I Want a Lustron Home

When my Mom would say, "Your Uncle Jimmie and his family live in a metal house," I didn't realize the novelty at the time. In fact, I'd forgotten about it for years until my sister reminded me recently, and I had a sort of epiphany.

photo attribution below

Who lives in a metal house? And why? Was it just to put magnets on the walls or ceiling, like my Aunt Donna did? (Mr. Ginley would LOVE that, by the way. You'd understand if you saw our refrigerator.)

But I digress.

My curiosity sufficient piqued, I went to my friend, the Google and inquired. Here's the rest of the story.

Lustron was a Columbus, Ohio manufacturer in the late 1940s that came up with an ingenious idea for prefab homes. It was perfect timing, given the post-war building boom was in full swing and the demand for new homes was at an all-time high. 

Lustron homes were made of an enameled-steel design and could be assembled in 360 hours. (That's 15 days, I did the math for you). The houses had a solid steel frame and were built on a concrete foundation. Most didn't have a basement. Unlike their bricks-and-mortar counterparts, Lustron homes required almost no maintenance. The roof never needed to be replaced. No painting was necessary. All that was required was to hose the thing down every now and again to get the schmutz off the siding. 

Truly, the Lustron home was way ahead of its time. Like today's tiny houses, it was compact and functional. Everything was right there at your fingertips and there was built-in-storage for your stuff. 

About 2,500 Lustron homes were built before the company went kaput. They weren't able to pay back their start-up loans and were shut down.

Fortunately, there have been some folks who see the beauty and fabulous mid-Century vibe of these tidy little domiciles. 

The Ohio Historical Society has a video of a Lustron house that was moved from Virginia back to Columbus and is now a museum there. The YouTube video is definitely worth the 4+ minute watch.

Ohio Magazine did a more in-depth article about the Lustron house and the company that created it. 

And one ambitious soul made a Lustron home locator that shows where the remaining homes are situated. They cover a wide swath of the country, from the east coast to New Mexico. 

I'm thinking it's time for a road trip to the past! 

Photo attribution: BFDhD, CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Childhood Echoes

Sure, I'm a grown-ass woman, but the ethos of childhood are so deeply engrained, they continue to peck at me, like pigeons in the park.

Can you spot the First Holy Communicant in the bushes?

For instance, every time I throw away leftovers or fresh foods that have become inedible, I feel the tug of my mother's admonitions not to waste food. I hear the distant echoes of children starving in a foreign country calling out to me, shaming me. And although I realize my overeating and gaining another pound or two will surely not help those hungry youngsters, I still feel the twinge of guilt as I scrape aged foodstuffs into the garbage bin.

My parents weren't the only ones who shaped my childhood. There were also the flightless birds in their floor-length habits, their hair tucked neatly into wimples, with brows stern and rulers at the ready, waiting for the next transgression, which always came. 

I'm speaking, of course, of the the nuns. Masters of guilt instillation. God's warriors and every Catholic child's only hope of salvation. Always there to remind you that wearing a short skirt was a passport to hell. That God wouldn't cotton to boys with long hippie hair. And that playing keep-away on the playground was akin to dancing with the devil. 

My favorite was the nun who, when a boy was sitting on his hands one day, screamed at him to keep his hands on his desk. Clearly, nuns knew what was in the hearts and minds (and pants) of young boys.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, only as I near the brink of turning a milestone age, where the scales tip from "getting old" to "officially over the hill," I'm reflecting a lot on where I am, where I've been and what the foreseeable future holds. 

Will I become the alter cocker who begins every sentence with "when I was young..."? Will I try to keep up with the Gen XYZ'ers and pretend my body isn't slowly grinding to a halt like the Racing Horses ride at Cedar Point? Or will I simply stare the future in the eye and call out, "bring it on!"

And now I hear my Mom's favorite phrase, oft repeated and appropriate for any number of occasions.

"We'll see."

Dancing (or not) Under the Eclipse

Frankly, I was a little surprised by the response I got to one of my Facebook posts this past week.

photo credit below

It was on Monday, the day of the Solar Eclipse 2024, a day to be remembered forever – or at least until after everyone had posted their photos of the event. 

This is what I said in my post: Contrary to what "someone" said, I did NOT do a pagan dance during the eclipse.

I was being flip, of course, and the post was in response to Mr. Ginley (aka "someone") who sent a text to this effect to our son. I didn't think much about it, but then I started getting a response.

"Why not?" asked Dave, echoed by Sue and Dana.

Rachelle said she was very disappointed in me.

I started to think maybe I do need to loosen up a little. This idea was reinforced when I turned to my "Postcards From Spirit." Now I have to explain this concept. Fashioned like tarot cards, each has a message on it from your spirit guides. You shuffle the deck and pick one. 

Now you're thinking I'm a little wacky (or a lot wacky). Just bear with me.

This is the card I randomly chose: "Are you taking yourself and your problems too seriously?," it began. "Maybe fear of the future is weighing on you. We would like you to take a little break from all that and start having FUN." It suggested I get "loose, silly and goofy," go dancing or watch a comedy. Or touch base with someone who will remind me of "how ridiculous and delightfully giddy you can be."

Well, sure, and now you're saying, "Get over it, Barb, that could apply to anybody. And let's face it, how ridiculous and delightfully giddy have you ever been?"

It's all true, of course. I'm a worry wart from way back, and it's hard for me cut loose, and I certainly don't loosen in public. Which is why I wasn't dancing in my backyard with all the Seniors at the senior housing center watching the eclipse just across my back fence. Although that would certainly have given them something to talk about on their FB pages.

But I digress.

It got me to thinking, and so I made a point of taking a break from my work (in my home office, just me and the cat) and did a little chair dancing. I've been exploring different types of music, so I wasn't just boogying to the Beatles. There's a CD of French music and one with Calypso. And Michael Jackson's greatest hits. (Don't judge.)

It was a nice break, it made me happy and best of all, there were no witnesses.

Now it's your turn!

Photo credit: Paramount Pictures, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

"I Want to Be Let Alone"

Greta Garbo is associated with the phrase, "I want to be alone" (or "vant" if you're saying it with the accent), but she told a close friend something a little different.

"I don't want to be 'left alone,' I want to be 'let alone.'"

That may seem like a pretty fine distinction, but oh, what difference a letter makes. 

I don't want to be left alone by friends and family, for example (not most of you, anyhow). But I do want to be let alone by those outside my circle.

I say this because I have a big birthday coming up later this year, and I've been flooded with reminders of same. In my mailbox, in my email and yes, even in my Facebook account, I keep getting ads for supplemental insurance. I've also received invitations for a free meal if I sit through an explanation of the screwed-up system that Medicare has become. Every insurance company on the planet, apparently, wants to be my carrier. 

And let's not forget the lovely brochures I've gotten from funeral parlors offering me affordable pre-payment plans.

Enough, all of you. 

The constant reminders of my age and impending decrepitude have begun to feel like a slab of cement pressing down on my chest, slowly crushing the life out of me. Which, if you think about it, is not in the insurance company's best interest. Their best interest being that I will live as long and healthily as possible so they don't have to pay up.

Just how persistent are these vultures, you may well wonder.

We're still getting ads addressed to my father-in-law. And he's been gone for well over 30 years. 

Maybe those smarty-pants don't know everything, after all. 

Photo attribution: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (work for hire), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons