Two kids gone

I am in a funk, and this monumental muddle is affecting my ability to negotiate for Navajo baskets, trade for turquoise, and bargain for beads. Indeed, I can hardly function at all.

Fortunately, Priscilla and Rick are here to manage things while I mope about.

Without them, this would be a colossal catastrophe.

What, you might ask, has created such a crisis for a happy-go-lucky guy like me?

Yes, it is true that residing in Bluff and working at Twin Rocks Trading Post is the rough equivalent of living in Shangri-La. If I looked hard enough, I might identify a few snags, but they would be difficult to find and hardly worth the effort.

The early pioneers arriving in this community knew, and contemporary settlers know, “This is the place.”

While many people associate that statement with Brigham Young and the Salt Lake Valley, at the time he made his declaration, he had not seen Bluff. The confusion is, therefore, understandable.

As anyone who has ever visited the trading post knows, this joint is all about family.

Virtually from the day they were born, Kira and Grange were at the store – first in bouncy chairs situated on back counters, then in Snuglys strapped across my chest, next in packs slung on my back, and finally scurrying about on their own steam.

Once they grew independent, they scaled boulders, shimmied through crevices, and leaped from ledge to ledge on cliffs behind the buildings. They were trading post kids from the start.

Indeed, when they were still too young to be interested in anything other than ice cream, cake, and cookies, Jana and I convinced them to start their own business.

“Traders in Training” became a way for them to generate pocket money and save for college. It was also a vehicle for teaching them about art, artists, Southwest culture, and personal finance.

Now they are grown and long ago abandoned the post. While they are excited to be in the next phase of their development, I am missing them greatly.

Even Pearl is walking about aimlessly, intuitively understanding my plight and clearly sympathetic to the cause.

Priscilla, fed up with my lackluster performance and believing tough love was the only solution, ordered me to “Buck up!” That, however, has not worked.

Therapists, psychologists, and cardiologists have all been consulted, and the unanimous conclusion is, “Ain’t no cure for a broken heart. And you gotta let ‘em do their own thing. Git outta the way.”

San Juan Record

49 South Main St
PO Box 879
Monticello, UT 84535

Phone: 435.587.2277
Fax: 435.587.3377
Open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday