Tied to the Post

Try if you might

Who knew that a massive accumulation of tiny, delicate snowflakes could bring down a barbed wire fence? Most farmers and ranchers, I suspect. I thought the fence would simply become encased within said snowdrift until the spring thaw released it in fine fashion. Not true! The heavy and malicious...

A strong, steady patriarch moves on

Papa Duke passed on Sunday. Our strong and steady patriarch has slipped away. Dad grew up fast and hard, which taught him how to survive and gifted him with a desire and determination to improve his lot in life. Our father’s motto could easily have been “Buy, sell, trade, while focusing on...

My life as a leaf

TIED TO THE POSTby Steve & Barry Simpson A while ago, I was thumbing through an old issue of Southwestern Art magazine when I noticed an advertisement for a bronze sculpture. The sculpture looked interesting, so I paused for a closer look. The ad showed three men sitting beneath a...

Thunderbolts and lightning

TIED TO THE POSTby Steve & Barry Simpson White hot bolts of lightning bee-bopped across the darkened horizon, as we topped out on the south side of Devil’s Canyon. It looked as if an electrified game of pin ball was being played above the torn and ragged, moisture-laden clouds. I...

Of outlaws and outhouses

TIED TO THE POSTby Steve & Barry Simpson Once she hitched her wagon to Duke, Momma Rose kept ‘em coming fast and furiously. It was the middle 1950s, and Duke and Rose were newly wed. You know the routine, “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage...

Old ‘59

TIED TO THE POSTby Steve & Barry Simpson Most Sunday mornings, I am the designated manager at Twin Rocks Café. That is my reward for not attending church. While the cooks prepare breakfast, fry bacon, steam oatmeal, and bake biscuits, I sometimes stand at the south-facing picture...

A root on me

TIED TO THE POSTby Steve & Barry Simpson It was a hot Saturday afternoon, and I was in the yard pulling, chopping, hoeing, and raking weeds. As my mother will attest, when I was young it was virtually impossible to convince me weeding was honorable work. I wanted nothing to do with...

Rocks on your head

TIED TO THE POSTby Steve & Barry Simpson “You really don’t have to buy this rug if you don’t want to!” commented Edith Martin while she was showing Steve and I her weaving the other day. I looked up at her with questioning eyes and asked her why she would say such a thing. She...

Our children don’t care about our stuff

Tied to the Postby Steve & Barry Simpson One of the images that indelibly etched itself into my mind over the past 20 years is that of an old Woodie station wagon parked alongside a dirt back road leading to Shiprock, NM. The doors of the vehicle are flung open and the passenger...

On the lot

TIED TO THE POSTby Steve & Barry Simpson Most of the stories Steve and I share concern what goes on inside the Kokopelli doors of the trading post or the glass doors of the cafe. Some of the most interesting and amusing people we see never cross our threshold. Today, I believe we...