Adobe, Dust into dust - 5 days 'til Christmas

Dust unto dust, #watercolor card

Adobe, an "American" word, coming from the Spanish, which like much else in Spanish, came from the Moors, the Arabic... al-tub, the brick. Dirt and straw mixed with water to form bricks, stacked and harden under the glaring sun in arid areas of the world.
Dust into dust, what a metaphor...thick walls, cool in the summer heat, insulating in winter, bone of our bones. When not maintained, melting back into the earth again as do our physical bodies.
I don't know that Jesus knew adobe, but expect he did, as a carpenter, and you can read where they let someone down through the roof...flat roofs are common in adobe. It's a poor person's building material.
In Mali, I was at home because adobe buildings and stacks of bricks were abundant. In New Mexico, at Taos, I've seen Pueblo residents shaping and maintaining their 1,000+ year old walls, every year.
I've sat inside adobes, had beans and tortillas long ago, and posole in a Santo Domingo Pueblo home on a feast day more recently. Quiet. Solid. "Homey." I've seen ruins of others melting back to where they came from.
Earth. Home, Flesh of my flesh. Until you look up at the stars.

Always learning about New Mexico

"Why haven't I heard about this author before?" "Why do I not know where that is?"
It seems I'm always learning about New Mexico, and "social" media has been a blessing as it has introduced me to several sites, and many photographers and artists that I "follow," (that's scroll through from time to time), 
Yes, I save some of the images for ideas for paintings, or links to books, or other people, admittedly envious of their comments and photos as they capture the scenery of the state, while I'm limited to one or two visits a year.
But I have my books and magazines to substitute for being there. A comment on Instagram last night got me to thinking about that growing collection. Most are on a bookshelf in a hutch and others here and there throughout the house. 
I counted 48 of them, plus two I can't find, and not counting the first editions of all the Tony Hillerman novels that are packed away in the garage, or I've given to my daughter Dallas Bell for her Canyon, Texas, Burrowing Owl Bookstore. 

But the collection keeps growing--every trip seems to bring a new purchase--me finding out things I didn't know. The ones in the house include some signed first editions, and others signed as well.
The most recent discovery, and purchases were for William DeBuys, after reading about him in New Mexico Magazine. In October I bought his signed book on Valles Caldera, and also this year River of Traps and Exploration and Exploitation, about the Sangre de Cristos--I'm almost through reading that one. The previous trip included an artist's book on her art in Truchas on the high road.

Other signed first editions include those of Santa Fe photographer and friend Craig Varjabedian. Earlier trips resulted in an artist's book on her art in Truchas on the high road to Taos. I'm always looking for art books, so Georgia in on my mind.
Inscribed first editions of Tony Hillerman landscape book, and his daughter's follow up, are by our door, along with another art book.

Then there's the hutch shelf
From left to right you'll find mostly non-fiction, lots on geology and history and art. Some fiction. Oh, at the top of the stack on the left is an inscribed first edition of Hillerman's first novel, The Blessing Way. At the bottom is a first edition of Laura Gilpin's valuable The Enduring Navajo, given to my Dad when he retired long ago  by his fellow tech artists.

And in the middle of the shelf is a signed paperback of Stanley Vestal's novel, The Old Santa Fe Trail, given to me by a student. Two I can't place at the moment  are about New Mexico railroads, and on on Pecos Pueblo, a special place to me, as you can see from other books.
The bear, Ursa, is by an Acoma Pueblo artist, C. Ortiz, that I bought in 2006 at the feast day of Santa Domingo Pueblo.

Small matters

Size matters, especially when small. Our art collection goes from coast to coast, including some others may have overlooked. They're also affordable, but valuable.

    A favorite watercolor of mine, bought in New Mexico is only 5 1/2" by 3  1/2" by an Indian artist named Menchego in New Mexico, with an Indian pot and bear fetish, which is special to me.

    Another watercolor, by Ted Scypinski, is just a 5" by 7, "Sunset shores," that we bought in Savannah last year.  And we have five  pieces by Oklahoma artists that fill niches on our walls, again, each telling stories in our imaginations.

These three 4 1/2 "square canvases are acrylic abstracts from my friend and chess playing partner, John Lawton, and hang in our entry way.  We've also bought a 3/12" by 2 1/2" pastel, Western Oklahoma, by Adelante! Gallery owner Cynthia Wolfe (where my watercolors hang in Paseo), and a 3/12" by 5 1/2" oil from Sue Rogers, also in Paseo, "New Mexico storm." It has to be a special oil for me to consider it, since I grew up watching my dad paint western landscapes. Each of these reek of storytelling and imagination.

Western Oklahoma

New Mexico storm

In addition, my uncle Mike gave me this tiny, about three inches at most, stone sculpture of two seals from Alaska, done many years ago by an Eskimo student of his at the Indian Arts Institute in Santa Fe.
    And since I started this post with a mention of bear fetish, here are two more. I bought the 2 1/2" by 3"  pottery brown bear from Jemez Pueblo Indian J. Tosa when visiting his home at the Jemez  feast day and dances with Uncle Mike several years ago. I bought this 5 " by 4"  pottery bear fetish from Acoma Pueblo Indian C. Ortiz at the Santo Domingo Pueblo feast day and dances when I was there two Augusts ago.

A sailor's final port

The old Indian waited until the rest of the people had moved off from touching the small black box urn that held the ashes of Michael Henry Clark.

The committal center at the Santa Fe National Cemetery

The small crowd of about  50 people had gathered at the Committal Center at the Santa Fe National Cemetery at 2:15 p.m. Nov. 10 under clear, but brisk November skies. Across the road, over rows of white-gray gravestones marching in military precision, you could just see the apartment where Clark,  who died Oct. 24 at age 89, U.S. Navy combat veteran of both WWII and Korea, had lived for more than 30 years until last November.

The view from the committal center, toward Mike's apartment, light adobe about center near top of hill,
with the great blue hulk of the Sandias in the background.

They came to pay their respects to him, mostly the many members of the  Romero family that had adopted Clark, and he them as a family, including Jo Webb, his long-time girlfriend and her daughter Lynn. Also there was his best friend "Mon" Moneno, who had helped care for him so much up until he had to move a year ago from the apartment to a veteran's home in Walsenburg, Co., and other Santa Feans,  people who knew him and had worked with him. They sat in folding chairs facing the urn, and gathered behind them, thinking about this life-long friend who brought laughter and stories and adventure to their lives.

And the old Indian, Candalario Lavato of Santo Domingo pueblo, and his wife, a Tesuque Indian.

After brief comments by a nephew, the three blue uniformed U.S. Navy sailors of the honor guard took over. Beforehand, two of them greeted the vehicle that brought the urn and the flag with stiff salutes, and marched it up the small hill to a table in front of the crowd.

Then they crisply unfolded the flag and held it over the urn, sunlight streaming through the red white and blue. The third member of the guard played taps. The two then refolded the flag, carefully creasing each fold, until it was complete. White-gloved salutes followed, every detail planned and foreordained.

One marched to the center, turned on a dime, approached Jo Webb, sitting in the center of the row of chairs, knelt down on one knee, and presented her the flag.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, and a grateful nation," he said, with a few other words, concluding with "Our condolences."

He stood,  saluted once more.  His final words were, "Quartermaster Clark, Shipmate."

The crowd gathered around the urn in a last attempt to say goodbye, and moved off, chatting, planning a big afternoon meal of celebration. The nephew stood there, and touched the urn one more time, when Mr. Lavato approached, dressed like everyone else against the chill--jeans and coat--except with a beaded headband. The 92-year-old WWII Army veteran, who had fought America's enemies, had worked with Clark at the Institute of American Indian Arts years ago. There the native Oklahoman Clark had helped the native American fight administrators, and as a long time teacher, was welcome at all the feast days or any other time in the northern pueblos of New Mexico, but especially that of the Lavatos.

He faced the urn, stood at attention, and quietly raised his arm to his weathered forehead, and snapped a final salute.