Clouds

Driving down the narrow strip of asphalt connecting the small southern Utah towns of Blanding and Bluff each morning provides me a window onto Nature's most intimate secrets, which are revealed in scenes of unimaginable beauty. Her earthy vistas and passionate splashes of light on stark, singular formations delight the eye and make my heart race.

Driving home after a day in the trading post, I have seen cloud formations ripple across the evening sky, lit by a blood red sun that ignites the evening and showers the landscape with light that splinters my emotions and inspires my imagination. There is a special corner of my mind that holds memories of lazy clouds easing through intensely blue summer days; high-riding formations of white feathers that stand in direct contrast to their sapphire canopy.

I have often wondered why clouds are so common in Native American art. Rugs, baskets, pottery and jewelry frequently feature representations of clouds and cloud people. I feel a certain magic when an artist brings his or her work into the store and it is adorned with elaborate, geometric sky symbols.

My curiosity is insatiable when it comes to Navajo culture, and I am in constant search for subtle tidbits of mythical information concerning the natural world, always hoping for deeper insight. There is much to learn here at the trading post, and probing artists for explanations about the symbols used in their creations is one way I scratch my persistent itch for further knowledge.

Many artists must wonder at my continuing lack of understanding, and tire of my incessant questions. Every once in a while, however, an individual well versed in Navajo legends crosses my path. When that happens, I am grateful for their patience and willingness to help expand my understanding. As we talk, the heavens open, light shines down on me with blinding clarity and I experience the same sense of satisfaction I feel while watching the morning light break across nature's geologic treasures.

From our Navajo friends, I have learned that clouds are blessings from supernatural benefactors, who scatter them about the sky in an effort to moisturize and re-energize thirsty land and tired souls. Clouds represent symbols of fruition, generous hydration and blessings given to the desert people. Through the patiently observant eyes of Navajo artists, much is seen that may not be obvious to the rest of us, and these observations are translated through their creations.

Clouds remind us that there are higher levels of achievement and understanding available to mortals which are often unrealized; that there are visions, intangible objects and forms that cannot be touched or felt, they must be experienced deep inside the body. By closely watching and thoughtfully pondering these subtle symbols, the veil of ignorance is cast aside, and we are inspired to open ourselves to new possibilities.

On a recent morning, I was focused on the warm air emanating from my truck's heating system as I approached the downward descent of White Mesa Hill. It was cold outside, the sunlight bright and crystal clear, as most winter days are in San Juan County. As I motored along, anticipating the view from the top of White Mesa, I knew the morning vision would not be disappointing.

Although I expected a beautiful vista, I could not have predicted what unfolded before me. In the valley below, a blanket of fog wrapped around the winter landscape; a shroud of mist covering the low ground and filling the canyons. The vision reminded me of a picture postcard of Lake Powell; with white clouds substituting for the lake's dark blue waters.

The hazy white lather wrapped itself around mesas and boulder strewn hillsides, turning them into floating islands. As I descended into this land of mystery, I noticed the sparse plant life covered in crystalline droplets. Sunlight filtered through the mist, backlighting the sagebrush and juniper trees, making the water crystals sparkle like diamonds.

As I drove deeper into the fog, I had the sensation of floating through the swirling mist and filtered sunlight; as if I had entered a bubble. I viewed the outside world through an opaque, slightly smudged portal. The experience was sensuous, surreal and spiritual all at the same time, like a moment shared with the most intimate partner.

As I grow older, I have realized that such moments of discovery, happiness and pleasure are extremely rare, and transcendent. Clouds affect me in strange ways. Those instances that sneak up and surprise me with their inexplicable beauty are sublime. May we always remain open to the world of mystery and imagination; the world of clouds.

Sincerely,
Barry

Dedicated to Spenser

As I began my Sunday morning run earlier this week, my body felt
extremely sluggish, and I wondered whether I would make it a mile
before giving out. To get my mind off the fatigue, I began considering
the conversations Barry and I have had about Spenser's rehabilitation.
Although things are progressing exceptionally well, this phase of
Spenser's recovery is especially difficult, because he is now fighting
for inches rather than miles.

The thoughts circulating through my head took me back to the first time
I went running after the accident. I needed to clear the cobwebs, and
thought a good workout might do the trick. Spenser's fate was still
very much in doubt, and I was feeling frustrated, agitated and
distressed about not being able to help him. As I doubled back for my
return trip, I realized there was one thing I hadn't tried; I had never
offered myself up in return for his survival. So, as the sun broke over
the horizon, I began the process we all go through when one of our
young ones is threatened.

I started with the usual, "Take me and spare him," but quickly realized
I needed to add a few caveats. Things would be a little more difficult
around the store with me gone, so I decided to also ask that Barry's
vision be improved and that he be given the inspiration to continue
writing the weekly trading post tales. I briefly considered requesting
a posthumous Pulitzer Prize, but worried that might be asking a little
too much.

After making my suggestion to the powers that be, I plodded down the
highway, waiting for a lightning bolt from heaven or a runaway truck,
but nothing happened and I arrived home intact. The gods must have
found my overture naive, because they neglected it altogether; without
so much as a counter offer. Spenser was, however, generously granted a
reprieve without any sacrifice from me.

Since that time, I have dedicated my morning runs to Spenser. After
seeing how well prayers worked for him, I began to think I might be
able to create my own positive energy exchange; a running prayer as it
were, channeling strength to Spenser through jogging. As I ran faster
and longer, I imagined Spenser becoming correspondingly quicker and
sturdier. I equated each step of my journey to a step along his
personal path. As I became stronger, I envisioned him becoming more
powerful; each stride bringing him closer to a full recovery.

This process has continued since my initial commitment, so on Sunday
morning I began to move from feeling unsure about my progress to
focusing energy on Spenser. As I passed the two mile marker, I began to
wonder whether I could run the loop from the trading post, past the
mission, to the intersection of the Aneth/Montezuma Creek road and down
Cow Canyon into town; a distance of approximately eight miles. I had
not covered that stretch of pavement for a long time, but Spenser was
inspiring me and I thought it might be possible. The sun was shining,
and the thought of sending some good vibrations his way made my spirit
glow and my legs feel stronger.

When I reached the intersection of the Montezuma Creek road and Highway
163, I knew I had to make a decision. My mind was questioning whether
my body would cooperate. I felt the doubts Spenser must sometimes feel
during his therapy, but decided to push forward. A band of cattle held
their ground on both sides of the road a short distance after I made
the turn and a bull began to paw the ground in a threatening manner.
Once again I thought of Spenser and let out a whooping "haw." The cows
scattered, and I surged ahead, my strength and courage building. At
that moment I knew we would make it all the way.

As I started down Cow Canyon, I envisioned a time in the next several
months when Spenser will have overcome the majority of his obstacles,
and will be on his own downhill run. The valley opened up as I
descended into Bluff, and I spied the Jones farm; the end of my
journey. I knew in spring the alfalfa fields will once again turn
green, and Spenser will have worked through the winter of his
discontent. Right now things are difficult, but soon enough the
accident will be a distant memory.

Just as the miles had passed in spite of my doubts, so shall Spenser's
struggles pass with time and determination. I have realized that in
trying to help him, Spenser has made me stronger and more determined.
That, I believe, is the power of love.

Sincerely,
Steve

Believe You Me!

Tis the season to focus on loved ones; a time to re-establish those relationships so important to a life of harmony and balance. Our trading post tribe appears to be growing larger and more varied with each passing year, and in many ways that branch of the family tree is as important to us as our immediate clan. Many Navajo people have become part of the brood, and, because of the value they place on the family unit, we have learned much about the importance of familial relationships from them.

Our local friends have worked hard to maintain good relations with all of us at the trading post, even though it often seems that doing so might cost them their sanity. In the not too distant past, it was essential for the Navajo people to develop and preserve strong associations with tribal members and with the local trading post operators. Each group provided a different type of security in an extremely difficult environment. By relying upon each other, these people were able to build more safety into an otherwise harsh and unforgiving world.

Life can be just as troublesome and frustrating today as it was 100 years ago. It is therefore still important to build the stability of strong family ties into our daily lives. I recently experienced the sense of well being and emotional security kindred support offers, and it helped prop me up in a time of overwhelming anxiety. That support also gave me the resolve I needed to keep moving forward. Building tradition, trust, affection and a wealth of good memories with family and friends may be the insurance I need to keep this future old geezer out of the rest home.

On school nights, it is a tradition at our home to prepare for bed soon after dusk; a 9:00 p.m. down time is not unusual for us. Because we rise well before dawn, an early retirement time is essential. The problem is that being in bed for my girls, Alyssa and McKale, does not always translate into being asleep.

A few nights ago, McKale was trying to talk me into making up a story for her listening pleasure. I was claiming cranial melt down, and suggested that either she or Alyssa tell me a story. Alyssa came up with the idea of creating a story in the round. She suggested one of us start by forming an idea and creating a paragraph or two. Then the next person would jump in and add his or her two cents. This process is repeated until the story is complete.

The girls created a story about a very large bull elephant with a bad attitude. The elephant lived in the jungle and maintained a private mud wallow; no visitors allowed! As our hero is enjoying a relaxing mineral bath, a laughing hyena with a pink flamingo in his jaws trots by, on his way to a barbecue.

The elephant experiences a moment of pity and rescues the doomed bird. Placing "Pinkie" on his heavily tusked head, our hero belligerently turns to leave. Feeling cheated, the hyena foolishly latches onto the rogue elephant's delicate tail.

As you may guess, a full blown jungle ruckus ensues; vegetation is uprooted, muck and yuck is flying everywhere, and every animal in the neighborhood arrives to participate in the mayhem. There are screams of terror and delight, howls of laughter and pain, and moans of agony and pleasure. The elephant cannot detach the persistent hyena from his hind quarters until the flamingo hollers, "Just sit down"!

The pained pachyderm skids to a halt and plops down on the no longer laughing hyena. As the tremendous pressure peaks, the hyena expels all excess air pressure. This causes a rather unique sound, and when the elephant raises himself the hyena nervously laughs as he attempts to regain his breath. The elephant and the flamingo are humored by the combination of "tunes" escaping from the tortured beast and begin to add to the musical melee.

The other animals become greatly amused and excited by the whole affair, and they add rhythm and melody by banging coconuts, strumming jungle vines and giant spider webs while emitting every guttural sound possible from their underdeveloped vocal cords. Before long there is a full fledged jungle band. The newly formed group decides to take its music on the road, and becomes a huge hit in the "wild kingdom." The whole of the natural world falls in love with them.

I am not sure how well our hyena friend held up to the pressures of stardom but I am guessing that it was a real gas. As the story developed, Alyssa, McKale and I laughed out loud, minimized our parent/child gap and built stronger ties. We also had some plain old-fashioned fun.

We are privileged to work with a number of talented and creative artists here at the trading post. Often we sit together and have discussions concerning creativity, cultural tales and just plain fun ideas. Just as the story my daughters and I came up with got out of hand so, often, do these planning sessions. It is a wild and crazy experience working and living around such relaxed and funny individuals. The fun part is that you never really know what may come of it.

Sincerely,
Barry

One Piece At A Time

My life is defined by a series of mileposts; both physical and mental. As I travel the freeway of life, I am constantly marking my journey by certain monuments and occurrences. As the years pass, certain things stick in my consciousness as indicators of a specific time or event. The mile markers stretch out in a 45 year long chain of events that reminds me where I have been and what I have done.

As mileposts go, one marking 50 years seems extraordinary. Rose and Duke, the collaborative team who, along with Dr. Fallon of the San Juan Hospital, are responsible for bringing me into this world, celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary last weekend; adding another link to their matrimonial chain. As a young man, I remember sitting at a silversmith bench in a back room of the Blue Mountain Trading Post, repairing bent or broken turquoise jewelry and listening to radio commentator Paul Harvey on the local station; KUTA, AM 790, the Voice of the Canyonlands. KUTA, like many things from that era, is long gone. At the time, however, it was one of the only ties I had to the outside world.

Each afternoon, in addition to the daily news, Paul brought us the names of people married 50 years or more. During that phase of my life, I could barely conceive of two people spending that much time together without something going desperately wrong. Whether it be bad tempers, bad health or just bad luck, there seemed far too many things that might get in the way of a couple staying together five decades.

Another milestone that marks that phase of my life is a song by the immortal Johnny Cash entitled One Piece at a Time, which also came to me courtesy of KUTA. In Blanding, Utah, country music was king, and Johnny was the king of country. Cash's song is about a worker who labors many years in a Cadillac factory, and, over the course of his career, carries off enough parts to build a patchwork Caddy.

The construction of this trading post family is a little like the building of that car; we are a collage of parts and pieces collected over the past 50 years. There have been many times a component had to be jettisoned or reworked because it was not adequately aerodynamic, or simply did not fit. Overall, however, Duke and Rose have been able to fashion a workable, although admittedly oddball, vehicle.

When I think of that car Johnny created, I can see a Cadillac with a sporty tail fin on one side and smooth lines on the other, different colored seats front and back, windows that leak air because the seals do not match the glass, a combination of white and black wall tires of varying sizes, a mosaic of exterior colors, and an engine that chugs out more than a little black smoke.

The car of my imagination is very much like this family, which has many disparate parts, leaks hot air and often emits embarrassing sounds. We have also frequently been accused of not firing on all cylinders and having more than a few loose screws. Although we rarely ride around in style the way Johnny did in his car, we do drive everybody wild with our unusual way of doing things. When Duke and Rose began construction of this vehicle, I am sure they never expected it to look like this.

Along the way, Duke has been the engine and Rose generally functioned as the steering mechanism. While Duke worked late nights and early mornings to power the beast, Rose provided the direction we needed to keep us moving forward. I remember a few instances when we veered off the pavement into the bar ditch, but Rose proved an effective navigator, and we all entered adulthood without any missing limbs or felony convictions. There were, however, a few close calls.

As this family chugs into the next half century, hopefully some of the lines can be softened and a catalytic converter installed to neutralize the emissions.

Sincerely,
Steve