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Hello Goodbye
Just outside the Kokopelli doors hang two woodcarvings by Dave Sipe, a folk artist from Mancos, Colorado. The carvings feature Navajo men holding signs that say âYaâ atâ eehâ and  âHaâgooâneeâ.  While not exactly culturally or grammatically accurate, they are attractive, whimsical pieces.
On days when the doors are flung open to reveal the beauty of Bluff, people often stand just outside the threshold, point to the carvings and ask, âWhat do they mean?â I frequently joke they indicate our acceptance of American Express and Visa credit cards. After a good laugh, I explain yaâ atâ eeh is Navajo for âhelloâ and haâgooâneeâ is âgoodbyeâ. Â Although that generally ends the investigation, for me the carvings have much deeper meaning.
Having grown up in the 1960s, I cannot walk past the pieces without thinking of the 1967 Beatles tune Hello Goodbye. Shortly after that song was released in the United States, Paul McCartney was asked to explain its meaning. He responded by saying, âThe answer to everything is simple. Itâs a song about everything and nothing. If you have black, you have to have white. Thatâs the amazing thing about life.â Â McCartneyâs explanation echos the Navajo belief that everything in nature has both positive and negative aspects. As McCartney noted, black does not exist without white. Correspondingly, males do not exist without females and there is no day without night.
This positive/negative framework of Navajo people does not fit neatly within the Western philosophy of right and wrong, theirs is a much broader, more subtle concept. Navajo scholar Harry Walters once described it to me in terms of a blizzard, saying, âIf you go out in it without the proper clothing, you might freeze to death, itâs dangerous. The storm, however, brings much needed moisture to the land, and is therefore beneficial." Harryâs interpretation was that all things can help or harm you, it is simply a matter of how you manage the various elements.
Priscilla and I have often stood on the Twin Rocks Trading Post porch and watched as a violent thunderstorm flashes its way across the land. On those occasions, she frequently says something like, âThatâs a male storm. See how it blusters and blows like a man; lots of wasted energy. Female storms are gentler, quieter and leave more useful moisture; the rain does not simply run off.â I have many times thought of her comments when I am about to commence a squall of my own making. Her sound teaching has saved me, and those around me, a lot of heartache.
The other day I was in a particularly rambunctious, some might argue obnoxious, mood. Having tolerated all she could stand, Jana finally declared, âStop being such a . . . guy!â Her statement reminded me of a basket woven by Agnes Gray several years ago. The title of the weaving was Separation of the Sexes.
In that story First Woman infuriates First Man by belching after a hearty dinner and immediately launching into a lecture about how important she is to the relationship. As a result of the ensuing discussion, all females are banished to the other side of the river. First Man apparently wished to drive home the point that men can live without women easier than women can live without men. The men and women finally reconcile, but not before serious consequences arise for the Navajo people; the monsters are spawned and begin terrorizing the tribe.
Eventually both sexes realize they are inextricably woven together in one great tapestry, and separation is not a viable option. The fabric of life needs us all, with our many and varied characteristics, to make it whole. As McCartney said, âThatâs the amazing thing about life.â Â As Priscilla might say, âYou get it?"
With Warm Regards, Steve, Barry and the Team.
Itâs About Time
Monday morning I was walking through Twin Rocks Cafe on my daily quest for coffee when I noticed a man wearing a T-shirt with a skeletal dog image printed on the back. Â Above the canine cartoon was the caption, âIn dog years I am . . . dead.â Â This experience started me thinking about the Grateful Dead, time, and, depending on your perspective, how I have spent, squandered or invested the majority of my adult life here at Twin Rocks Trading Post. Barry and Priscilla have made it clear they are in the âsquanderedâ camp. Â Personally, I vacillate between âspentâ and âinvestedâ. Â Experience, however, tells me I spend better than I invest, so the answer may be apparent. Â All that pondering about death, music and the passing years led me to conclude time is both my best friend and my worst enemy, and that I needed another cuppa-joe to settle my nerves.
Around the trading post I often hear people speculate that time accelerated, as they grew older. Â Apparently they feel it takes longer to get from twenty to thirty than is required to progress from forty to sixty. Â That, however, has not been my experience. Â In fact, Bluff appears to be one of a few locations on Mother Earth where time actually decelerates and the world spins more slowly. Â Never mind long accepted conventions associated with the physical properties of the universe. Â As those living in Bluff will confirm, traditional principles of physics have little or no influence on the residents of this town, they exist in an alternate and mostly unexplored cosmos. Â Anyone who has ever tried to get a project done in this town will agree the inhabitants believe well accepted social, cultural or civil constructs do not apply. Â That goes double for the people of Twin Rocks, and quadruple for Barry and Priscilla, who are known to invariably stray from the known path and wander into uncharted territory.
Living in an ancient seabed, with the obvious effects of wind and water erosion spanning millions of years, gives one the illusion that things do in fact move slowly. Â It is easy to fool oneself into believing the arrow of time is irrelevant and that events will continue to flow as they always have, gradually, leisurely, deliberately. Â People often enter through the Kokopelli doors and ask, âArenât you afraid those rocks will fall?â Â We typically reply, âNo, theyâve been up there a long time. Â What are the odds they will fall during our tenure?â Â The remnants of Ancient Puebloan habitations and the occasional thunder of rocks pealing off the cliffs surrounding Bluff caution us, however, that things do change, at times dramatically. Almost three decades after leaving my adopted home of Sacramento, I still have vivid memories of the last days there before I exited the Golden State in favor of southern Utah. Â Over the years I have thought of one particular incident many times, and how things were so very different once I arrived in Bluff. Â On that particular occasion I was traveling west on one of the capital's narrow side streets when traffic began to back up. Â Glancing in my rear-view mirror, I noticed the driver of the vehicle immediately behind me grow increasingly agitated. Â The man finally got fed up with the gridlock, drove his car up on the sidewalk and bypassed the entire line of waiting automobiles. Â The rest of us seemed to shrug it off as simply more of the same, nothing truly extraordinary. Â Many of us might have considered it an ingenious solution to an ongoing problem and done the same if we had been late for an appointment. Â Not long after that experience I wound up in Bluff, a town where nobody is ever in a hurry, and no one cares whether or not you are on time. Â If you are an hour or two late, no problem, itâs a big land. Â After a week or so we might send out a search party, but only if we are concerned for your safety. Unlike Sacramento, traffic rarely backs up in Bluff. Â If you ever see more than two cars at a time, it means a parade, powwow or rodeo is converging and you better get ready for the party. Â Indeed, even if we were to become anxious, there are no sidewalks to drive on and few pedestrians to consider. Â Because of this slow pace, almost every morning Barry and I sit on the wooden chairs scattered about the trading post showroom and discuss the coming day. Â I canât say we ever actually get anything resolved, but at least it gets us closer to 6:00 p.m; when we reverse the open sign and go home for the evening. Â Time has become our companion, and we greatly enjoy her company. Â I do, however, fear we may one day adopt the practice of sitting there from beginning to end, requiring Priscilla to run the entire show and sweep us out at closing time. When we opened Twin Rocks in 1989, Duke was in his early 50âs, a little younger than Barry and I are now. Â His routine was to arrive at the trading post, inspect the premises, give us hell whether we needed it or not and promptly fall asleep; sometimes on a futon set out on the porch and most often in a chair next to my office, where he could keep an eye on my activities. Â I think Barry and I have evolved a different, but comparable, convention. Â To ensure tradition is maintained, while we sit discussing important matters I will, at times, give him hell. Â On alternate days he extends me the same courtesy. Â Priscilla has been assigned responsibility for watching that things donât go too far wrong while Barry and I are engaged in this important activity. Â And so it is that time flows by at Twin Rocks Trading Post. The only thing that seems to change is our appearance, which the few mirrors we allow in the trading post record as significant. Â A few more pounds, a few more grey hairs and a little slower gait tells us that despite Bluffâs exemption from regular precepts of time, change is afoot. Â In that respect Mother Time is exacting a slow but steady toll. Otherwise, the artists come and go as usual, bringing turquoise jewelry, Navajo rugs and baskets; the seasons change on a predictable cycle; tourists ebb and flow as one might expect and hungry people show up at Twin Rocks Cafe for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Â When I mentioned the dinerâs T-shirt to Priscilla, she thought for a moment and then said, âIn dog years, you are . . . extinct.â Â Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but with Priscilla you always get the unvarnished truth. Â I think I need more coffee!

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#TwinRocks_Bluff Look what Eleanor Yazzie just brought in this morning. AMAZING! Price is $2,750. look for it on the mailer or buy it NOW @ 1-800-526-3448 (at Twin Rocks Trading Post)
Santa Clara/Taos Miraceous Clay Reduction Fired Pottery Vase by Edna Romero.
  In the world of Native American art, Edna Romero is related to the best potters in the business. There is so much talent surrounding her that she had no choice but to become a potter. And become a potter she didâa most masterful potter. Edna now lives in Taos but her roots are in the New Mexico pueblo of Santa Clara. The classic beauty of this micaceous pottery vessel is due to its amazing symmetry and fine finish. This vessel is of the quality that makes her royal family proud.
Navajo Elder Tree Four Seasons Basket by Elsie Holiday.
  Winter, spring, summer and fall, that just about covers it all. Elsie Holiday has woven a basket that embraces the four seasons in grand fashion. She is a master artist when it comes to basketry. Her quality of stitch, symmetry and design make her one of the best weavers ever. In the Navajo culture, Changing Woman (aka Mother Earth) controls the seasons and all green growing things. The Tree of Life symbolizes the Native American connection to the past, personal progress and the embracing, cultivating nature of tradition and culture. There is a whole lot of meaning woven into this basket.