, the place impressed me as a natural cathedral enhanced by a leafy version of stained glass. We stood there silently in the midst of this sacred place, embraced by its splendor. Just then the breeze picked-up and the dried seed-pods resting upon the columbine stalks began a woodsy harmony as they bumped and scraped against each other. Further back in the trees the wild turkey joined the concert with their deep throated verse. It must have been Alyssa or McKale who first discovered the mother load of turkey plumage, because I heard a loud squeal of excitement. Grandpa exclaimed, "We found their roost!" The happiness in the children's voices as they laughed, scrambled about and let out exclamations of pleasure added harmony to the coral arrangement. To my ears there was no more beautiful sound in the world.

As I stood there watching, wondering, enjoying my family and listening to the chorus, a group of does and fawns filed out of the trees and began feeding in the meadow just below us. They seemed completely unperturbed by our boisterous presence. The deer were within 50 yards of us, and I could see their brown eyes blink occasionally, as if they wondered at the awkward, loud nature of human beings. In spite of everything, they seemed to accept us. As I stood taking in the scene, I heard rustling in the bushes to my right. Slowly moving in that direction, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the rare and unusual tassel-eared Abert's squirrel. I slowly rounded a group of three closely grouped pine trees and spied a couple chipmunks frolicking in the leaves. I bent over, plucked a stalk of crested wheat grass, leaned against a tree and chewed the stem as I watched Chip and Dale play. Behind me I heard more rustling. Leaning forward slightly and looking through the trees, I spied my son Spenser intently scanning the ground for feathers. He passed my position without noticing me and turned his back as he began to move away. "Time to disrupt!", I thought to myself. I moved as quietly as a cougar preparing to pounce; sure of my prey. When I was in position I let out a roar like a grizzly bear and charged the boy, expecting to have him in my grasp in no time. Somehow Spenser anticipated my attack and took off on an all out sprint, quickly outracing me. "The little Bounder!" As I pulled-up winded and spent, laughs and cheers erupted all around me, Spenser had outwitted his maniacal old man. I guess I was, deservedly, the turkey of the day.

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

Bandit

2010-11-19T14:29:00.003-07:00

It was the summer of 1971, and the Simpson family was living in a mobil home behind the Plateau filling station south of Blanding. Woody, our paternal grandfather, was working in Cisco, Colorado, clearing brush for the Nielson brothers.

Craig, Barry and I ran the service station, pumping gas, checking oil, repairing punctured tires, washing windows and drinking Pepsi. At eleven, twelve and thirteen years of age, we were fully in charge. When one of us had a baseball game or other important event, the others would sub in. If for some reason we were all gone at once, Rose and Duke took over.

Woody, whose name was actually Woodrow Wilson Simpson, was a handyman's handyman. When it came to welding, driving a Caterpillar tractor or repairing a pick up truck, there was none better. At times it seemed he could design, build or repair anything. As for catskinning, it was said that Woody could level land so well water would run in either direction. Many testified they had personally witnessed this landscaping miracle.

After a week’s work in Cisco, Woody would often stop by the station to say hello and have a soda. On one particular occasion, he came home a few days early. Upon pulling his Ford into one of the fueling bays, he reached into the back of his truck and pulled out a gunny sack full of squirming, chattering critters. “What’s that?” we shouted. “Coons,” he proudly proclaimed.

Apparently Woody had found a nest of kits. Their mother had either abandoned them or been run over during the clearing campaign, so Woody, being a lover of all animals great and small, decided to adopt the whole bunch. As it turned out, they were more than he could handle at his camp trailer, so he was intent on farming them out to his family and friends. We were an intended recipient. After considerable discussion, Rose and Duke consented and we became the proud owners of of a baby raccoon. Never known for our creativity, we named him “Bandit.”

Since our home had only two bedrooms, every night Craig, Barry and I rolled out sleeping bags and slept on the living room floor. While he was small Bandit would crawl inside the bags and sleep at our feet. As Bandit progressed into full grown maturity, we realized our sleeping arrangements would have to change. While building a run to confine him, we put a dog house out in the yard and staked Bandit to a chain, which was in line with the custom of the time. Every morning Bandit would exit his new abode and pace back and forth on his chain, eventually wearing a semicircular path in front of his new dwelling.

During his tenure in the house, Bandit had developed a fondness for the yellow tabby cat we called Tigger. That’s right, T-I-double Ga-Er. Tigger, on the other hand, realizing there was no future in the relationship, had no love for Bandit and consequently avoided him at all cost.

Noting that Bandit’s mobility had been circumscribed, Tigger began sitting just outside the perimeter of Bandit’s walking path, licking her paws and tempting him with her considerable charm. That drove Bandit crazy, and he tried every conceivable trick to reach the feline. It was, however, no use, the cat always stayed just beyond Bandit’s reach.

One morning we looked out the kitchen window to see how Bandit was getting on and noticed he no longer paced at the end of his chain. Instead, he had withdrawn a few feet and was pacing a short path back and forth. It was clear the cat, was about to make a grave miscalculation.

Assuming Bandit was, as always, at the end of his rope, Tigger strolled out and sat down; just inside the worn semicircle. Bandit continued to pace until the cat began preening. Sensing she was not paying attention to her surroundings, Bandit streaked out, scooped up the cat and held it like one lover holds another. Tigger, too startled to howl, spit or scratch, wilted in Bandit’s arms.

Unfortunately Bandit was also shocked by his success, and after momentarily holding the cat firmly to his breast decided he did not know what to do with his captive. All those months of anticipation had given way to an uneasy climax. With no other alternative, and knowing he would never hold her again, Bandit gently released his captive. Surely his heart was heavy as the cat scampered to safety.

When the trading post is slow or work difficult, and I start wishing for something different, I often think of Bandit and wonder what I would do if I actually got what I wished for.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Coming out and Going Home

2010-11-12T15:59:00.004-07:00

As Laurie, the kids and I walked into the Washburn household Grandpa Clem said, "Come outside, I want to show you something." It was a mid-summer evening, and the glorious and radiant orb of the sun had just settled itself behind the towering Blue Mountains to the west of the house. The shadowed side of the mountain was a deep purple-blue in color. Deeper, darker shades moved in the canyons and clefts. High overhead, above the mountaintops, were cloud patterns looking as if a master artist had taken his brush in hand and swiped it randomly across the sky, then added brief but magnificent undertones of rose-red and tangerine-orange. The backdrop was magnificent enough to take your breath away. When I walked into the back yard I saw that my father-in-law had set-up several lawn chairs in a semi-circle facing a stand of vine-like plants along the red brick wall at the back of the house. I looked at him and the arrangement of chairs and asked: "What's going on Grandpa?" "The wild primrose are about to bloom," he replied. I plopped down in one of the chairs, expecting the buds to start popping any moment. When we weren't looking, the kids dispersed to watch TV and Laurie went inside to help Grandma finish a project. "It looks like it is just you and me Grandpa," I said. "That's okay," he replied with a hint of excitement in his voice.

Grandpa Clem

This sort of thing was typical with "Grandpa Clem"; he is as passionate about the natural world as he is about his family. He loves flowers, rocks and discarded artifacts and will search them out while tending his cattle, bringing home specimens at every opportunity. Looking about his back yard I recognized several varieties of plants, piles of rocks and meteorites, busted wagon wheels, old bottles and such. These were items I knew he had transplanted from his properties on the nearby mountain, flatlands east of town and lowlands to the north; just off Peter's Hill. "This particular plant," he explained, "came from Dry Valley." That is where he winters his cows. Grandpa found this patch of Pachylophus Marginatus (Oenothera), aka white evening primrose, while riding his horse, Ginger, on a cow trail; halfway between a rim and a plateau, in a shaded spot beside a large boulder. I knew that if necessary Grandpa could find that same spot again in the dark of night, without a luminescent moon to guide him. He is that familiar with his range. Clem dug the small bush up with his work-hardened, calloused hands, and carefully brought it back to the cow-spattered pick-up truck, because he had, "Just the spot for it at the house."

As we sat there in the glow of a mid-summer night's dream, watching and waiting for the "blooming", Grandpa pointed out how the white evening primrose, when in bloom, has a few large flowers, three inches or more across, with pure-white diaphanous petals, fading to pink, and pink calyx-lobes. The buds are erect, hairy and pink, and the flowers spring from a cluster of long, downy root-leaves, narrowing to slender leaf-stalks, with hairs on the veins and on the toothed and jagged margins and almost no flower-stalk. The hairy calyx-tube is so long, sometimes as much as seven inches, that it looks like a stalk. The root is thick and woody, and the capsule is egg-shaped and ribbed, with no stem. "Alrighty then," I said, my narrow mind shutting down from information overload. "When is this thingy going to join the party?" I asked. "Soon," said Grandpa Clem expectantly.

To tell the truth, I don't have the patience of Job as does my father-in-law. I am more like the vulture depicted in that famous cartoon; the one that characterizes two gaunt and hunger-challenged vultures sitting in a twisted, lifeless cedar tree alongside a deserted strip of desert byway. The buzzards are resting there with the relentless sun beating down on their bald crowns and beaks, looking more than pitiful, when one of the hapless vultures turns to his more laid back acquaintance and says; "Patience my apple, I am going to kill something!" That is the point of space and time I was arriving at when Laurie and her mother brought out some of Grandma Washburn's famous homemade cherry pie with the incredibly flaky crust. On top was a scoop of vanilla ice cream, which was accompanied by an ice cold aluminum tumbler full of fresh milk. "That's what I'm talkin' about!" Laurie and Grandma joined the audience and, if I remember correctly, our three kids were enticed out as well. As we sat there feasting on the finer things in life, one of those blossoms slowly unfurled and graced us with its precious presence. Before we finished the pie ala mode, two more blossoms slowly unfurled and exposed themselves to our wondering eyes. Between the colorful glow of the setting sun, the warm embrace of the mountain and the genuinely enjoyable company, the pie and the evening primrose, this particular evening was one of the most precious memories gifted me by this thoughtful, considerate and compassionate man. A little sugar and spice and a whole lotta nice makes for great memories. The simple pleasures of life are, by far, the dearest and most cherished.

This week Grandpa Clem's mortal body failed him and an extraordinary spirit took flight into the realm of the heavens. I am sure my dear father-in-law is up there wandering around, gathering and surrounding himself with the simple and most wondrous pleasures of the sky world. Grandpa Clem would be the first to point out that he was not a perfect human being. In my experience, however, he was a man well loved and respected by his family, friends and surrounding communities. Clem was a man of substance, a man of honor and mostly a man of deep and abiding love that reached far beyond his immediate aura. I will greatly miss watching the evening primrose bloom with Grandpa Clem.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

My Maple Tree

2010-10-29T14:06:00.006-06:00

We would like to introduce the newest contributing member of the Tied To The Post writing team. McKale Simpson has been a Trader in Training for several years and has reluctantly agreed to lend a story she produced in her Honors English class. Instead of reading the missives of two old crusties we offer-up a fresh face and attitude. We hope you enjoy McKale's personal narrative as much as we do.

I curl up on my couch, trying to ignore the roar of the chain saw in my front yard. I bury myself in my book, desperately attempting to escape into the story that no matter how hard I try, I can’t interest myself in. “Ugh.” I groan and stand up, stretching my legs and hearing my hip joints pop. I slowly amble into the gloomy and dark kitchen, where my mom stands gazing out the window with tears pooling in her eyes. I rest my elbows on the cool, black countertop that chills my skin and makes goose bumps appear on my forearms. I can see the reflection of the gray clouds in the countertop, realizing that they mirror my mood exactly. I resign to watch them chopping at my tree and soon taste droplets of salt water on my lips. I didn’t realize I was crying until now. I know my older sister, Alyssa, and my dad probably think that we are being silly. Maybe we are, but I don’t care right now. All I want is for them to stop.

McKale Simpson

As I witness the bare branches slapping then rebounding off of the ground, I am wrenched back to when I was five years old. It’s a bright and sunny afternoon and I can see my eleven year-old brother, Spenser, sitting in the fork of my maple tree. He’s laughing gleefully and shouts, “Mom! Look how high I am!” My mom softly shouts back, “Wow Spenser! Be careful!” I can see the grin stretched ear to ear across his face; you can practically feel the pride radiating off of him. I turn my head to look at my sister’s jealous face. “Mo-om. I’m nine years old and I want to climb the tree, too!” My mom turns to her with a genuinely sympathetic look on her face. “Both of you can’t fit in the tree at the same time. As soon as Spenser get’s down, it’s your turn. OK?” Alyssa’s lips pucker and her forehead wrinkles, making her eyebrows almost meet as her facial expression turns from a questioning look into a scowl. “Fine,” she huffs, and folds her arms into a tight pretzel. Soon, Spenser descends the ladder, and Alyssa skips to the trunk and begins to climb with the help of my father. She sits in the maple, shouting, “Ohmagosh! It is soooo cool up here!” As she steps down the rungs a couple of minutes later my dad asks, “McKale, do you wanna climb up?” My eyes pop and I look up at my mom to confirm that I really am allowed. She nods her head with an affirmative smile and I scamper over to my dad, who chuckles at the look of thrill on my face. I slowly put one foot on a rung, then the next, still having trouble believing that I am actually permitted to sit in my maple tree. When I get to the top, I plop down in the wide fork and gape at the view before me. “Whoa,” I whisper. I can see everything from here! All too soon my parents are telling me it’s time to get down. I slowly descend and look up at my maple, wishing I could stay up there forever.

Now it’s the Fourth of July and the parade is about to begin. I can see the Honor Guard beginning to march down the hill and I hurry to find a shady spot beneath my tree. I sit beneath a low hanging branch where I can touch the leaves that are the size of my hand. Out of the corner of my eye I realize that everyone else is standing, so I hop up and place my right hand over my heart. As the soldiers pass, I hear my grandma sigh and say, “It is so hot out today.” She begins to fan herself and declares, “I’m glad we have the tree to sit under,” and takes a seat. I notice my cousin heading over to me with a smile and he questions, “Why don’t you come down and watch the parade with us on the street?” I shrug and say, “I dunno. I guess cuz I don’t have a bag to put my candy in,” but I know this isn’t the real reason. I could simply run inside and pull one out of the drawer by the sink. Ever since I turned twelve, I don’t particularly care about the candy anymore. What I really want is to just sit in the shade under my maple and watch the parade. “Oh!” he replies, grinning, “I have an extra one right here!” He pulls a grocery bag out of his back pocket. “Gree-aat!” I utter with a forced smile, and we saunter down the driveway to the curb where the rest of my younger cousins are sitting. I love my cousins, but it is blistering hot and I would just like to park myself under my tree and sip the delectable raspberry lemonade that my dad made this morning. After about 15 floats, I’ve had enough of sitting on the curb and slip off while my cousins are battling it out for candy on the asphalt. I pour myself a cup of the lemonade, find my nice, shady spot and plunk into the lush grass. I tilt my head back and observe the small, red-breasted robin that flits from branch to branch. My cat is attempting to catch the little bird, but failing miserably. I notice a rather large lady bug with seven spots that is climbing up one of the huge leaves toward a teeny, neon green aphid. I know that I should want to sit with my cousins, but sitting here beneath my tree, I am content.

“AlYsssssaaaaa.” I have been trying to get my eleven-year-old sister to come out and play with me for ages. There is this huge pile of leaves sitting in our front yard beneath my bare maple tree, just beckoning for us to jump in it. “Well, I don’t really have time to play with a little third grader,” she chides while rolling her eyes, “but I guess I could spare a couple minutes.” She says this as if she is doing me a favor, but I know she is just as excited as I am. My suspicions are confirmed as we dash out the front door and belly flop into the orange and yellow mountain. “Hey!” she hollers, “I have an idea! Let’s find a ball, throw it into the pile and try to find it! Whoever finds it first wins!” “OK!” I enthusiastically agree, because this sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day. We sprint to the garage and discover a dark blue rubber ball. We rush back to the front yard and fling the ball into the mound. We look at each other with smiles and a glint in our eyes and hurl ourselves into the heap of leaves. We giggle hysterically because this is the most fun we’ve ever had. After a couple minutes, Alyssa surfaces with the blue ball in her hand with a wide, toothy grin. “Do it again! Do it again!” I holler. “I’m gonna find it this time!” We have decided that it’s only fair if we close our eyes, so we don’t know where the ball goes. We stand back, both pretending to close our eyes tight and toss the ball into the pile. I dive in and after a few moments, feel my hand close around the hard rubber. Victory! After multiple rematches of this game, we hear our mom call, “Come inside girls! You’re gonna freeze out there!” Alyssa and I look at each other with a pout, but obediently run to the porch. We shake out our shirts that were filled with leaves as we walk up the steps and in the door. We stand in the kitchen with red cheeks and runny noses, but we don’t care. We just had the time of our lives beneath my maple tree.

The growl of the chainsaw jerks me back to the present. I witness the tears streaming down my mom’s face and when I look out the window to my maple tree, I understand why. All the branches, all the limbs, are cut off and they are hacking my tree completely down. I hear one last roar of the chainsaw and the trunk falls in slow motion. My maple collapses to the ground. It feels as if the reverberation goes through my entire body, but I know this is impossible. I realize I am crying freely now, but I honestly don’t care who sees. I hate these people. “No, no you don’t,” I tell myself. I understand that it is not their fault my tree died, and they are just doing their job. They can hack my maple tree down, but they can’t take away my precious memories.

With Warm Regards,
McKale, Barry, Steve and the Team.

"Huntin' on high"

2010-10-22T14:46:00.003-06:00

I wrapped my left leg around the top of the tree, cautiously leaned back into the sling and brought the rifle to my shoulder. Bracing the long gun against the roughly textured tree trunk and my forearm I tipped the barrel downward in the direction of the oncoming deer and leaned my head forward, in line with the scope. My right foot was uncomfortably jammed into the crotch of a small limb and was bearing most of my body weight. As I tried to squirm and twist my frame into proper shooting alignment and brought more weight to bear upon that thin leather strap, I became exquisitely aware of the fifty some odd foot drop below me. I knew if the sling did not hold I would go bee-bopping down that big old tree like a steelie in a pin ball machine. The thought reminded me of the age old philosophical riddle; "If a man falls out of a tree in a forest and no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound?" Or something like that. My guess was, yes, he did!

Navajo Deer Carving

The day started out invigoratingly crisp and clean in the high country. It was early morning, opening day of the Deer Hunt, October 1988. I was hunting deep in the oak brush on my in-law's property located on the east facing slope of Blue Mountain, overlooking the small, quaint town of Monticello. I attempted to creep through the Oak brush which was as thick as bristle on a bear's backside and the fallen leaves underfoot crunched like corn flakes on concrete. It did not take long to realize that I was not going to sneak up on any self respecting buckskin in this stuff, much less get off a shot. The age-old Navajo and Ute people that once hunted these same slopes would have certainly laughed out loud at my less-than-skilled attempt at sneaking through the thicket. I finally broke free of heavy cover and came upon a giant Pine tree rising majestically above the surrounding chokebrush. As I stood there in the shade of the tall timber, I looked up and realized that this tree rose head and shoulders above the surrounding brush pile. I reached up and barely touched the first limb protruding from the massive trunk. "Humph!" I thought to myself. If I could get a leg up on that first branch, I might be able to climb higher and obtain a bird's eye view of the surrounding landscape.

Years ago a friend of mine clued me into using a military-like sling on my hunting rifles. This type of strap is heavy, well made and amply adjustable and was about to come in very handy. I adjusted the sling so my Sako .243 rifle would fit over my head and shoulders with the barrel pointing down so as not to get debris in it. I jumped up and grabbed ahold of that first limb and walked my feet up the trunk until I could wrap my legs around the eight to ten inch limb. With much effort I flipped myself over onto the top of the branch and sat upright. Leaning back against the massive trunk I looked up into the extending branches loaded with Pine boughs and said to myself: "Only forty feet to go." I soon discovered that climbing a Pine tree is no easy task, especially when fully outfitted with hunting gear. About half way up, because I was sweating from the labor of the climb, I straddled another limb and stripped off my heavy coat. After replacing my orange vest over a thinner sweatshirt I readjusted my rifle, left my fanny pack hanging there with the coat and continued the climb. When I finally emerged through the Pine needles at the top of the tree, I was puffing like a freight train and was certain the entire country side had been alerted to my presence.

The view from up in that tree was impressive. I was exhilarated by the lofty perch and felt all too precarious dangling there by my fingers and toes. The last four feet of the tree was bare and ended in a three prong forked-like protrusion. I climbed up until the crown of my head was even with the top of the tree. Wriggling free of my rifle, I winced when I saw fresh scratches in the stock. Oh well, I had planned on refinishing the walnut stock anyway, this would force me to do so sooner than later. I unclipped and removed the sling from my rifle, carefully wedged the gun in the fork overhead and extended the sling to its longest available length. I then wrapped the sling around the narrow tree top, then my waist, and used the clips to connect the ends. I was now securely attached to the tree and good to go. Good to go unless the top of the tree decided to let go and send me plummeting back to earth! At this point I was too invigorated to worry, and too foolish to care. It seemed I could see every opening and trail in the Oak brush from my new vantage point.

I must have hung from the top of that tree for an hour or more before I saw any sign of life. At some point nature must have forgotten my rude intrusion and the natural world regained her stride. Soon thereafter I witnessed three magnificent Tom Turkeys promenading about a small clearing no further than 70 yards away. At another point a group of five does and fawns gathered at the base of my tree and played a game of "kick-box" for ten to fifteen minutes before they moved off totally unaware of my towering presence. After a couple of hours dangling from the top of that tree I was starting to get numb from "clinging to the vine." I was considering working my way back down when movement from a small hill about 150 yards to the North caught my eye. Looking closer I realized two very nice bucks were slowly and quietly making their way directly towards my roost. The lead buck was a heavy three pointer, the second a small two point. I could smell buck on the barbie as I watched them move in. It was at this point I wrapped my left leg around the top of the tree and prepared to bring in the bacon.

As I peered through my scope and found the lead deer I recalled a lesson in ballistics and figured that when I pulled the trigger, from such a high and radical angle, that my aim would need be lower than expected. By now the deer were within fifty yards and clearly visible through the branches so I aimed right at the base of the buck's chest and slowly squeezed the trigger. The kick of the rifle nearly dislodged me from my perch. It took me a moment to regain stable footing and relocate my prey. Surprisingly, both bucks were still standing there, frozen in time and place. They couldn't see me. Because of the ridiculous angle of trajectory I figured I had over-shot my mark. The deer still had no idea where the shot came from, thus their indecision. I was feeling lucky. As quietly as I could I re-chambered another round and lowered my aim to six inches below the bigger buck's breast bone. I squeezed off another round and missed again. Dang! and double dog dang! I cussed inwardly. Both bucks were still rooted in place, hunkered-up and looking around wildly for somewhere to disappear. They could not, would not, make an educated exit strategy because they had no idea where the shots were coming from. I chambered another round and aimed at the buck's feet, said a silent prayer to the hunting gods and squeezed off another round. Between the point of aim and the point of impact that bullet climbed over two feet in fifty yards before it found its mark. I had bagged my buck. The smaller buck was still confused but when he saw his comrade fall he exited, stage left and smashed into a wall of Oak brush, plowing his way out of there leaving a new and disheveled trail in his wake. Me? Well I hugged the tree until my breathing slowed and I became a lot less excited. I made sure my deer was down for good, re-slung my rifle and began the slow meticulous descent to the forest floor.

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve and the Team.

Lint

2010-10-15T13:37:00.003-06:00

Of all the cartoons I have seen over the years, only a few have stayed with me. I have a devil of a time remembering jokes, so it should come as no surprise that I also struggle to recall the details of Sunday morning comics. I can remember characters just fine, but when it comes to the story line I am always at a loss.

Lizard and Coyote Carving

Most prominent of the few cartoons I have seen is a Beetle Bailey series I read in the Sacramento Bee probably three decades ago. It involved Sergeant Snorkel deciding to lose weight. As I recollect, the panels show Snorkel getting a haircut, taking a shower, cleaning behind his ears and, lastly, cleaning the lint from his bellybutton. At the conclusion of the process, he stepped on the scales and was pleased to discover a few pounds had indeed been shed. Over the years I have tried the sergeant's technique, but never with any success; the pounds simply stay put.

For some reason lint has also stayed with me, and from that time forward I have been obsessed with “getting the lint out.” In fact, lint has become a metaphor for me letting things languish longer than reasonably necessary. It is a sign that I am not doing what I should and that I have become lazy and complacent. So, I search for it everywhere; in my trousers, under the bed, behind my ears, in the toes of my socks and, yes, even in my navel.

If the trading post has taught me anything, it is that in Navajo culture there is a story or legend for almost everything. From the male-female dichotomy to Coyote, Horned Toad and Monster Slayer, the tales are deep and fascinating. Until recently, however, I have never heard Navajo people talk about their experiences with lint. It may be that the red sand of the Northern Navajo Reservation does not allow for the accumulation of this material. Or, it may be that the Navajo, like me, are ashamed when their pockets and stockings fill up with these fibers.

In my quest to determine whether there is actually a Navajo tradition relating to lint, I have spoken with many a medicine man. When I say I am interested in the issue, they shake their heads and, as John Lennon said, “look at me kinda’ strange.” “Surely you can’t be serious,” they say. “Indeed I am,” I respond. That only makes things worse.

After years of investigating this mystery, last week I finally asked Priscilla if she had any insight into the issue. She cocked her head to one side, reached into her shirt pocket, tugged out a few clumps and said, “This?” “Yes,” I almost shouted, “exactly.” At that point she related the following story:

When the earth was new, the Holy Ones created Coyote to be a leader among the people. They invested him with may unusual characteristics to distinguish him from others; a lush coat to set him apart from the ordinary animals, wondrous eyes that could see far and wide and a quick mind with which to make responsible decisions.

Coyote, however, elected to disregard his responsibilities, choosing instead to gamble, carouse, stay in bed until late into the morning, neglect his corn fields and create chaos. As a result, Coyote lost his beautiful eyes to the sparrows, his mind became dull from too much cactus wine and his lustrous fur became coarse and matted.

The Holy Ones, noticing Coyote’s failings, decided to take action. “Brother Coyote” they called to him. “Yes,” he drowsily responded, waking from his afternoon siesta. “You have been idle and sloppy,” they informed him. “We therefore must give you something to remind you of your duties. From this day forward, if you neglect your responsibilities, you will accumulate lint,” they continued. “Lint?” he asked and promptly fell back into a deep slumber. The Holy Ones hung their heads in shame and left Coyote snoring under a cottonwood tree.

Later that afternoon, Coyote awoke to see Brother Squirrel and Sister Prairie Dog gazing upon him. “You look like a porcupine,” said Brother Squirrel. “You look like a giant wooly caterpillar,” said Sister Prairie Dog. Coyote yawned, stretched his long legs and shook himself. Lint flew in every direction; north, south, east and west.

Coyote, however, did not mend his ways. He continued to bet at the shoe games, distill beer in his bathtub, skip chapter meetings and associate with loose women. So, the lint continued to accumulate, until dust bunnies began to overtake the land, to choke the rivers and to drown the vegetable patches.

In a panic Coyote sent a smoke signal to Grandmother Spider, who promptly came to visit. “Shicheii, my grandson,” she said, “I can hardly tell who you are.” “Grandmother,” Coyote said in a distressed voice, “These fibers are destroying my life!” “I will help, I know what to do,” said the spider, and she immediately began to gather the lint. Once that was done, she spun the fibers into slender strands and wove the strands into a large, beautiful rug with many zig zags and a detailed boarder. She then rolled the weaving, slug it over her shoulder and took it to the trading post to sell.

And that, as they say, is how lint came to the people and Navajo rugs came to the trading post. The moral of this story is, “If the Holy Ones give you lint, weave rugs.”

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.

Mountain Musings

2010-10-08T16:24:00.005-06:00

The frizzy gray squirrel sat high upon the roadside rock and did his best to shun the steady stream of traffic through his chosen territory. A small flock of Marion turkey fussed and scratched for hidden seeds and bugs further back in the oak brush and a group of mule deer does and fawns fed nonchalantly in the nearby meadow. The seasons "coat of many colors" added an appealing backdrop to the picture postcard scene as we drove the mountain road, greatly appreciating the natural world just outside Grandma and Grandpa Washburn's back door.

Last Sunday, Laurie, McKale and I took a ride up the side of Blue Mountain, just outside of Monticello. We had recently dropped Alyssa off at the Shell station for her return trip to college with the Acton girls. It is always a sad event for Laurie and me to see one of our children disappear into the distance one more time. We knew it was for the best, but the tears still flowed and disappointment disrupted. If I were to succumb to my more selfish nature, I would keep my children near to me for all time. I, however, realize they must experience the world on their own terms. To "go forth and prosper" as it were, to stimulate their minds in an attempt to gain the knowledge and understanding only the chaos of campus life can provide. Life away from the sanctuary of Mom and Dad provides many lessons parents cannot express; ones that must be individually experienced to be fully appreciated.

To help alleviate, or perhaps soften the emotional impact, we decided to drive "high upon the mountain" and seek solace closer to the spiritual realm. The vistas from up there are magnificent, and the animal life more easily accessible. In times like these, songs the likes of Go Rest High on that Mountain by crooner Vince Gill and the more recent tune from teen sensation Miley Cyrus, The Climb (The only song I recognize by Hannah Montana, I swear!) come to mind. McKale brought along her camera. Occasionally she hopped out of the van with her Nikon and went high-stepping through the underbrush in her flip flops; moving in the direction of one critter or another in an attempt to capture them digitally. Often she would stop in her tracks, back-up a fraction, re-evaluate a particular scene, then frame a shot that captured her imagination. It was fun to watch the artist in her at work.

As I watched my youngest daughter frolic through the forest I felt the stress of cutting Alyssa's parental tether dissipate like mountain mist after the sunrise. I began to focus on the animals and their Navajo mythological interpretations. The animals themselves became relative to our situation. The squirrel is believed to be a seeker of awareness and understanding. The little guy on the rock was speaking to me, letting me know that to ferret out knowledge was essential to the development and future of our children. Turkey effects the world in a positive manner because of his foresight, generosity and gathering tendencies. Lessons learned from supernatural sources eventually helped this seemingly lowly creature lead the people to higher levels of consciousness and save the world from famine. The deer are sacred beings to be honored and respected, not only for the sustenance they provide, but for sacred ceremony as well. The Yei or Holy People used sacred buckskin and corn to create the people in their image. Symbols of creation, upward movement, education and continuation stood before me in their most unhindered and free living form.

As Laurie, McKale and I drove down the mountain I felt a little better about sending Alyssa off to school. Being without her beautiful, smiling face and captivating personality would be a struggle for us, as being away from home would be for her. Everyone's first venture into the unknown is frightening and emotional, but others have survived it as will we. In our modern age of cell phones, text messaging, Facebook, Skype and whatever else is just over the verizon, I think we will survive. Even without all that, there are still motor cars and personal visits. There is nothing more important than family-friendly visits and plenty of hugs.

With Warm Regards,
Barry, Steve the Team.

Our Children Don't Care About Our Stuff

2010-10-01T13:40:00.005-06:00

One of the images that has indelibly etched itself into my mind over the past 20 years is that of an old Woodie station wagon parked alongside a dirt back road leading to Shiprock, New Mexico. The doors of the vehicle are flung open and the passenger compartment empty. From the picture it is impossible to tell whether the car has stalled or if its occupants were so stunned by the natural beauty of that stark geography that they spontaneously bailed out in order to capture the moment on film.

In the early part of the 20th Century, it was common for those living in the Midwest or East to hire a car such as that and tour the rugged, undeveloped Southwest. Along the way the travelers might stop and buy an Acoma pot, a Navajo weaving, an Apache basket or any one of a variety of cultural curiosities. Once home, these items would be strategically placed in their residence to let others know the occupants of the house had satisfactorily completed the classic Southwestern tour.

In most cases, these artistic creations acquired from Native tribesmen were both beautiful to look at and fond reminders of an important time in the lives of the travelers. Not only had the voyagers persevered in difficult terrain, they had met the Natives face-to-face and experienced ancient cultures that were rapidly receding.

As the 1940s turned into the 50s, 60s, 70s and eventually the new millennium, these adventuresome newlyweds became mom and dad, and all too soon grandma and grandpa. When retirement rolled around, the happy couple began thinking about moving into a smaller, more manageable living arrangement, and also started wondering what to do with the tangible reminders of their early years together.

All too often Barry and I meet these individuals as they retrace their footsteps from distant decades and wonder, “What do we do with all the things we acquired?” The easy answer is, “Bring it in.” Barry and I are happy to help find new homes for their art. In some cases we even keep a piece or two for our own collections. The more difficult answer is, however, actually a question, “Why don’t your children want it?” There never seems to be a satisfactory answer.

My suspicion is that, like the numerous tribes of Native America, we with paler faces are also failing to adequately invest our children and grandchildren with the stories of our past. We are not passing on the wonder and romance that caused us to acquire these items initially and to love them for so many years thereafter. To me it seems we have an obligation to teach our descendants about our history, to give them the opportunity to understand our experience and to learn from what we have seen.

Earlier today, I spoke with a woman who told me she had inherited two “beautiful Navajo rugs” from her mother. She thought her father had brought them into the marriage, but since both mom and dad were long gone, there was no sure way to know. She said she had photographs of her as a baby playing on the rugs, but she knew nothing about their origin. “What a pity,” she said, “my kids don’t know anything about these weavings. They probably don’t even care.”

In many cases these items define who we are and where we were at a particular stage of development. Those are not just black pots, they are a reminder of what was important to us at the time, our economic status and what was happening during that phase of our lives. That is not just a Navajo rug, it is an indication of the fondness our parents had for each other; a memory aid. Just another basket? No, that might be a representation of our support for a particular artist or artistic movement. An undistinguished piece of jewelry? Well, maybe it is all that is left of a particularly romantic evening all those years ago.

If our children do not care about the items we have collected over the course of our lifetimes, then we have failed them; failed to communicate our passions, failed to communicate our histories and failed to invest those children with that part of ourselves that lives on when we do not.

What do we do with these things our children care nothing about? How about using them to help our descendants understand more about who you were, who you are and who you may become. Then those items will have true value, and we will no longer have to ask ourselves what to do with our collections at the end of our lives.

With Warm Regards,
Steve, Barry and the Team.