It’s hard to believe it’s only the beginning of December — or the end of November, these images being from the 30th, when we woke up to a record low of minus 13 Fahrenheit. If the predictions of heavy winter storms hold true, though forecasts rarely do, we could see some of the waist-deep snow our landlord remembers and shakes his head about. (Now that would make for some ferocious boot-swallowing mud when it melts…) But right now, all it is, is cold. Amazingly, in the absence of wind, it simply doesn’t feel cold when you’re walking around outside, thanks to the astoundingly strong sun at 7,000 feet. But you see that ice on the window? Naturally, it quickly melts, so where does the water go?
No double-pane insulated glass in these windows…
In the second image below, you can see the cheap Mexican blankets we discovered make great semi-insulating curtains: we just drape them over wooden rods I hung up with cup-hooks, no fancy fixtures or brackets, then push them up into the window frame at night so that all the cold air is blocked off. But that water! I can’t say whether this is traditional New Mexico practice or not, but you can see a small strip of wood along the edge of the window ledge that forms a kind of dam. That prevents the melt water from running down the wall and keeps it where you can mop it up. Hanging the wet towel on a hook by the wood stove afterwards does a nice job of humidifying the interior, too.
The domicile these pictures are part of is a very primitive 103-year-old adobe with walls at least 18 inches thick. It’s been partially upgraded (i.e. electricity and plumbing), but there isn’t a single overhead light fixture or traditional closet. The hot water heater is in the kitchen, right out in the open next to the sink, which is a very good idea, as it turns out — why heat a utility room or your basement instead of the space where you live all the time?! — and if I ever get to build one of these places, i’m putting the gas water heater in the kitchen too. Ought to be required by law, dammit.
Eek, where’s the towel?
The floors are simply hardened adobe mud (carpeted) laid right down on top of the ground and smoothed by hand. This means it’s very wavy and hardly flat at all. Virtually every piece of furniture sits on little wooden shims of varying thicknesses, and nothing is plumb, anywhere. Sand and grit dribble down occasionally from cracks between the wooden sheathing atop the vigas that hold up the adobe roof as the building expands and contracts with seasonal changes. Doesn’t sound very glamorous, does it? But it’s so excruciatingly charming and utterly, unbelievably quiet inside… The best thing, though, is that there’s nothing between my feet and the earth (literally) except the carpeting. Talk about solid. The walls are made of earth and so is the roof, so this is really like a cave with windows. Millions of people in faraway parts of the world live in dwellings like this, and it’s also why so many of them die when there’s an earthquake!
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: this poor old little New Mexico adobe hovel is 100 times more suited to the local climate than our old house in Maryland ever was. That 75-year-old frame farmhouse leaked air like it was shot through with cannon balls and shook when the wind blew. In this place, I don’t even know the wind is blowing unless I look out the window.
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