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