Fall Reflections

Fall is a reflective time for me. During this portion of the year, I often find myself contemplating the past; remembering people, places or things that have moved through the rough and unsettled portions of my life. Looking back, I believe I am now more capable of recognizing the facts without getting caught up in the emotions that so often disrupted my logical decision making processes. Like the Star Trek character Spock, because of my human nature, I have absolutely no chance of completely conquering my emotional failings. I have, however, taken the half human, half Vulcan's lead in forever working toward that lofty goal. I am certain that when I have exercised logical action and considered reaction, the road of life I have so casually traveled has proven less rocky.

People often ask what I do with the time I spend driving to and from work each day. I have generally used this spare hour to study creative writing techniques, theology, personal improvement, diverse cultures, science; anything and everything to stimulate my mind and improve my understanding. Some say it has been ineffective. I disagree. During the drives, I have enjoyed good music, cranked up, so I can feel it reverberate through my bones. In my opinion, music is more emotionally enjoyable when it is felt as well as heard. My family has chastised me on a regular basis after they turn the key, only to be blasted by speakers tuned to full throttle. Of course, after so many years of commuting to loud music, I cannot hear their complaints.

In the autumn of the year I refocus. The audio books are shelved and my DVDs go back into the case.' Tis the season for meditation. I learned this habit from the Dalai Lama, and a number of other well informed individuals. I have found that my thought processes are better organized when I take time to reflect. Imagine that! This time of the year is more conducive to contemplation and consideration. It must be the incredible light and vibrant color the season has to offer. It could also be that it is darker for longer periods, and my pace slows both physically and emotionally. I always think better in the dark; fewer visual distractions I guess.

Getting out onto the land itself also aids in improving my mental state. The Navajo people believe Mother Earth is a cognitive being who continually provides for her human inhabitants, and asks nothing in return. Her considered responsibility is love and compassion for all living beings. There is no negativity in Mother Earth, she actually absorbs all dissension, opposition and disagreement; turns it around and reflects only positive energy. Now there is a high ideal to strive for.

I once read an article about a scientist studying the plant and animal life of Madagascar. He commented on how exciting it was to discover so many new species on almost a daily basis. That relatively untouched land was constantly giving up new information. The naturalist vowed to spend his life on the island, because there was no other place on earth so pristine. It makes me wonder how much we have lost due to our ignorance of the natural world, and the human desire to alter it. Mother Nature has much to offer, we need only take the time to hear her voice, having the patience to learn her lessons.

It seems there is so much to discover, and it is all too easy to become apathetic. The lessons the earth, the world and her people have to offer can be truly inspiring. Maybe it takes maturity and seasoning to begin to understand the important questions in life. Like my butcher always says, "Everything is better with age, and a little seasoning." Maybe that is why I have established such a fondness for fall.

It's Difficult to Understand

Late in the afternoon on the type of October day that makes visitors to the trading post ask questions, like, "Is it always this nice here," I stood behind the counter, watching the day fade. Of course, nothing is ever always the same, and in Bluff everything, including the weather, can change on a moment's notice.

These late autumn days make me long to capture a few of them to remind me of fall during the heat of summer or the chill of winter. On this particular afternoon, the golden sunlight streamed through yellow cottonwood leaves and splashed on the ground, creating pools of gold that are worth more to me than any precious metal. The beauty of that light makes my heart beat slower, easier, and at times causes me to feel I am moving in an almost hypnotic state.

As the sunlight dimmed, the smell of some exotic melon began to permeate the store, and I could see people unsuccessfully attempting to identify the aroma as they entered through the Kokopelli doors. A young man in his early twenties strolled in, sporting waist length hair imprisoned by a series of rubber bands and an Australian accent that seemed too forced to be real. "Do you have any knee-high moccasins and bone chokers," he asked. "No, sorry," I answered in a voice so casual that I may have inadvertently notified him that this was not your average knee-high moccasin and bone choker kind of place.

An elderly female couple wandered through, smiling, pointing and complimenting in an extremely friendly fashion. Their senses also worked hard to identify the scent of the melon hidden behind the counter. The melon, along with some blue corn cookies and several chilies had been left with me by Ray Lovato only an hour before. "Grown from my own patch," he proudly declared as he handed over the chilies.

Without telling me the specific variety, Ray had informed me the melon was a highly effective means of attracting the opposite sex. He said one must only eat its fruit and boil the left over rind, placing a little alcohol in the boiling water to enhance the fragrance. Once the rind was completely rendered, he said I should rub it on my face, chest and well, the rest cannot be mentioned in polite company. It was guaranteed to work, he assured me. His teenage daughter blushed and turned away.

After Ray exited the store, a mining economist who had been educating me about existing and extinct turquoise mines; the formation process associated with turquoise, verascite, azurite and malachite; and the production, or lack thereof, of mining regions in Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada, asked, "Has he been drinking?" "No," I explained, "That is just Ray¹s love of the fairer sex on display. Ray gave up drinking decades ago. Now he is addicted to turquoise and memories of his past exploits; maybe even some future adventures if his melon potion works."

The question posed by the economist reminded me just how difficult it is for visitors of this area to understand the local cultures. It also reminded me of a few days ago when two women came striding into the store. "Are you here for the Bluff Arts Festival," I asked. I tried to speak slowly and deliberately, so the name of the event would not sound flatulent. "Yes," they responded. "We were out at the mission for the Spin Off, but there was a live sheep when we arrived that was not alive when we left," they explained with undisguised disgust. The women failed to understand that, on the Navajo Reservation, sheep are considered a gift to the people; an expendable and readily consumable resource.

Later that same evening, Kira'¹s friend, Gabby and I were discussing the slaughter of sheep, when Kira announced that killing sheep was "disgusting." Gabby patiently explained to Kira and Grange how the process was to be managed and described all the delicacies that can be created with sheep intestines, brains and blood. To Gabby, butchering animals for food was as natural as taking ground beef from the freezer. To Kira, the procedure was still foreign, even though she had seen it done in the past.

In our modern world of prepackaged everything, we have moved away from the basic processes of living. Many of our Native American friends, however, still remember. Ray, on the other hand, must have had a memory lapse, because his recipe for love was a complete failure.

Sincerely,

Steve

Teenagers, Coyotes, Chaos and October

Our Navajo and Ute neighbors consider October a crazy, mixed up month. Dealing with Native artists has made me more aware of their customs and beliefs, and I may have unknowingly bought into their philosophy. I often relate those same customs and beliefs to my individual circumstances. Whether or not this is appropriate, I cannot accurately ascertain. What I know for certain is that there are occasions when I take a thought or metaphor from Native American culture and twist, turn and reform it to match my personal view of the world. In the past, I would apologize for this indiscretion, but no more; I have come to realize that it is simply a reflection of who and what I am. It is this reconstruction process that has caused me to associate teenagers with Coyote; the symbol of chaos, order and October.

A full explanation of how I developed my teenager theory would be long, drawn out and complicated. I will instead try to explain it as simply as possible, by introducing Coyote, aka; First Angry. Coyote is one of the most controversial characters in Navajo culture. He is the prince of chaos, and is most notable as a catalyst, transformer, troublemaker, trickster and deity. For example, when First Man was creating the universe, Coyote stole the stars which First Man had carefully laid out and scattered them, willy nilly, across the heavens. From Coyote's chaotic, unruly behavior, however, changes were set in motion that have made life better for all of us.

The foundation of Navajo ritual is harmony and balance. Coyote frequently throws a wrench into that system, allowing chaos to prevail. Coyote is a trickster focused mostly on his own needs. He vacillates between positive and negative actions, and is both sacred and profane. Coyote gives birth to mischief and promise, he is a deceiver, but also a deliverer of good. Through his actions, change becomes possible, and change, through good and bad, brings newness and breaks the normal routine. Coyote chose October, a changeable and uncertain month, to be his own. Whether we officially recognize Coyote tracking through our lives or not, the fact remains that there is a definite connection between this unruly creature and teenagers.

From Coyote's foolishness, mortals gain wisdom and learn what is proper and improper. Coyote, as the harbinger of change, creates new ways of doing things, so that fresh customs, moral codes, ceremonies and designs for living are created. Coyote's selfish acts thus clarify the boundaries of human and animal conduct. Acting as the wise fool, Coyote is able to speak and act as others of the holy pantheon, due to inherent decorum, cannot. His role was, and is, a large one. In the literary sense, he is a court jester and moral commentator. Sound like a teenager to you?

I have made my case and I stand by it. My own teenagers confound, confuse and mess with my concept of reality. If I am the only one who sees a parallel, someone must educate or lock me up in a padded cell. I am passionate about my kids, but I do not claim to understand what goes on in their heads or what comes out of their mouths. For some reason the fall of the year brings the frustration and confusion I feel about teenagers into sharper focus. It must be the association with Coyote and the month of October, because chaos is a year round constant in my life.

Do not get me wrong, I love this time of year. I feel that autumn in Bluff is the most beautiful season. Cooler days accent the fall colors scattered through town and along the river. The soft gentle glow of morning light filtering through plump, billowy clouds, highlight the cliff faces and rock houses with a gentle, rose-tinted blush. Cool nights force us indoors, because our blood has been thinned by the harsh heat of summer Winter is a close second, because it is so mild, and the frost on twisted, skeletal trees surrounded by tendrils of floating fog in the early morning light is crystalline magic.

With all the beauty surrounding me, one might think it would be easy for me to find harmony in my everyday life. To be totally honest, I do for the most part. It is extremely frustrating for me, however, when I cannot openly communicate with my children; the little varmints! I would dearly love to sit down with them and talk about the important issues in their lives, to truly hear what they are saying and advise them in a loving, compassionate manner. My wife thinks it would be much more helpful if I did not try quite so hard. It would also probably be advisable to leave name calling out of my feeble attempts at communication. It is just not easy to talk with teenagers, if I am really fortunate, I get a "yes", "no" or "I don't know" without a snotty look or semi-angry tone of voice.

I will keep trying to communicate, understand their points of view, listen more and talk less. I look forward, however, to the time when the hormones disperse and Coyote relinquishes his hold on my children. When the chaos dissipates and the clouds of confusion lift, I will hopefully begin to comprehend just what the heck has transpired. An elevated level of balance and harmony in our home would be much appreciated by all involved. In spite of these trying circumstances, and the associated chaos, I am very proud of my children and know they are actually great kids; if only because I see how well they treat everyone else!

Sincerely,

Barry

Through the Kokopelli Doors

It was the summer of 1989, and the time had come to carve the trading post doors. A few months earlier I had grown tired of trying to convince the Salt Lake City law firms I would be a good addition to their team and decided to come to Bluff for a little honest construction work. I had traded an air conditioned office in Sacramento for the heat of midsummer Bluff, and the transition had gone smoother than expected. The manual labor was more enjoyable than I anticipated, and I liked feeling that I was helping build something substantial.

A difficult marriage caused me to end my California legal career and return to Utah. I felt the marital union deserved at least one more try, so I gave my notice, packed my things and headed east. Because I did not possess an Ivy League degree, however, the top Salt Lake City firms were not kind to me. As a result, I turned to Bluff as a sanctuary from the disappointment of numerous unproductive interviews. I felt a little time away from the law might clear my head and help me decide what I really wanted to do with my life. Pounding nails, mixing concrete and sanding wood turned out to be extremely therapeutic.

As I stood in the midst of sawdust piles and cast off bits of lumber, Jim Foy, the building contractor, explained how important it was to select the correct symbol for the front doors. I had been gone from southern Utah so long, I had completely lost touch with its culture, and was at a loss what to suggest. After waiting a few days without any constructive input from me, Jim produced a rough pencil sketch of a figure that looked like a combination of insect and vegetable. The body resembled an oval horizontally perched on top of a gourd. Hands and feet protruded from the lower portion of the anthropomorphic figure, a mosquito proboscis projected from its face and a curved horn jutted backwards from the top of its head.

"What the heck is that," I asked. "Kokopelli," Jim proudly proclaimed. I scratched my head, wondering what a Kokopelli might be. Jim did not know exactly how to explain the drawing, but said it had something to do with Anasazi rock art and good fortune. At that point, I felt I could use a little luck and agreed to let him carve the design into the doors. Jim hoisted one of the big laminated doors up onto the saw horses, rolled out his set of chisels and went to work. Under his large, skilled hands, the insect-vegetable image began to emerge from the wood.

At the time, I viewed Kokopelli as nothing more than an artistic feature. After awhile, however, I began to notice more and more people caressing his image as they walked into the trading post. Then, one day, I received a call from a Canadian woman who had been in the store on her recent vacation. She had returned home only to decide she needed a piece of jewelry with the image of Kokopelli engraved, carved or inlayed into it. Conception had been a problem she explained, and something was needed to break the log jam. She believed Kokopelli was the man for the job, so I packaged a set of earrings with his image, including all the appropriate anatomical equipment, into a box and shipped it to her.

Imagine my surprise when a few months later the woman telephoned to excitedly inform me that, after several years of trying to conceive a child, she was indeed pregnant. Kokopelli had worked his magic, she said. At that point, I decided I needed to know more about the character who caused people to caress his carved image and request his intervention in matters of fertility.

What I discovered was a rich, entertaining, multifaceted and sometimes conflicting series of legends about this humped-back flute player that was difficult to categorize. His image is prominently posted on rock art panels throughout the Southwest, and, depending on which story you believe, he is thought to have been a storyteller, teacher, healer, traveler, trader or god of the harvest. Most people, however, focus on his status as a fertility symbol. Some archaeologists with whom I have spoken have indicated the Anasazi welcomed Kokopelli's visits to their small farming villages and believed his presence ensured a good crop. According to Navajo legend, Kokopelli is the bringer of abundant rain and successful plantings, of many types. Legends involving his seduction of young women are many and varied. In spite of that, Kokopelli seems to have maintained positive, productive relations with everybody he encountered.

Not long ago, I was up early looking out over this small river valley from the house above the trading post when I saw a figure walking east along the Historic Loop. The person was hunched over against the early morning chill, and I was reminded of Kokopelli wandering this part of the country thousands of years ago. As it turned out, the individual was Jamie Olson, one of the artists who brings beautiful work to the trading post.

Several years ago, Jamie had come into the store on a late afternoon and asked, "Do you buy from white guys?" After explaining that I did not care whether he was purple, pink or aquamarine, I asked to see his work. At the trading post we focus on the color of the stones and quality of work, not the color of the individual. Among the pieces Jamie spread on the counter was a flute player brooch, featuring a bird perched on the figure¹s shoulder; Kokopelli. Jamie's work was striking, and after a little negotiation, I purchased every piece he had that afternoon. It was the start of a bountiful relationship.

I have no idea whether it is true or not, but I like to think the images Jim placed on the doors during the summer of 1989 have brought us a continuous stream of friends, acquaintances and customers. It is amazing how seemingly inconsequential events can greatly influence your life. Imagine what might have happened had Jim suggested Coyote, the Trickster, for the doors.

Sincerely,

Steve

Post Sunrise Depression

Recently I found myself standing on a small mesa rim overlooking an area of undulating, under-vegetated hillocks that tapered off into the rough and tumble canyon country a few miles below. As I marveled at the scene unfolding within my field of view, a glorious morning sun began its heavenly ascent behind me. The landscape seemed to be moving and shifting right before my eyes. The play of light, shadow and earthy color had a mystical effect on my imagination as I watched the scene evolve on the terrestrial canvas.

I left the house before dawn in order to be on time for one of Steve's early morning strategy sessions. While driving to Bluff, I noticed it had rained on the desert the night before. I rolled down the window and breathed deeply in order to truly appreciate the heightened aroma of the stunted vegetation and rich red earth. About five miles north of Bluff, the sun made its appearance on the eastern horizon. I quickly pulled to the side of the road and stepped out of the car to witness the birth of a new day.

The remaining wisps of storm clouds were being hurried along by an upper air flow unfelt at ground level. The slanted rays of light emitted by the uplifting orb backlit the lofty formations and fired up the surrounding countryside with a soft, rich, golden glow. I glanced off to the west, where the land falls away to Cottonwood Wash and is framed along the skyline by the waves of sandstone making up Comb Ridge, and caught my breath. The entire area seemed to be moving in an extraordinary ebb and flow to which I was totally unaccustomed.

My spirit was drawn towards the spectacle, and I wondered how this occurrence was possible. I came to the tightly stretched range fence bordering the highway and nearly high-centered myself on the prickly barbed wire. I made my way across the saturated sand to the high, rocky point previously mentioned. Focusing on the heavenly phenomenon, I realized the cloud formations were drifting across the face of the Sun, causing shadows to traverse horizontally across the landscape. This, along with the natural contrast of early morning light and shadow, caused a visually intoxicating sensation.

What at one moment was darkened by shadow was, at the next moment standing out in sharp contrast. It was like watching waves roll across the desert. A disconcerting feeling of being out of place and time enveloped my earthly perception. Sandstone, sagebrush and red earth flowed in and out of focus, stimulating my sense of wonder. It was so overwhelming I had to sit down on a large weathered boulder to keep my balance.

It did not take long for the mirage to dissipate into the reality of "post sunrise depression," or "PSD" as I like to refer to it. This is an emotional let-down that affects me to the very core of my being. To my knowledge there is no medication or therapy available that will cure, or even soften, the blow of this mortal encumbrance. I am deeply moved after witnessing a spectacular sunrise or sunset and having to suffer through the realization that it is now gone, only to be found in the confused recesses of my befuddled memory. Bummer Dude!

When I finally arrived at the trading post, I found Steve frustrated with my tardiness. His comment was, "How can we expect our employees to attend these meetings on a regular basis when you are consistently sidetracked by bright, shiny objects and occurrences?" "Good question", said I. "I will try harder, I assure you!" Later that day, Chris Johnson, one of the best Navajo basket weavers ever to walk into the trading post came in with the most spectacular basket I have ever seen, and began to explain its origins to Steve and me.

It seems Chris had arisen early the other morning to welcome the day. He said that he had witnessed the most amazing sunrise he had ever seen. The problem, he said, was that he gets depressed whenever something like that happens and then fades away. The basket was his attempt to keep the image of that wondrous morning light fresh in his memory. I looked at Chris and then Steve, with a smile of satisfaction and said "PSD, there is a cure!"

Sincerely,

Barry

Why Have All the Windmills Died?

The other day a friend called to remind me the Moab Century bicycle tour is coming up in early October. Since I have not been cycling much until this year, I had not considered the possibility of riding in the event. A hundred miles in the saddle can be very hard on your . . . well, you-know. So, before I made the commitment, I spent some time considering whether my old legs were up to the challenge.

Once the decision was made to participate, I knew I had to extend my training rides to ensure successful completion of the tour, so last week I embarked on my first longer ride. I decided the 50 mile loop from Bluff north to the intersection of Highway 262, southeast to Montezuma Creek and back home was the best place to start. Early Sunday morning I strapped on my helmet and shoes and started peddling north up Cow Canyon.

It was a beautiful morning, and the weather was crisp as a soda cracker. Four or five miles after I turned east on Highway 262, I noticed an Adopt-a-Highway sign that said, "In loving memory of S.P. Jones." Old S.P. had been a regular at the trading post in the early days, and it saddened me that he was no longer a trading partner. His was a good family, even though his sons had, on one unfortunate occasion, extended the extremely generous offer of using their newly acquired revolver to embellish me with a few .22 caliber bullet holes. Fortunately their suggestion was quickly withdrawn.

As I peddled east, the purple grass waved in the gentle breeze, reminding me of my step-grandmother, Fern Simpson. Grandma Fern often told us that, as a girl, she had been given the job of delivering messages and doing small errands for Zane Grey, the author of Riders of the Purple Sage. Apparently Zane had lived in Bluff for a short period prior to writing his classic tale, and Fern was his Girl Friday for a time. The purple grasses were loaded with memories from my childhood, which flooded back as fast and furiously as the storm that had struck Southeastern Utah a week earlier.

As I reminisced about my youth, enjoying the sun on my face and bite of the cool air, I began to notice derelict windmills, standing like skeletal sentinels on the landscape. In the past, these windmills had provided water for the residents and livestock of this sparcely populated stretch of land.

Near the first silent windmill stood a group of three mares and a colt. The mares'¹ long, graceful tails gently swished away the ever present pests, but the colt could do little more than thump at the flies in an awkward, uneven rhythm. The windmill's bearings had apparently long ago rusted tight, freezing the blades in place, and ensuring the end of the stream it had previously produced. Soon I noticed another, and then another, and yet another; all had stopped gathering the wind.

Before long I was singing out loud. The song was an odd combination of Peter, Paul and Mary's Where Have All the Flowers Gone? and Bob Dylan's The Times They are A-changin' . As the cows along the roadside headed for the far side of the field, frightened by the megaphone on two wheels singing protest songs from the Sixties, it struck me that the windmills were a metaphor for just how much things had changed in this part of the country since I was a child listening to those tunes.

When we first opened the trading post, our personal windmill developed a steady stream of older, "traditional" Navajo friends and customers. The old people often came into the store to pawn their jewelry, saddles, baskets or guns. All it took for them to walk away with a small loan was their "X" on a half page form. At that time, I often thought I should take the time to photograph them. People like S.P. had real character reflected in their faces and radiating from their personalities. Often we could only communicate using the few Navajo words I knew or the few English words they had learned, but it was enough to get the job done.

The thought of taking the photographs and establishing an archive overwhelmed me and the expense seemed too much to bear, so I never got around to documenting these people I enjoyed so greatly and remember so fondly. Before I knew it S.P. and many of the older people of his generation were gone, and it was too late. The windmill had stopped turning, not for lack of lubrication, but because time had taken its toll on our old friends. On that crisp autumn day, as I peddled south, down Highway 262 towards Montezuma Creek, their memories were blowing in the wind. I began wondering where had all my old friends gone and realized that the times they had a-changed.

Sincerely,

Steve

"Bats"

As young boys in the 1960's, my two brothers and I haunted the flickering street lights of Bluff . With fists full of pea gravel, we attempted to bring down the acrobatically elusive bats which also frequented the lamps after dusk. Drawn by hoards of insects, which were in turn attracted by the weak illumination, the bats demonstrated the efficiency of their highly developed radar with amazing mid-air maneuvers. Darting in from the deep darkness to snag a meal, the bats were often surprised by our unexpected assaults. I recall how easily they avoided our onslaughts, only to disappear into the summer gloom, and also remember our youthful amazement at seeing such effective countermeasures.

I learned a great deal from those creatures of the night; perseverance, caution and the art of disappearing into the shadows when the unexpected occurred. These attributes came in handy when someone's misguided hand-shot shattered a lamp, pelted a nearby car or ignited a rock fight among our spontaneously combustible inner ranks. Later in life, I was introduced to the role of Bat in the Navajo cultural stories, and began to see how it had played a role in my younger days. I feel fairly comfortable relating my story about these winged creatures, because I am certain the statute of limitations has expired on my youthful misconduct.

Back in those days, our parents, frustrated neighbors and the local constable suspected "the Simpson boys" were responsible for many unsolved wrongdoings in our mostly peaceful community. There was often discussion about whether the miscreants needed a little incarceration time to calm their errant ways. There is something about confession that is good for the soul, especially when accountability is no longer an issue. It may have been the bats though, through their unassuming manner, that provided me with direction and turned me from my misguided path.

There are certainly benefits to being brought up in close proximity to the rich and thoughtful culture of the Navajo. In rare instances, a benevolent care-taker like Bat crosses cultural boundaries and takes a needy knucklehead under its leathery wing to educate him to a higher standard. I often wonder if I inadvertently caught the attention of Bat while attempting to bring his family to earth with my hand-held buckshot.

Looking closely at Bat, and his role in Navajo culture, I have learned that certain beings assist the deities, man, and without prejudice, even malcontents. Bat is one creature which bridges the supernatural distance between man and deity, and plays a major role in instruction as a 'mentor'. Mentors can be few and far between, but are invaluable in helping we humans understand how to approach the supernatural hierarchy when aid, protection and lifeways to understanding are required. Bats are connected to darkness, and are therefore considered by the Navajo to be night protectors and highly effective advisors. Bat mentors are often described as being ever-present, and differ from the deities in that they do not require an offering or payment; they volunteer their aid in a selfless manner.

I have known many mentors in my life: diligent, loving parents; patient teachers; reverent spiritual leaders; true friends; outlaw in-laws; an incredibly patient and understanding wife; and maybe even a bat or two. These days, I do my best not to cast stones at individuals or circumstances I do not understand. I am on constant look-out for new positive and imaginative mentors. There is much knowledge to discover, and I look forward to expanding my horizons in as many dimensions as possible.

If you happen to be passing through Bluff and spy a group of renegade kids frolicking under the night lights, scattering rocks in every direction, my advice is to keep your distance. I know for a fact there is a new generation of Simpsons out there, and pea gravel stings, miserably, when it is slung in your direction up close and personal. The pinon nut does not fall far from the tree.

Sincerely,

Barry

The Real Thing

After many years of searching to find my true identity, I have finally realized that one thing I need in my life is texture. I am like a small child who has to explore everything by touching it, smelling it and occasionally even putting it in my mouth. At the trading post, I am constantly running my hand over the rugs hanging on the walls. I close my eyes, walk down the hall leading to the back door and let my fingers wander across the fibers, feeling pattern changes, exploring irregularities and imagining the weaver manipulating the wool.

I love picking up baskets to feel the roundness of their coils and the firmness of their weave. At times, it almost seems that my fingertips can decipher the pattern without help from my eyes. I can visualize the basket makers out in the washes, harvesting sumac, see the artists preparing and dying the splints and imagine the evolving design spiraling out from the center opening.

Turquoise also fascinates me, I enjoy the coolness of the stones on warm summer days. As the temperatures soar, the stones remain temperate; soothing. With the swamp cooler struggling to alleviate the heat inside the trading post, I often rub the pieces on my forehead to ease my troubles and wear away my worries.

At the home above the trading post, Grange often asks me to make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He, like his dad, is capable of living exclusively on peanut butter and jelly. His mother prefers the smooth variety. I, however, want texture, and opt for extra crunchy. When it comes to making sandwiches for Grange, I always ask him, "Hey buddy, do you want the super extra crunchy yummy delicious peanut butter, or the smooth?" You can guess what he chooses. I am easing him into the world of texture.

One thing Barry and I most enjoy about the trading post is the fabric of the people. The art is beautiful, sometimes sublime, but what makes it really stunning is the underlying culture; its texture. When you look at a weaving and realize there are generations of tradition woven into its warp and weft, when you can feel the connection to the land in the creation and when you can see the tradition in its construction, you know you are dealing with something really real.

The other day, as I was mulling over a newly arrived weaving, caressing it and wondering whether I needed to give it a bite to get a good feel for it, John, an Anglo who works on the Navajo Reservation, came striding through the front doors with his Navajo friend in tow. As John and I talked about things on the Reservation; the receding culture, the loss of language, the rapidly diminishing crafts, John turned toward his friend and, with a jerk of his thumb, said, "Well, I am more Navajo than he is."

What John meant, of course, was that he believed he has a better grasp of the Navajo language and traditions than his friend; a full-blooded Navajo. John felt strongly about his statement, and also felt strongly that it was true, even though he was not a real Navajo. John had spent enough time living among the Navajo, learning the language and trying to understand the nuances of the people that he certainly knew more about Navajo history than his friend.

A few days later, Bruce Burnham, from Sanders, Arizona called and said he wanted to bring some friends into the store. It was a Sunday evening and the store had closed, but I could not pass up the opportunity to see Bruce, so I came downstairs and met him. We talked about the Germantown revival rugs his weavers were creating; about Billy Malone, the former trader at Ganado; and about recent events at Hubbell Trading Post. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed a big, deep sigh and said, "You know, there just aren't many real, old-time traders like us left." I was surely flattered to be included in the pantheon of "old-time traders," and smiled broadly, but my mind jumped back to John's comment about his Navajo friend. At that point, I could not help thinking about texture.

Aside from the blood requirement for being part of an ethnic group, the "real" both John and Bruce were referring to was a person's texture; the interwoven fiber of an individual. The strings that come together as a result of living in a certain environment for many years. I could tell that John's friend had been raised on the Reservation, he had real red sand between the soles of his feet and the pads of his sandals. He had watched Grandma herd the sheep and spin the wool; he was real, and Navajo was in his soul, in his mind, in his heart and pulsing through his veins. Never mind that the blood was flowing a little slower due to all that fry bread he had eaten, it was genuine Navajo.

I was much more confused why Bruce had included Barry and me within his definition of old-time traders. We were not from an old-time trader family and were not really very old. In fact, we are, for the most part, Johnny-come-latelys. After rolling the thought around in my mind for several days, I finally decided the answer was once again . . . texture. After so many years of doing what we do, we had been woven into trader tapestries. It is probably more like trader pound rugs, with lots of dirt ground into our weft threads to make us seem more substantial. In any case, our fibers, the very molecules of our beings, are comprised of the same material that makes up old-timers like Bruce; a love for the people, a love for the art and a love for this red land in which we live.

Sincerely,
Steve

"Spenser"

Not a day goes by without our trading post customers and artists asking how Spenser is progressing. Steve tells me I owe everyone who supported us through our difficult time an update. Spenser, on the other hand, has requested that he be left out of any and all Twin Rocks stories. Spenser contends that he has been sacrificed quite enough thank you very much! He has informed me that he will file a petition to terminate my parental privileges if I continue to expose his personal life to our readers. I risk much by writing this message, but feel that a one year anniversary report must be made.

One year ago, on Labor Day 2004, our precious child received a traumatic brain injury in an ATV accident that sent our lives careening off in a precarious direction that none of us expected or were prepared for. As a result of the incident, Spenser spent several months in hospitals battling his way back from an injury that almost took his life. As Spenser lay in a coma, fighting to survive, our family learned a great deal about life, love and the will to survive from our young son. As he fought his way back from the darkness, his positive outlook and incredible inner strength helped us make it through the ordeal.

When our family left the everyday care of doctors, nurses, therapists and psychologists, and brought Spenser home, the professionals all told us the same thing: "There are going to be times when you feel extreme sadness, uncontrollable anger and incredible guilt, but you must be strong because you have made it through the most dangerous part. You will learn to survive and cherish the challenges you and Spenser have faced and will face in the future." I have found those words to be painfully true, and feel that, on the anniversary of Spenser's accident, I have grown significantly as a result of his terrible adventure, and have learned much from his gritty determination to overcome this adversity.

Spenser is now a sophomore in high school. He has been elected class president, and has also over-loaded his schedule; placing his parents in high stress mode. He is also taking an algebra class at the College of Eastern Utah-San Juan Campus two nights a week. Spenser is intent on maintaining his usual high academic standards and graduating with his class. Brigham Young University is his goal for higher education at this point in his life, but he has not yet decided on a major. His athletic interests include running with and helping coach the middle school cross country and tennis teams.

Spenser is undergoing daily therapies to help him achieve his goal of recovering full use of his left side. He has a warrior's heart; this boy on the verge of manhood, and I believe he will accomplish whatever he desires. I have never known such a tenacious, vibrant, individual, and know that Spenser will certainly continue to be a positive influence on the lives of everyone he meets. We look forward to his promising future.

Probably the most dramatic new aspect of ours lives is Spenser's decision to get his driver's license. He sat for the written exam recently, and easily earned the right to receive a learner's permit. As parents, Laurie and I are responsible for providing him 50 hours of practice time; ten hours of this exhilarating experience after dark. A week or so ago, with high hopes, Spenser and Laurie embarked on his first day of instruction. Upon their return, my wife determined to thereafter take a hands-off approach and placed all responsibility in my shaky mitts. Spenser tells me he is already a better driver than I, so this should be a painless and stress free experience.

Looking back on Spenser's accident, and the suffering and setbacks our son experienced during his recovery, I realize how tenuous life really is. Through the study of Navajo culture, I have come to know and appreciate the butterfly metaphor. The Navajo interpretation of this simple insect is really quite profound and beautiful. Butterflies, or the larvae they evolve from, represent the belief that even those with the least amount of promise have the ability to achieve beauty and harmony, if they truly desire it. Butterflies themselves portray the fragility of life, and represent the thought that every individual's journey should be cherished as the gift it most surely is.

I have also come to realize how important family and friends are to the human spirit. There is nothing more calming than looking into the eyes of someone who truly understands your pain. A loving embrace or words of tenderness and support thoughtfully expressed in a card or letter can calm the restless soul. Each and every one of you touched us in many ways, and propped us up when we were feeling so extremely vulnerable. From despair and tragedy came a realization how essential compassion is in our lives.

So from this point forth, I will honor Spenser's wishes and leave him alone in his quest to be "normal," at least when it concerns the accident. I cannot, however, be held to this same troublesome standard when it comes to comical circumstance or lampooning satire. As to that, when I see my young Jedi heading my direction casually twirling a set of car keys and smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world, a nervous twitch will undoubtedly wrack my demeanor. The last time we ventured forth, he nearly crashed into the gates of a local religious institution. That one incident could have caused an ex-communication crisis. Immediately afterward, he narrowly missed sideswiping a tourist, which might have resulted in a lawsuit. I can see that "normal" will not be part of my life for some time.

Sincerely,
Barry

Travelin Rainbows

A few days ago, I heard Jana shout up to the house from outside the trading post, "Steve, come down here and look at this." Out here in this wonderland of magical, mystical things and unusual occurrences, that directive generally means: (a) there is a beautiful sunset in the making; (b) there is an extremely large lizard scurrying about; (c) there is an unusual bug to be seen; or (d) Kira, Grange and Tarrik have done something requiring a massive cleanup effort, often involving the Federal Emergency Management Agency. On this particular occasion, I was confident it was not option (d), because Jana is usually behind the messes that require heavy equipment to repair, and is not so animated when bringing them to my attention. As soon as the kids were able, Jana, much to my chagrin, allowed them to run the water hose behind the house and create massive mud baths. The kids would then spread mud from one end of the property to the other, and fill the bath tub with red dirt that took a small front-end loader to muck out. The first time this happened, I shouted, waved my arms and jumped up and down, trying to avert a reoccurrence; all to no avail. Jana patiently explained that mud was good for kids, and allowed them to develop creatively. In an effort to put an end to this mud based creativity promotion, I turned to Barry for support; I found none. Standing firmly behind Jana, he explained that he had recently read an article confirming what she was saying. Once I realized I was powerless to stop Jana and the kids from engaging in this muddy madness, I decided the only thing to do was clean them as best I could before they made a dash for the house. So, once they were done splashing in the mud, I forced the kids to strip down to their underwear and stand on the rocks in front of the trading post, there to be hosed down with cold water. Initially, I thought the hose might moderate their enthusiasm, but it only made matters worse; they loved it. Since it was early afternoon when I received the call from Jana, I realized the sun was probably not going down so soon and it could not be a beautiful sunset that had captured her attention. The only reasonable conclusion was that Jana had spotted an extraordinary bug or gigantic lizard. To my surprise, it was neither. Jana was standing by the cars, looking east at a beautiful rainbow that curved over the Twin Rocks and ended in the hay field just south and east of the trading post. I was immediately reminded of Elsie Holiday, who had come in not long ago and informed me that a rainbow¹s end had landed on her Douglas Mesa home. That, I thought, must be good luck, so I cautiously advised her that good fortune may have smiled on her. I was cautious because these unusual occurrences have a way of costing me money. It was indeed a lucky incident she informed me, but only after the appropriate ceremony is held, and that would require a substantial loan. If the ceremony was not done, the Rainbow Gods might drain all her wealth, and that would surely adversely affect me. The ceremony could be held for only $200.00, and, if I advanced the money, she would ensure it also brought me better business. My enthusiasm for this new rainbow was much more keen than for Elsie's, since I knew for certain I would not have to loan the owner of the farm a few hundred dollars to guarantee his prosperity, or mine. As I stood next to Jana in the misty rain, looking up at the rainbow, I unconsciously reached into my back pocket to secure my wallet. I felt a little foolish, knowing the local artists frequently give back more than they take, and also knowing the reason these things keep happening is because Barry and I enjoy having the Navajo people come in and share their stories. We have been told that rainbows play a particularly important role in Navajo culture. For example, Talking God gave one to the Hero Twins as a means of traveling long distances. Their rainbow was only a finger length long, and could be folded and carried in a small leather pouch. Using their supernatural powers, however, the Twins could extend the rainbow and make it long enough for any journey. By stepping into a jewel basket, the Twins traveled at great speed along the rainbow path. My Subaru is rapidly accumulating miles, so I am considering trading it in on a new, 2006 Rainbow compact, with the carrying pouch option. I will, however, have to get my $200.00 back from Elsie for the down payment. Oh the places I will go.

Sincerely,

Web of Life

I have decided I am destined to stumble through life with a perpetual look of ignorance plastered across my ruddy mug. I say this because I have begun to notice my family and friends constantly pushing educational and self-improvement opportunities my way. For example, I often find copies of Discover and Popular Science magazines stacked neatly in the bathroom my fifteen year old son and I share. I know they are not for Spenser, because, according to him, he is up to date on every imaginable subject. The accompanying high powered reading glasses resting neatly on top of the stack are yet another clear indication the magazines are directed at me. Taking the not so subtle hint, I recently picked up a Discover periodical and began to read an article by Michio Kaku, entitled Testing String Theory.

The article began, "One of the most remarkable claims made in modern times comes from string theory, which holds that everything in the universe is composed of tiny vibrating strings of energy. The strings in string theory are tiny---about a billionth of a billionth the size of a proton. In this view, every particle in your body, every speck of light that lets you read these words, and every packet of gravity that pushes you into your chair is just a variant of this one fundamental entity. Advocates say vibrating strings underlie every particle and every force in the universe. String theory may achieve what Einstein could not, a unified theory that explains how the universe works. But will anyone ever be able to prove this theory? The concept that everything is made of tiny vibrating strings stretches human imagination to the breaking point."

"The math behind string theory is extremely sophisticated and beautiful, and the equations have survived every mathematical challenge. People who have worked on string theory often walk away with a powerful, yet unquantifiable, feeling that it must be true. In an attempt to prove the principles through variations in gravity, scientists are going to attempt a particle accelerator test. The Large Hadron Collider, which is located outside Geneva, Switzerland and is the world's most powerful particle accelerator, is to be put to use. The super collider may be powerful enough to test one of the most bizarre predictions of strung theory; that there are many physical dimensions. Recent versions of string theory hypothesize that there are actually seven spatial dimensions beyond the three we can sense." The article on string theory ends by suggesting, "The remarkable proof of the theory might not cost years of effort and billions of dollars. It might come instead from the most basic tools of science; paper, pencil and a human brain."

The brain I rely on, which I believe to be human in origin, was hurting horribly after my third re-read of the article. I think it was Michael Covey who said that if you read and/or listen to a story three times it will soak in to even the densest gray matter. I have faith in this principle, but, as it relates to me, have not proven it to be totally true. When I arrived at work the next morning, I found a note from two psychologist friends, Jon and Dawn. Jon and Dawn are thoughtfully intelligent people, who have provided me a great deal of positive insight through the years. They too seem to be concerned with my educational and self-improvement opportunities, or lack thereof, and recommended an audio book by the Dalai Lama. I promptly purchased the suggested material and began to listen. The Dalai Lama's essays contained remarkable insight into the connecting web of life, which this wonderful individual calls "Dependent Origination".

In a nutshell, "Dependent Origination refers to the nature of reality and the close connection between how we perceive ourselves in relation to the world we inhabit and our behavior in response to it. In the course of our daily lives, we engage in countless disparate activities and receive huge amounts of sensory input from all we encounter. How we interpret and react to that input effects everyone and everything around us, in one way or another. In beginning to understand phenomenon and reality, we become aware of the infinite complexity of our relationships to all things." Cool!!!! There are three levels to understanding this model: "1. All things and events arise on a complex web of interrelated causes and conditions. From this we can see that no thing or event can be construed to exist in and of itself; 2. Understanding the mutual dependence which exists between individual parts and the whole, without the whole the concept of parts makes no sense; and 3. All things and events can be understood to be dependently originated, because when we analyze them we find that ultimately they lack independent identity." I began to see parallels all over the place. String Theory and Dependent Origination were sounding very similar. There is at least one other facet to this story that must be considered, that of Spider Woman in Navajo mythology. Spider Woman's spiritual power, as seen in her silken web, joins the realms of Earth and Sky. As a deity, she is given credit for weaving and placing human arteries, and is thus at least partially responsible for human beings. Spider Woman is the central figure that relates to supernatural power in the quest of the Hero Twins to search out and build a relationship with their father, the all powerful Sun. This relationship provides security of life and sacred protection for the Navajo people. Spider Woman's interwoven web connects all things to a rich and diverse culture on multiple levels.

It sounds to me like String Theory, Dependent Origin and Spider Woman are all part of the same fabric of life. As human beings, we are all connected, and, on another plane or dimension, we are dependent on the natural world for survival. I do not know what anyone else will think, but, to me, that does not sound so far-fetched. There are times I go away from these studies feeling that I have made a profound personal discovery and gained insight into the web of life that maintains our mental and physical well being. As I recall, in a recent movie, Spider Man, remembering his deceased uncle's words of wisdom, "with great knowledge comes great responsibility and sacrifice", as he turned and walked away from a rejected and confused Mary Jane...what the heck should I do now?

Sincerely,

Man Made

When we first opened the trading post, I was constantly amazed by what our customers said and did. If it wasn't the tourists, it was our Navajo patrons doing things that made me shake my head in wonder. Often, as I relived the day's events later that evening, I laughed out loud or mumbled to myself about the comedy or humanity of what had occurred that day. Had anybody witnessed these evening episodes, I may have been subject to commitment in the big white house with large lawns and nicely padded guest rooms.

In the early days, we did a small pawn business, so there were more elderly Navajo people in the store. Pawn has, for many decades, been an important part of the trading post tradition. Many of the older Navajo people use it as a means of safeguarding their valuable possessions from marauding children or grandchildren, or to ensure access to small amounts of quick cash. As our arts and crafts business grew, however, pawn became more and more complicated.

It wasn't that the revenue was bad; the problem was more practical than anything. Because pawning guns was a substantial part of the business, I began noticing the customers becoming more and more nervous as someone carrying a rifle climbed the stairs to the trading post. For many of our patrons, the obvious conclusion was that an armed robbery was in progress and their lives were in danger.

When the customers realized they were not in harm's way, they became immensely curious and wanted to know what was happening. As these events unfolded, their interest in rugs, baskets and jewelry quickly dissipated, and any possibility of a sale disappeared. So, we finally decided pawn was no longer worth the effort and closed that part of our operation.

One disadvantage of ending our pawn business was that many older Navajo people stopped coming to see us. Initially, when we told them we were no longer pawning, they would wink and say, "Well, just for me, okay?" Eventually we stopped altogether and the grandmas and grandpas faded away.

The other day something happened that reminded me of the older Navajos we used to see all the time; people like Espee Jones, Wooeyboy's Son, Nellie Greyeyes and many more. A Navajo woman was browsing through the shop inventory when she spotted the arrowheads we have in the display cases. This particular item is made by Homer Etherton, a man in his late eighties. After I put the basket containing them on the counter, the woman picked up a few points, inspected them closely, and, admiring their craftsmanship, turned them over and over in her hand. After carefully scrutinizing them, she asked, "Are these man-made?"

The first time I heard that question, I was completely baffled, and almost blurted out, "Of course they are man-made. What else would they be?" My long tenure in retail and the gentle demeanor of the man, however, told me I needed to be more cautious, so I asked, "What do you mean?" The elderly Navajo gentleman quietly said, "Are they made by Horned Toad?" At that point, I explained that the arrowheads were produced by Homer, which seemed to satisfy him, but left me with several burning questions. Our cultural differences, and my desire to avoid looking overly foolish, stopped me from pursuing the matter further, so my inquisitor walked out the door without satisfying my curiosity.

Not long after that incident, a younger Navajo man came in, bought one of Homer's arrowheads, inhaled four times, patted his chest with the point and seemed to whisper a prayer. He then placed the item in a small leather bag that hung around his neck. Since we were contemporaries, I felt comfortable asking him what it all meant. He explained that Navajo people believe horned toads chip arrowheads with their breath and that the points are protection against evil spirits.

The brief ceremony allowed him to breathe in the protective essence of the arrowhead before placing the talisman in his medicine bag. He explained further that it is the "nonman-made" points; those from the ancient Puebloan culture, that are most powerful and offer the most protection from evil. Unfortunately, incidents like those are more and more rare. Navajo culture is rapidly changing, and many of the old ways are no longer observed by the young people of the tribe.

A few days ago, a biologist for the state of Utah wandered into the store. Her department was conducting a study of the local vegetation to determine how it compared to their baseline study from the 1970s. She said their findings indicated that the more substantial bunch grasses like Indian rice grass and buffalo grass had, to a large extent, given way to cheat grass. I could not help thinking this was very much like Navajo culture; the strong traditions are being replaced by television, backwards baseball caps and baggy pants. It makes one long for more "non man-made" items.

Sincerely,
Steve

Badgered

On a brisk, fresh, starlit morning, my son Spenser and I carefully and quietly made our way across the frosted rows of crested wheat grass stubble, towards the hideous form of an ancient pine tree. This particular snag was perched on the edge of a group of evergreens, on an east facing rise which overlooked a small reservoir. It was late October, 1996, and we were out and about before dawn, looking for a monster buck. It was hunting season and, with his enthusiasm for the outdoors and newly acquired taste for venison, my six year old son had re-ignited my passion for this customary fall event.

We gained our desired location, against the skeletal remnant of the once majestic tree, and settled in to await first light. Our position seemed perfect, we would be difficult to detect among the branches which surrounded us and broke up our form. A slight breeze blew directly into our faces so our scent would not give us away. If we remained quiet, and if the Gods of the hunt granted us their favor, we would be home before noon with fresh meat on the table and a trophy rack for the wall. I was feeling quiet proud of myself, thinking, "Oh what a good hunter am I!"

Spenser came over and made a nest of my lap, cuddled up to my chest and promptly fell asleep. As far as I was concerned, it didn't get any better. The memory of that morning with my son so near is one that I hold in my heart, and will cherish as long as I exist. Spenser has been blessed with the ability to sleep anywhere, anytime. I once witnessed him roll his sleeping bag out on bare sandstone; with its attendant humps, depressions and awkward angles, sleep like a baby for the entire night and awake refreshed the next morning. I, on the other hand, am not so lucky.

It was getting brighter, and I began anticipating the sun's appearance on the clouded horizon. I was certain our trophy animal would soon manifest an appearance. The first rays of sunlight broke free and lit the landscape with a rich golden glow. At that instant, I sensed movement from both sides of my field of vision. I tensed and slowly prepared to wake Spenser from his slumber. My senses were on full alert; the game was in the bag. On my right hand side, padding through the tall illuminated grass, appeared a large coyote. On my left, jogging through an obstacle course of burned out stumps, came a badger.

Relaxing a bit, I decided not to wake my son for such insignificant animals. The fact was, I was enjoying his closeness and did not want to lose the moment. The two creatures pulled up to the water at approximately the same time. Without taking much notice of each other, they drank their fill and moved on. The coyote headed almost directly away from us, nonchalantly making his way towards a tangle of deep brush a few hundred yards distant. The badger, however, took a different tack; one that would deliver him to our tree in short order.

Again I stiffened, remembering just how tough and aggressive these mighty mites can be. I was familiar with badgers, and knew just how much trouble they might cause. I also knew that, if not provoked, they were generally quite calm, cool and collected. The beast came on like a line backer; his muscles rippling across his chest, his short legs pumping like pile drivers. At about ten yards out, he pulled up, raised his snout into the air and sniffed. Instantly the badger focused in on us, snorted loudly and stomped his feet.

I could smell his musky odor and make out the silver tips on the black hair of his back and sides. The badger looked us over closely, licked his nose and sniffed again. He must have decided we were not a serious threat, because the brute altered direction slightly and moved away with confidence. Watching the badger strut the other way, I breathed a little easier, and began to think back on a book I had been reading about Navajo myths and legends. The book, by Paul Zolbrod, was titled Dine' Bahane, The Navajo Creation Story. In the book, its author speaks of an occurrence similar to the one I had just witnessed.

In Navajo teachings, Badger and Coyote came into being on a day very much like the one I was experiencing during that fall hunt. The Navajo people believe they emerged through four different worlds before arriving here. An upward moving way occurred, complete with a great deal of learning, experience and metaphorical lesson plans for understanding life and love. The genesis of Coyote and Badger is explained this way; "The people had not been in the fourth world long when they saw Sky bend down and Earth rise up until for a moment they met. At that instant Coyote and Badger, now considered to be children of these two deities, sprang out of earth at the point of contact. At once Coyote skulked among the people and began to educate them through outrageous acts and reverse psychology, where as Badger went back down into the hole which led to the lower world and maintained a hidden, unobtrusive existence. Badger is powerful though, both physically and magically, and not to be dealt with lightly."

Spenser soon awoke, stretching, yawning and causing all sorts of commotion by pelting me with pine cones. Soon an all out battle ensued, and the opportunity for surprising our trophy buck dissipated. We agreed to leave and search for some bacon and eggs. A far cry from grandma Rose's batter fried venison, homemade biscuits and cream gravy, but it would have to do. As we drove away, I looked back in my rear view mirror and wondered at how, as human beings, we are constantly looking for answers to explain our creation. Some choose the scientific approach, some the spiritual; still others look to the natural world. I am sure truth can be found in all those places. Looking over at my young son, thinking of his sisters and their mother and marveling at the miracle of it all, I realized why the questions arise.

Sincerely,
Barry