Seal them.
In the barrios and the rural stretches where the mesquite grows twisted and the wind doesn’t ask permission, there is an old wisdom. It is not found in textbooks or glossy home improvement magazines. It is found in the way Abuela tapes a plastic sheet over the window every November. It is found in the rolled-up towel tucked against the threshold of the front door. la casa weatherization
It is about a grandmother not having to choose between buying her arthritis medicine and turning on the heater. It is about a toddler being able to crawl on the linoleum floor in December without his lips turning blue. It is about sitting at the kitchen table on a windy night, the calentito air wrapping around your shoulders like a rebozo , and knowing that you fought the elements—and won. Seal them
You did not build a fortress. You did not install a smart system. You simply loved your house enough to patch its wounds. It is found in the way Abuela tapes
To weatherize la casa is to climb that ladder with a mask over your face and a flashlight in your teeth, and to say, “No más.” No more paying the utility company for air that leaks out like water through a sieve. No more shivering under three blankets while the thermostat fights a losing battle. The front door is the mouth of la casa . It welcomes the comadre with the cazuela . It bids goodbye to the children heading to school. But in winter, it is a traitor.
So this season, before the norte wind comes howling down from the mountains, grab your caulk gun and your roll of tape. Walk the perimeter of your kingdom.
We call it la casa weatherization .