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Hands


Navajo Rug Weaver Mae Yazzie's hands
Navajo Rug Weaver Mae Yazzie's hands

Lately I have been obsessed with a song I heard long ago which goes like this, “Daddy’s hands weren’t always gentle, but I’ve come to understand, there was always love in Daddy’s hands.” Although I can recite that part of the tune word-for-word, I cannot remember a single other phrase.

The melody got me thinking about the Ancient Puebloans who occupied this land centuries ago and left beautiful handprints in many of their cliff dwellings. Maybe that was their way of leaving a mark on the world, an eternal signature of sorts. Those personalized pictographs open a window into the past and inspire me to visualize painted pottery, corn, beans, squash and nurturing farmers.

Old songs and ancient people started me noticing the hands of our Native artists and the effects rug weaving, basket making or stonecutting has on their extremities. Basket weaver Evelyn Cly may have kicked off my latest mania when she brought a ceremonial basket into the trading post. These weavings are extremely important in Navajo culture, and she seemed to caress the basket while passing it to me for inspection. For the first time, I noticed her fingers are slightly angled from dipping sumac strands into water. Hydrating the splints makes them pliable, less brittle, easier to manipulate. The moisture had apparently swollen her joints, and the strain of stitching fibers into art had raised callouses on her fingers.

What brought my obsession out in full force, however, was a telephone conversation with my friend Gerald. Gerald frequently calls to relate bad jokes and discuss the local business climate. His call reminded me of several years ago when we were talking about his now grown son and Gerald said, “I knew I had lost my little boy when I looked at his hands and there were no more dimples.”  After that conversation, I immediately located Grange and was relieved to find his chubby paws were still dimpled. At almost 16 years of age, Grange has long since lost that particular physical characteristic and is no longer small.  I have, however, not yet lost him.

One thing led to another, and Mae Yazzie, my favorite rug weaver, and Bruce Eckhardt, my favorite bead maker, crept into my thoughts.  Although I have not seen her in many years, I remember Mae’s hands had the patina of seventy-something years.  Mae's skin was paper thin, wrinkled and beautifully brown, her fingers were crooked from decades of tamping wool with a weaving comb. I could never see Mae without wondering if her hands were painful. Although Mae's rugs had become somewhat simple at that stage, many stunning weavings had sprung from her skilled digits.

Bruce is a stonecutter who searches far and wide for suitable materials to make his fabulous necklaces. Barry and I buy Bruce’s jewelry whenever we can and will go a long way to purchase his work. Several years ago I met Bruce in Cortez, Colorado to look at his latest creations.  The arrangements made me feel we were setting up a clandestine operation, and in fact Bruce mentioned one meeting in Gallup, New Mexico where he was buying uncut turquoise and was mistaken for a drug dealer. He and the stone seller had their scales out on the backend of a pickup truck, weighing and measuring. Apparently a passerby concluded they were engaged in an illicit transaction and contacted the police. Officers arrived with lights flashing and sirens wailing, only to discover it was rock, not narcotics, the two were haggling over.

Bruce and I arranged to meet around 9:00 p.m., and as I walked into the restaurant he was sitting at the bar. After a few minutes we moved to a dark corner table and Bruce began telling stories about old miners.  At the appropriate moment he placed a rumpled paper sack on the table and said, “Well, it’s about time we had a look at this stuff.” He then carefully extracted bracelets, pendants and crosses encrusted with stones of deep green and sky blue from the bag and placed them on the table. The lighting was low, so we inspected the jewels using his Bic cigarette lighter. The striker wheel kept getting hot and burning our fingers, so we could only look a short time before stopping to let the cylinder cool. It felt like a scene from a gaslight movie.

As we looked through his treasures, I kept noticing Bruce’s fingers. After years of cutting stones under the perpetual drip of a diamond wheel, his grip had become permanently fixed at an almost 90 degree angle. His love of turquoise had cost him the mobility of his hands. In spite of that, Bruce would not give up cutting; it was his life, he is made to interpret the beauty inherent in those stones.

I have often heard people say eyes are the window to the soul, which makes me wonder whether hands are the portal to the heart.

With warm regards Steve Simpson and the team;
Barry, Priscilla and Danny.

A Baffled Mind

A Baffled Mind

Because my editor is out of town and my word prospector has developed a virus in its potatoe chip, I begin this missive with a certain cents of fore-boating. The machanical affliction, I think, may be silicosis, which is directly related to the Trojan strain recently affecting many similarly situated devices and their neophyte operators.

After my machine began acting out, I contacted a local family practitioner to request a penicillin prescription. The doctor informed me that penicillin is an anti-bacterium, not an antivirus, and refused to comply with my request. He said something that made me think I may need a suppository, and concluded by suggesting that I contact Norton. Since I was unable to find Dr. Norton’s number in the telephone book, I am still afflicted.

Even the local medicine man refused to have a look. Therefore, I beg forgiveness in advance for any missteps I may make in writing this story. Any such mistake is directly related to my viral infection and editorial loss, and does not necessarily indicate a mental or emotional deficiency. Now that I have made the appropriate excuses, I am ready to move forward, so let’s begin.

The other day my wife and I were having a lively discussion when she informed me that I have a “baffled mind." Initially I thought it was a reference to Russell Crowe’s movie, A Beautiful Mind. After a time, however, I began to wonder whether my initial assumption was accurate and went for the dictionary. Mr. Webster defines a baffle as, “A device (as a plate, wall, or screen) to deflect, check, or regulate flow (as of a fluid, light, or sound)”. Knowing my wife as I do, I felt comfortable that she was referring to my mental ability to compartmentalize things, thereby baffling them. That set my mind at rest, and I went back to polishing the glass.

My wife and I often discuss weighty subjects, and, although I have studied Ghandi for years, and consider myself a pacifier, the conversations sometimes get a little heated. I can assure you that I generally try hard to understand her point of view, but have begun to believe there may be a great deal of merit to that book she recently asked me to read. The title was something like, Men are from Vesuvius and Woman are from Marianus. I believe the thesis of the book is that men generally blow and spew like a volcano, and women are deep thinkers. That concept certainly has merit when it comes to our relationship.

I have thought a lot about that book, and have recently begun to notice pairs of ravens sitting on the rocks just above the old mission road during my morning runs. They stare down as I jog past, caw at me, and I caw back. Initially they would fly off after our little exchanges, but have apparently concluded that I am harmless and now stay put. Because of my pace, they must have concluded that I am associated with certain marine reptiles, and am therefore too slow to pose any significant threat to their general welfare.

I have often been told that the ravens are monographist; meaning they mate for life. I am a firm believer in monography, and have done extensive research into why men and women choose to live together forever. The ravens, combined with my wife’s kind comment, had once again set my mind at ease, and I felt a wave of contentment wash over me as I plodded down the highway. I figured that if those ravens can stick it out, so can my wife. After all, I have never asked her to eat road kill, or live outside.

Although I was feeling quite comfortable about my wife’s baffling comment, something happened that caused me to question my prior assumptions. That something was the visit of a middle aged woman to the trading post. The woman walked through the door late in the afternoon, and, as is my habit, I struck up a conversation with her by asking where she lived. She very politely answered, “Chicago.” The conversation continued on a congeniable basis for about ten minutes, when I once again said, “So, where ya’ from.” She looked sideways at me and said, “Chicago, still!” Obviously I was taken aback, and began to wonder whether Mr. Webster’s alternative definition, “To defeat or check (as a person) by confusing or puzzling” may have been applicable to my wife’s compliment.

Although Barry and I try to be egalitarian in our treatment of tourists who ask silly questions, we are not always equilateral. We readily excuse our own faults, and chatter instantaneously and incessantly about theirs. This woman’s comment forcefully reminded me of that specific shortcoming in my personality. It also started me thinking about my ambitions, and opportunities for long term employment at the trading post.

When I was young, I just knew I would set the world on fire; then I’d stand back with a smug look on my face as the praise poured in. I wasn’t sure how or why, but I was sure. As I have approached middle age, however, I have come to realize that I may not even spark.

In those earlier days, the trading post seemed a good opportunity to shine. When we opened its doors, everything was sparkling and new. I had a feeling that this was going to be really great, and it has been. My shining however has been generally restricted to Windex and the showcases.

As a result of our work at the trading post, Barry and I have even been compared to Lorenzo Hubbell, which is a huge indictment; but I wanted Moore. The other day, Cally, one of our trading post friends and trusted advisor, sent me an e-mail with one of those winky things ; ) in the text. I had frequently seen the smiley thing : ), but this was something new to me. All of the sudden I knew that I had missed the boat. I began to question why I hadn’t invented that winky thing? For the last 13 years, I have been trying to convince the people visiting our business that I am truly sublime, rather than just keylime. All that time, I could have been inventing winky things, a truly Nobel calling.

Now I am in a quandary. I don’t know whether to move to the Florida Keys, like Jimmy Buffet, and start a new career inventing those fabulous symbols, or stay here at the trading post. I am convinced that if I can come up with just one winky like thing, I will be a rousing success. I might even have it placed on my headstone when I die, and people will walk by and say, “Oh, that’s the grave of Steve Simpson. He invented that winky like thing. What a visionary he was.”

On second thought, since I have requested cremation and therefore will not even have a gravestone, I may just stay here. Barry probably can’t keep the glass clean without me anyway, and that virulent virus affects my ability to create.

With warm regards Steve Simpson and the team.

Ready the Ark

READY THE ARK

Some time ago I received a telephone call from a man who said he ran an arts and crafts business in the east and wished to learn more about the Twin Rocks Trading Post. The gentleman wanted to know who we are, what we do and what connection we have to local Native Americans. As we talked, I realized his questions indicated an interest in preserving Native culture. He said his name was Leon, that he was from the Micmac and Penacook tribes and that he had become seriously concerned the history of his people, and of Native America in general, was all too quickly being lost.

Over the years many legends had come to him, and he accumulated them for transmission to the members of his tribe and to any other interested party. Leon counseled that we must collect the thoughts of our grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, children and grandchildren, whether or not they are Native American. He told me that of all the stories he had heard, there was one in particular that was most meaningful. The story was about a young man and his journey on the road home.

The legend tells of a group of Native people who lived in an expansive wood. One by one the people passed on, until only the youngest was left. One evening the youth fell asleep and dreamed of traveling a path populated by his relatives. As the boy greeted each one in turn, the elders related their personal stories. Eventually, the young man came to a rainbow with a longhouse on the opposite side. In the longhouse were people of all nations speaking openly about their traditions and living in harmony. Beyond the greathouse stood the Creator with his arms open, welcoming the young man home and telling the boy he had learned much and been given a great gift.

As the story unfolded, I began to think of the youth as an ark in which the history of his people was being invested; a vessel to carry the traditions across the waters of time. I was reminded of my paternal grandfather Woody Simpson singing his Biblical chronology, “Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, I saw the apple they was eatin’. I’m the man who swore, cause I’m the one who ate the core. Then came Noah stumblin’ in the dark, tryin’ to find a hammer just to build himself an ark. Then came the animals two by two, the hippopotamus, the kick kangaroo, then came the lion, then came the bar, then came the elephant without any har.” I could see Woody bouncing my brothers and sisters on his knee as his tune spilled out into the living room of his small white house in great clumps of irregular harmony.
Navajo Monument Valley or Bust Basket - Lorraine Black (#232)

I distinctly remembered Woody sitting next to me at Blue Mountain Trading Post on an old blue sofa purchased at the Phoenix flea market, relating his experiences as a Marine in the Pacific Theater during World War II. I have since discovered some of his adventures were fiction, but I still love having them. Although I remember him well, I have virtually no stories from my maternal Grandfather Joseph Correia, a quiet, gentle man who worked hard and said little.

As these memories eddied through my mind, I suddenly realized the young man of Leon’s story had died, and with him the stories of his tribe ended; the ark had sunk and the legends of his people were lost. My grandfathers both died many years ago, and with them their family stories. There is much I would now like to know about these two men, but it is too late, that boat sailed without me.

Leon cautioned me we must preserve the past, and practice the traditional ways when possible. He said most of us are not sharing the legends the way our forebears intended. At 56 years of age, Leon had made a commitment to spread the word, so he can help stop the cultural hemorrhage and keep this body of knowledge alive.

For much of Native America, and the rest of us as well, the rain has been falling some time, our culture and traditions are drifting away. Many of our narratives have either not made it into the ark or have been washed overboard and are forever lost. We must build a solid vessel and fill it with the stories of our ancestors, our own stories and the stories of our children and grandchildren. If we don’t, like the unicorn, they will not survive.

With warm regards Barry and the Team.

Who’ll Stop the Rain?

 

As Bob Dylan once wrote, “The Times They are a Changin’". And they are surely a changin’ round Bluff. After an exceptionally dry winter, which made us wonder whether there would be any water left to drink when summer arrived, and caused some to question whether beer might be our only alternative, the last three months have brought storm after storm to our parched landscape. Indeed, in June the San Juan Record reported a tornado touching down near Bluff, hailstorms, rock slides and precipitation at 439 percent of normal.

Now, I am a desert dweller, I was born in the desert, I have spent the overwhelming majority of my life in the desert and from all indications I will receive my ultimate reward, or final penalty as the case may be, while residing in the desert. As such, rain is sacred to me. Indeed, as a long-term Indian trader and purveyor of Southwest art, I am exceptionally fond of Hopi jewelry. With its clean lines and precise motifs, this artistic movement often communicates clouds, lightening and life-giving moisture. The Hopi, being dryland farmers and sophisticated artists, have developed an entire economy around silver and gold work representing rain. That symbolism speaks to me in a deep, resounding voice.

Never will I forget the man, who professed to be the grandson of visionary Lakota holy man Sitting Bull, leading me outside during a particularly heavy thunderstorm and instructing me to wet my hands and rub the falling droplets over my face, arms and chest. Not only did Stormy's exercise refresh me, it also left me feeling cleansed in body and spirit. Eventually Stormy ran off with two; that’s right, not one but two, German women. Notwithstanding his errant exit from southern Utah, from that moment forward, when raindrops begin falling I uniformly rush outside to repeat the ceremony Stormy taught me that afternoon. Always, that is, until this year.

Hopi Clouds and Rain Symbols Bracelet (Look for the bracelet in next weeks mailer)  


When the storms initially began rolling in during May, I was, as usual, the first out the Kokopelli doors and into the deluge. After first reinvigorating myself in the downpour, I would retrieve a metal bucket and water the plants arrayed in clay pots along the trading post porch. They too seemed regenerated and appeared to dance with delight. I imagined them saying, “Nuts to tap water with its chemicals and artificial additives, this is the real thing.” During that time Priscilla tutored me on legends relating to thunder, the evolution of rainbows, coyote and To’ Neinilii, the Navajo chief of wet things. Life was good, my knowledge of local culture expanding and my thirst sated.

Then the next and the next and the next thundershower hurtled Comb Ridge or circumnavigated Blue Mountain and inundated our small valley, causing the river to rise and the weeds to spontaneously sprout. Once the ground became saturated, however, water began to seep under the back wall of Twin Rocks Cafe and percolate through the basement of the old Lemuel Hardison Redd Jr. home in which Jana, Grange and I have taken up residence; Kira having abandoned us in favor of college and various other high adventures. The first few times that happened, we happily mopped up the mess and went about our business, happy in the knowledge the gods had finally smiled upon us. Comfortable our personal appeals had not been acted upon, Barry and I speculated whether it was Native rituals or Mormon fasting and prayer that eventually opened the floodgates. We desired clarification and proper documentation, so we would know how to precede and whom to contact in the event future dry spells occurred.

But the rains kept falling and we began to wonder whether someone had requested a larger allocation than was actually required. We questioned whether the experience was similar to that of a hungry man who finally finds food; once he gets started it is impossible to stop. All too late he realizes he has overdone it and must bear the consequences of his unrestrained exuberance. In our case excess water saturated our carpets, moistened our mats and whetted our weeds to the point they grew into forests. Like John Fogerty, we found ourselves asking, “Who’ll stop the rain?” While we realized our inquiry was heresy for people of the desert and that we risked being excommunicated from our red rock sanctuary, we could not restrain ourselves.

Something had to be done. So, in an effort to moderate the flow without terminating it altogether, Barry was dispatched to discuss our dilemma with the deacons and Priscilla hastened to hunt down the hataalii. For my part, I reluctantly cancelled the beer order and stood by with the shop vac. Priscilla, realizing I was feeling overwhelmed by the additional responsibilities and depressed about having to redirect the Budweiser truck, reminded me of a quote I once read to her, “Rain clouds come floating in, not to muddy our days, but to make us calm, happy and hopeful."

With warm regards from Steve Simpson and the team.
Barry, Priscilla and Danny.

 

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