Consider the Unexpected

The weather is changing here in Bluff; it is the time of heavy frost in our isolated river valley. The massive, twisted trunks of cottonwood trees ice over, and their upper regions form white, gnarled webs of interwoven branches that probe the slow-moving fog banks. The supporting ranks of tamarisk poke straight up from the frozen red soil like gaunt, frigid warriors.

From time to time, this icy beauty is disturbed by a struggling middle-aged jogger dragging his blossoming backside down a ribbon of asphalt in the early morning hours. Bursts of vapor escape his burning lungs, forming mushroom cloud plumes trailing his tortured pace. Wild deer, turkey and the occasional coyote scatter at the slap of flat feet on pavement and the swish of swollen, velcro-encased thighs.

The identity of this tenacious character has eluded me, butt, I mean but, I admire his fortitude, endurance and strong desire to fight the ravages of time and too many chocolate chip cookies. I am sure the spectacular red rock scenery and clean, crisp autumn air help him maintain his concentrated efforts.

During his morning sojourns, this lonely runner must have realized that a connection with the natural world is required to survive in the great American Southwest. For me, that association with the elements is very appealing, and is a fundamental reason why I choose to live and walk in this invigorating landscape.

Not long ago I found myself sitting in church, trying to find a comfortable position to relieve the pressure on my aching backside. I had begun to believe those benches were meant to remind us that pain and suffering are essential aspects of a spiritual life. On this particular Sunday, I was there because my wife and kids are becoming quite proficient at identifying my numerous shortcomings, which they believe can be effectively corrected through fervent prayer and inspired repentance.

As my oldest and dearest friend made his way to the podium, I straightened my posture and sharpened my attention in anticipation of his speech. Wayne is not actually old; we have just been friends a very long time. Although he has more gray hair than I, he is young at heart and very healthy as a result of the lifestyle he leads. In spite of my sore back, because I know how much Wayne dislikes public speaking, I was enjoying the moment. From the early stages of our relationship, we have both found a perverse pleasure in watching the other suffer through stressful situations.

As Wayne faced the expectant congregation, I could see a nerve twitching near his temple. He swallowed hard, as if forcing down an unwanted portion of aged blue cheese. I imagined him sensing a rise in his internal temperature, and was sure I detected a slight, nervous quiver in his voice. He looked like a cornered raccoon, and I expected him to head for the deep brush any moment.

I watched my friend closely, enjoying his discomfort, and silently evaluating which exit might best facilitate his escape. Much to my chagrin, the exodus never occurred. Wayne dug deep into his core and found the much needed strength to proceed with his assigned task. Before my slightly out of focus eyes, a transformation came over my old buddy.

Wayne's continence changed, and he morphed into someone I had never seen. He stood straight and tall, and, in a clear voice, spoke of finding comfort in conversations with his maker. He said he found those interactions more meaningful and spiritually fulfilling when conducted in the presence of nature. Because of its sincerity and reverence, his talk was truly beautiful.

Through his unrehearsed and heartfelt presentation, I was introduced to Wayne's close relationship with his natural surroundings. He spoke poetically and romantically about spiritual dialogs with his creator. As he continued, a coarsely grained, lichen-encrusted rock came to life, and canyon rims, sapphire blue skies and twisted cedar trees sprang clearly into my mind. The smell of pungent sagebrush and rich earth kicked up by his boots invaded my senses as I imagined his journey.

It was truly inspiring to hear Wayne speak. I saw a completely new facet of his psyche that day. It was like the time my wife sneaked her hand into a hot, comforting shower I was enjoying and cranked on the cold water. The sensation was unexpected, and unexpectedly exhilarating.

With Wayne's help, I rediscovered the relationship among heaven, earth and human beings. The cool blue mountain heights are a refuge for our souls, as are the warm weather worn canyon depths. The rain, wind and sunshine scour clean our minds and rejuvenate our spirit. Each life-giving spring; fertile valley of dark, rich earth; and desert oasis reminds me of creation and continuation. We are in the land, and it is in us. Now I understand why that jogger jogs.

Sincerely,
Barry

Birds of Feather

As I run down the road in the morning, I often marvel at the easy
beauty of this small river valley, and wonder how the natural world
relates to my personal sphere. I am always looking for a message from
the animals, trees, rocks or anything else that may have something to
say. It is probably naive and self-centered to think I can properly
interpret whatever signs there may be, but I can't help trying.

Many years ago, my torts professor, Charles Luther, asked those of us
in his first year class if we thought rocks and trees had rights. At
the time I was confused by the question, and worried it was yet another
trick designed to convince us we did not have the appropriate tools to
master complex legal issues.

As we came to learn, however, Chuck was a dyed-in-the-wool
conservationist, and dead serious. Our love for him brought us a
greater understanding of the wider world, and a closer relationship
with the environment. As a result of his tutelage, I have come to
realize that rocks and trees not only have rights, they have a life
independent of their two-legged cohabitants.

A few weeks ago, I was plodding eastward towards the sunrise when I
spotted a flock of Canada geese descending over the red rock cliffs,
obviously aiming for the sanctuary of the Jones farm. From the way they
were careening from side to side, squawking loudly and incessantly, I
began to think they may have had a hard night of carrying on, and were
trying to get home before sunup. Their tightly defined V had become a
disheveled W as they skittered through the sky on final approach. I
became concerned there may be more than a few injured geese if they
didn't quickly pull themselves together.

By the time I made my way back to the trading post, the geese were
satisfactorily settled, eating alfalfa stubble and strutting around the
hay field. From the looks of things, they had all made the descent
safely. As the vision of their flight over the bluffs replayed in my
mind, I began to think the management of the flock was similar to the
management of the trading post; wild and often out of control.

The following week, I was once again out on my morning run when I
spotted hundreds of blackbirds winging their way from one tree to the
next. Once the flock was settled, one of the birds would become
dissatisfied with its perch for one reason or another and lift off,
unsettling the entire bunch. The birds would then take flight, circle
the adjacent trees and reestablish themselves after a few moments. This
cycle was repeated countless times as I progressed down the highway.

It was at that point I realized the geese and blackbirds were clearly
sending me a message about our trading post management. After
thoroughly analyzing the situation, I became satisfied the birds were
right and determined it was time for a change; things were going to be
different at the store.

This morning, I picked up a copy of a book written by a local author
who had unexpectedly and prematurely passed on. I have been troubled by
her death, because I had let local politics get in the way of knowing
her. She was gone, and I had only now discovered the beauty of her
words. There was much I wanted to say to her that would go unsaid, and
many questions I wanted to ask that would remain unanswered.

As I read her latest book, I realized that she, like Chuck, was
genuinely in touch with the natural world. I am not sure what it was in
her verses that struck me so deeply, but all of the sudden I knew the
birds had not been referring to the trading post management at all;
they were commenting on my life.

I am the one who bounces from side to side as I walk down the hall of
life, scuffling and scraping myself as I go; I am the one who staggers
through life like a drunk who has had too much party and too little
sleep the night before; I am the one who bounces from project to
project, like a stone skipping across the pond, sinking to the depths
only to be dragged back to the surface and cast upon the water again,
the cycle repeating itself endlessly; and I am the one struts around my
hay field honking and carrying on like I know everything and listening
to no one.

Those birds had known all along, and I just didn't see it until now.
There is only one thing to do; tomorrow I am petitioning to join the
flock. If I can only find a way to fly, I will fit right in. I wonder
how it will be living on the farm, and what I will do when the the
weather warms and the geese return to their northern home. I will have
to get a down jacket, some Gortex and start working on my Canadian
visa. After years of searching for a sign, it seems I have finally
found my rightful place in the cosmos, and we birds of a feather will
squawk together.

Sincerely,
Steve

The Trax of My Tears

Lately I have been spending a lot of of time on Salt Lake City's Trax train system. Laurie and I have been blessed with family members who volunteer to spend nights with Spenser, and their help has given us the opportunity to rest in preparation for his daily therapy sessions. This scheduling helps Laurie and me avert the dreaded "hospitalitis" that creeps up on you after too many sleepless nights spent in a hospital room.

In an attempt to divest himself of his parents, Spenser has begun keeping the phone near his bedside. In his hoarse, airy whisper, he pleas for help from his aunts, uncles and older cousins to spell him from mom and dad's obsessive care.

As Spenser's physical abilities have returned, so has his sense of humor. At one point I called him a "knucklehead" because he kept slouching in bed. His occupational therapist had recently lectured us for allowing Spenser to project bad posture. After adjusting hi position for the one hundredth time, I could not hold in the derogatory remark. Spenser looked at me with a sly, lopsided grin and said, "Don't call me a knucklehead; I have a brain. The doctors said they saw it. Maybe you should get a CAT scan, you may be the knucklehead after all." It was at that point I decided to give my sassy son a little more breathing room, and accept more outside help to look after him.

From my sister-in-law's house in Sandy, Primary Children's Hospital is at the other end of the Trax line. At first I whiled away the time by people watching. After a number of "What are you staring at," looks, however, I decided it would be prudent to find a good book to kill time.

One of the Trax stops just happens to be located opposite the Sam Weller book store in downtown Salt Lake City. On a few occasions I allowed myself the pleasure of perusing their extensive antiquarian section. It was there I found a set of bulletins printed by the Museum of Navajo Ceremonial Art of Santa Fe New Mexico in the 1950's. Years ago I read a few of these booklets and found the information they contain interesting and informative. As is common with such rereads, I was amazed at how differently I interpreted the booklets after the many years and countless experiences I have had since I first encountered the pamphlets.

What struck me this time around was how frequently examples of insects and animals were worked into the stories. I know Navajo legends are often portrayed in metaphorical fashion to force the inquisitor to look deeper into the meaning of a particular story. The intensity and effort exerted to understand the story is directly related to the understanding one gains, and the quest becomes very personal. Everyone's quest for knowledge, or journey towards understanding, is quite different.

In the booklets I read how different colored ants were the first recognizable beings; how they single-mindedly worked together to create a suitable environment for their varied society. In doing so, they focused on building a future, and surviving at all odds. The Navajo cultural stories spoke of the mistakes societies make in their struggle to grow and improve. By taking the time to evaluate the consequences of their actions, and learning from their mistakes, the people are able to progress.

One story mentioned Badger, who, with his tenacity and enduring strength, helped the first beings enter the fourth world. This transition into a new world brought a rebirth initiated by adversity and dissension. Anarchy was overcome, and the emergence was achieved, by adopting the strengths and characteristics the animals projected.

There was also a discussion of the Locust, who were able to intercept the assault from upper-world aggressors because of their ability to survive difficult circumstances. Playing prominent roles in the stories are Bighorn Sheep, who dispersed the flood waters with their massive horns, and Coyote, whose overly inquisitive, compulsive and fearless nature initially caused the myriad problems and ultimately lead to their resolution.

I generally first discuss story ideas with Steve before I approach the computer. This process allows me to work out the idea in my mind and side-step quagmires of misinformation. Since my brother was home tending to business, I decided to discuss my ideas with Spenser. He listened intently, inquisitively questioned me about the attributes of individual animals and contemplated my thoughts. I found our conversation thought provoking and stimulating, and realized I had found a new sounding board.

As our discourse wound down, I began feeling good about my story idea, and started working out the details in my mind. Spenser then said," So Dad, if I understand you correctly, the way people act can often be related to certain animals. Right?" "You can say that," I said. "Why do you ask?" "Well" said Spenser with a devious grin, "if that's true, your animal might be something like a crab, a mocking bird or maybe a cranky old bear!" As I boarded the Trax train that night, leaving Spenser in the care of his Aunt Lisa, tears came to my eyes. My boy was going to be okay. His mind is sharp and his wit even sharper, the rest will follow in due time.

Sincerely,
Barry

Under New Management

October has always been my favorite month in this village by the San Juan. The reason may be that October is when I celebrate my birthday and the birthday of my first born, but I think there is more to it than that. The first few years I spent in Bluff were extremely difficult, so I am sure I did not notice the beauty of this small river valley during that time. Once I worked through that chapter of my life, however, I began to notice the changes each season brought and settled on the tenth month as the most remarkable.

October in Bluff brings golden cottonwood leaves and the pure light that makes them shimmer like burnished gold. It also brings the chilly early morning air that makes me feel so alive. I have often sat in my office after a day in the trading post and marveled at the beauty of our October evenings and the inky blackness that creeps in as the sun slips behind Comb Ridge.

A few weeks ago I was thrilling at the October weather as I ran toward the sunrise. It had become a little nippy in the predawn, and I had yet to switch to my winter clothing, so my skin was tingling. The leaves were falling from the trees and skittering across the road in front of me, teasing me to increase my pace.

A few months earlier, one of my running buddies from school mentioned that he had run a six minute mile. Being the competitive type, I strapped on my Timex Ironman and set out to determine just exactly how fast I could jog a mile. My time of eight and a half minutes distressed me greatly. For years I had refused to time my runs, knowing full well that I had become a slug, and not wanting to know just how bad I had slipped. After discovering I had been slipping more than I realized, I considered asking my doctor for a Prozac prescription. Instead, I made up my mind to improve.

Since then I have been working on my speed, and have actually run a mile in six minutes forty-five seconds. Although I have not gotten close to six minutes, I have made some significant strides. On this particular morning, my time had again been under seven minutes, which was my goal for that day, so I was feeling good about things when I arrived at the trading post an hour later. I was sure I was looking younger and fitter than I had in years, and was improving by the minute. I began to think forty year olds had nothing on me; before long I might even look, well, thirty-five.

Then "it" happened; something that has been occurring more and more frequently over the past five years. Now, however, I was faster and leaner than I had been in years, so I was not prepared for what happened that particular morning. It came in the form of a post middle-aged man who walked into the trading post and asked the question I have come to fear: "Is this place under new management?" The first time the query arose, I was completely caught off guard. I patiently explained that my trusty side kick Priscilla and I have actually been at the trading post since it opened in late 1989. My response caused the original inquisitor a great deal of confusion, so he blurted out, "No, that's not possible; there was a much younger man here."

I informed him in no uncertain terms that I was that younger man, and puffed out my chest and hiked up my trousers for emphasis. Still a little uncertain whether I was being 100% honest with him, he said, "Really?" Yes, I assured him that it was indeed me he had seen at the trading post so many years ago. I am sure he realized I had begun to size him up, and thought better of going further with that line of questioning, so he walked out shaking his head. Back at home that night, after hearing my sad tale, my family was extremely supportive; assuring me that I looked better than at least 50% of my contemporaries. Above average, that was the answer I needed.

As this trend continued, I became more and more cautious when someone asked, "How long has this trading post been here?" or "Are you the original owner?" Usually I could head them off, and avoid that blank stare I know is associated with their memories of a younger, more virile trading post operator. I could at least until that particular October morning anyway, when the latest inquisitor repeated the additional comment I had heard only once before; the observation that almost sent me to the plastic surgeon, the Grecian Formula counter and the red Porsche salesman. "Yes," he muttered, "there was a younger man here, and thinner too."

The gentleman was a little startled when I pointed to the door and asked him to escort himself out. Younger and thinner my . . ., well, you know. Priscilla, Natalie and Jason all agree that I look good for a mid-lifer. It is, however, a bit curious that they are most supportive on payday. Maybe my youth really is, as Grange would say, "getting to be gone."

Sincerely,
Steve