My Adobe Home
“The storm is here, the storm is here…”
My grandfather scurried, warning the villagers to protect their belongings, before we were hammered by intense winds and horizontal rains.
Dark, stormy night; the rain fell continuously, except slowed at a few intervals, by a violent gust of wind, strengthening to 150 kilometers an hour, which swept up the streets…rattling along the mostly adobe house-tops, fiercely agitating the struggling dim flame of lanterns against darkness.
“Get inside, get inside… quickly,” he commanded as he entered the home.
“Water is leaking into some rooms – it’s scary,” he lamented.
Our Adobe home was destroyed, crops were gone, gusty wind brought down the trees, cut power and caused considerable flooding.
My grandparents’ Adobe had an extensive history which goes back probably about three generations. Adobe is the architecture, the art form of the people who lived in that area, and making adobes was my grandfather’s passion. It was his life, his expression of our culture.
“No weeping for shed milk,” Grandfather nodded, looking at us.
“Let’s get to work, we can build this again in no time!!”
“You can break it up, re-shape it, re-use it with water,” he reiterated.
And that is what we did.
Grandfather collected the basic ingredients from ecological materials: clay-rich earth, straw, water. Soon a marvelous, ecological building was up. Our Adobe home was built again.
“What a work of art!!! Functional art!!!” we marveled.
“Awesome, a true testament to human ingenuity!” neighbors complimented.
“From the earth to the earth!! Our adobe house.” Grandfather boasted.
Our home, our sweet home; where we share all our pain, every happiness, every joy and every sorrow together.