During the process of writing The Houses That Sears Built, I read several early 20th Century issues of Ladies’ Home Journal. Lots of fun ads in these old magazines, but this was one of my favorites. I mean, just look at this woman:

(Article continues below):

Not a happy woman

Before there was Crisco, there was Cottolene. Both of these shortenings are made from cottonseed oil, but Cottolene had a secondary ingredient: Beef tallow.

An early ad for this pre-Crisco product makes this bold promise:  “Since the art of cooking was originated there has been no food product so successful as in every way as Cottolene.”

According to an article that appeared in an online magazine, Journal of Antiques (February 2002),  Cottolene became popular during a time when a disproportionate number of Victorian men and women suffered from neurasthenia (a physical complaint with a myriad of symptoms that was shockingly similar to what we’d call Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) and dyspepsia (tummy troubles). Popular doctors of the day proclaimed the trouble was an unhealthy diet comprised of too much lard (rendered hog fat) and too much beef fat. Cottolene was the healthy alternative and was made from 90% cottonseed oil and a mere 10% beef tallow. (For those who don’t know their fat, tallow is rendered fat from cattle. Lard is rendered hog fat.)

Cottonseeds (and their oil) had been an unused byproduct of the cotton plant. Beef tallow was available in abundance from the Chicago stockyards, which were jam-packed with extra-chubby corn-fed cattle in the late 1800s and early 1900s. The producers of Cottolene had plenty of raw material from which to manufacture their product.

And as we now know - from reading this advertisement from the 1903 Ladies’ Home Journal - only old Fogy’s refuse to use Cottolene in their cooking.

I purchased this picture on eBay for $3.00 many years ago. What a thrill to find an original picture of a Sears Home from the 1910s!

This house came out of the Sears Roebuck catalog and was shipped in 30,000 pieces.

The house was shipped by railroad and after the boxcar arrived it was moved over to a siding. You then had 24 hours to unload all those pieces of house!  Typically, it took many trips to and from the train station to get the boxcar unloaded and that’s why Sears Homes are often found within 1-2 miles of railroad tracks.  Each piece of lumber was stamped with a letter and numbers to facilitate assembly (see image at bottom of screen).

A 75-page leather-bound instruction book, with the homeowner’s name embossed in gold on the cover, gave precise directions on the proper placement of those 30,000 pieces of house. The book offered this somber (and probably wise) warning:  “Do not take anyone’s advice as to how this building should be assembled.”

In 1908, Sears estimated that a carpenter would charge $450.00 to erect your spacious two-story foursquare, with its hipped roof and a lone shed dormer in the attic. However, Sears also promised that a man with an elementary understanding of construction techniques would be able to assemble the house.

According to their calculations, a painter would want $34.50 to paint the two-story house.  The plasterer’s bill would be around $200, they figured, which included nailing up 840 square yards of wooden lath and applying three coats of plaster.

Masonry (block, brick, cement) and plaster were not included in the kit, but the Bill of Materials List advised that 1300 cement blocks would be needed for the basement walls and foundation.

The salutary effects of living in a modern home were extolled throughout the pages of the Sears catalogs. Beyond the financial freedom and comfort in old age that owning a Sears home would surely bring, Sears promised that their modern homes would improve the health, morals and well-being of its occupants.

The term “Modern Home” was part of the vernacular in the early 1900s. It was a descriptive term indicating that a house had modern amenities (that we take for granted today), such as a primitive, centralized heating system, electricity and indoor plumbing. In some cases, the houses were more modern than the communities in which they were built.

An original photo of a Sears House from about 1912 or so

Here's the catalog page from a 1913 Sears Modern Homes catalog

Picture of marked lumber from a Sears House. The mark is usually found about 2-8" from the end of the beam and is often in black ink. The "D" represented that this was a 2x8, C for a 2x6 and B for a 2x4. This mark, together with that 75-page instruction book facilitated construction.

To buy an autographed copy of  The Houses That Sears Built, click here. It makes the perfect Christmas present!

Did I mention that it makes the perfect Christmas present?

Asbestos is a naturally occuring mineral that has amazing insulation properties. According to some sources, its history in everyday applications goes back 2000 years or more, when it was used for table cloths. After the meal, the dirty table cloth could be thrown into the furnace where all the gunky foodstuffs were burned away and what was left was a pristine, clean cloth.

The word Asbestos has its roots in a Greek word for “inextinguishable.”

In more modern times, it was used extensively for everything from home insulation to ceiling tiles to primitive sheetrock products. In small items, it was used in toasters, hair dryers and (as the ad below shows) stoves and ovens. It was also heavily used in automotive products, such as heat shields and brake pads and linings.

Today, asbestos is a trial attorney’s best friend. Sad too, because asbestos started off with such promise and in fact a superior product would boast of its asbestos content.

Below is an ad for Asbestine, an “ideal stove lining” and “as easy to cut as a pine board.”

Nice.

Asbestos - in days of yore - was touted as a superior product for insulation

From 1908-1940, Sears sold houses by mail order. These 30,000-piece kits came with a 75-page instruction book that told the wanna-be homeowner how to put it all together. Sears promised that a “man of average abilities” could have it 100% complete in 90 days. Sears offered 370 designs, including foursquares, cape cods, neo-tudors, trailing edge Victorians, Colonials and more.

The specialty catalogs  - devoted to “Modern Homes” - averaged about 100 pages with the peak being 1924, when the catalog hit 140 pages, with 100 designs.  These “Sears Modern Homes” catalogs can now be found on eBay for a variety of prices.

And these really were modern homes. Think about this. Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote her “Little House” books describing life on the plains in the 1870s and 1880s. She talked about living in a soddie - a house made with dirt blocks - and waking up to find frost on her comforter.

At the turn of the 20th Century, American architecture evolved very quickly. We went from living in tiny cabins and soddies (sans lights, central heat and indoor plumbing) to these sweet little bungalows with three bedrooms, a full bathroom, and a kitchen - wired for electricity!

Sears Osborne, catalog image from 1924

In fact, sometimes these mail-order homes were more modern than the communities in which they were sold.

And that’s why the plumbing and electrical fixtures were NOT part of the kit home, but were purchased separately. If electrical service and municipal water systems were not available in your community, you wouldn’t need to spend money on the plumbing and electrical supplies!

In the back pages of the Sears Modern Homes catalogs, this little jewel was offered:

And it has two seats - for more family fun in the outhouse!!

The Sears Modern Homes department closed their doors in 1940. During a corporate house-cleaning after WW2, all sales records, blueprints, ephemera and other items were destroyed. The only way to find these 75,000 kit homes today is literally, one by one.

To learn more, buy Rose’s book, The Houses That Sears Built.

Several years ago when I was a freelance writer, I was asked to do a feature story on the Foursquare housing style, which is so prevalent in the Midwest. My editor said I needed to get into a few houses and take plenty of interior shots, too. I found a kind soul in Illinois that allowed me to come right in to her home and take several pictures.

In the dining room/living room area, I saw that she had built-in bookcase colonnades between the two rooms. This is a nice feature that is frequently found in these foursquare homes. As I turned the corner into her dining room, I saw that the bookcases on the dining room side had glass doors. I was busy snapping photos and looking through the SLR viewfinder (this was in the old 35-mm film days) when I saw a small child looking back at me on the other side of those glass doors. I let out an audible gasp and lowered the camera.

And this is what I saw:

I sent the image to my editor who wrote back and said, “Thanks for sharing that. I’ve asked my husband to start working on one immediately that’s big enough for several teenagers.”

Despite my encouragement, my editor decided not to publish this particular photo with the other images.

And I thought it was some of my best work.

Buy an autographed copy of Rose’s newest book here.

Dogs, as the book title suggests, never lie about love and they know a lot about love. And that’s why I put Teddy (Theodora Duncan Doughnuts) on the cover of my book. And she was a good little model. When I positioned her on the desk for her photo op, she cocked her little head at the perfect angle. When I reviewed the photos, I saw that she bore a resemblance to “Nipper.”

And how many people remember Nipper?

He was the mascot for RCA/Victor and was shown leaning into a phonograph horn to hear “his late master’s voice.”

First Nipper. Now Teddy.

Famous dogs. 

Teddy the Dog on the cover of my new book!

Many years ago, my father decided to uproot his young family and move from sunny Los Angeles to Portsmouth, Virginia. His reason:  He said there was too much traffic in LA.

The year was 1954.

In my opinion, the move was a grievous mistake. My father was a native of California and Mom had moved there when she was six years old. They left behind brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and Aunts and Uncles and all the delightful bonuses that go with living near family.

In short, the move put 3,000 miles between them and their families.

He came to Virginia to take a job with Skippy Peanut Butter, then located on High Street in Portsmouth, Virginia. He could have landed a similar job on the West Coast. I don’t know why he made the choices he made. He had good parents, as did my beloved Mom. I do know that she missed her family and friends every day for the rest of her life.

I grew up knowing virtually nothing about my extended family, and to this day, I still feel pea-green with envy when I hear people talk about their special relationship with their grandmother or grandfather. I have never known what that’s like, but it sounds glorious.

In 1969, I saw my paternal grandparents for the second time in my life when they made the arduous 3,000-mile trip in their 1966 Cadillac Sedan DeVille. My maternal grandparents died before I was born. (I first met my paternal grandparents in 1966 when our family of six piled into Dad’s 1957 Cadillac and drove to California, sans seat belts of course.)

In this picture, Mom is boarding a DC-4 for a cross-continental flight to the West Coast. Throughout her life, she missed her beloved sister Engie (”Dearie”) and as often as possible, she traveled back to California to visit her. I don’t remember Mom flying anywhere else but to California.

This photo was snapped in 1955 at Norfolk Airport and it’s one of my favorite photos. It’s a great snapshot of the early years of aviation. The “gates” that we’re all familiar with in modern airports started life as a real gates, made with chain-link fencing. There was no airport security. People put on their best clothes and their finest hats and then drove to the airport and checked in at the counter and got a paper ticket and then walked outside to board their planes.

The halcyon days of the happy skies and easy boarding and carefree flying. It’s an era that’s now securely ensconced in the past.

Mother prepares to board the DC-4 at Norfolk Airport.

Mom (far right) with her beloved sister, a brother (Harry) and their father (1955).

When my 26-year-old daughter called to tell me that she’d made the decision to donate one of her kidneys to her best friend, Kaycee, I was not a happy woman. In fact, I was against it - wholeheartedly, or in this case,  whole-kidneyedly.

A few days later, I talked with her father and he made a valid point.

“Rose,” he told me, “the odds of those two girls being a match are one in a million. Don’t worry about this. Chances are good that once she’s tested, it’ll all end right there.”

Several weeks later, there was another phone call from Crystal.

“Mom, please understand,” she pleaded. “There’s a good chance Kaycee will die if she doesn’t get a kidney within the next year or two. She’s 24 years old and has already been on dialysis for 18 months. This is something I have to do. Tell me that you’ll support me in this.”

And then I sighed a motherly sigh and promised her that I’d try to grow into a supportive parent.

A few weeks passed when the next phone call came. “Mom, we’re a match. The doctors are stunned. They say that we’re as good a match as if we were siblings. I told Kaycee that there’s a reason that we always felt like sisters. I knew we’d be a perfect match. I just knew it.”

The surgery was scheduled for April 23, 2007. I told Crystal that I’d fly to Peoria, Illinois for the surgery. I was still not happy about this but I knew I had to do the right thing for my little girl.  My sweet little girl.

Less than five weeks earlier, I’d remarried and now I asked my new husband to fly with me. I couldn’t imagine doing this alone.

Continued at Kidney-shaped Hearts, Part II

Crystal (on the far left) with her sister Anna, Grandma Betty and cousin Laurel (1985)

continued from part I

My new husband and I arrived in Peoria the day before the surgery and spent some time with both girls. I needed to meet this Kaycee person. Despite my best “thy will be done” prayers, I still felt resentful toward Kaycee. I asked God again and again to open my heart and let Kaycee in..

Kaycee was a soft-spoken, sweet girl with freckles, fair skin and red hair. The moment I laid eyes on her, I felt an outpouring of maternal love that could only have its source in the divine. Crystal took me aside and said, “A few weeks ago, Kaycee told me she couldn’t go through with this. She said that it was better for her to pass on than to take a kidney from her best friend. I told her that I wanted to do this.”

Crystal also told me a little about Kaycee’s background. She received her first transplant when she was two years old. That kidney (from her mother), had lasted almost 20 years. Since then, she’d been on massive amounts of drugs and had already endured countless hospitalizations and surgeries. A few years earlier, Kaycee’s father, who’d been a touchstone throughout her difficult childhood, had died suddenly. And now Kaycee was in dialysis three times a week, three hours per treatment. It was after Crystal accompanied Kaycee to dialysis that she realized this was no way for a young woman to live. In additional to the physical and emotional strain, there was a financial strain, too. Twenty-four-year-old Kaycee was more than $100,000 in debt, due to the incredibly expensive dialysis treatment.

At one point during the five-hour surgery, Kaycee’s strong and stalwart mother stepped into a corner of the waiting room and sobbed uncontrollably. I felt a wave of compassion for this woman. How blessed I’d been to have had three healthy girls. How short-sighted and small-minded I’d been to rail against this procedure.

Continued at Kidney-shaped Hearts, Part III

Kasee (left) and Crystal (right)

continued from part II

The surgeons appeared soon and told us that everything went very well. Within 24 hours of Kaycee’s surgery, the new kidney had produced eight quarts of urine.

“Dialysis is poor substitute for a God-made kidney,” the surgeon told us the next morning. “Kaycee’s new kidney is already hard at work, searching her body for unneeded waste and finding lots of things dialysis left behind. It’s already doing a fine job. And have you seen her? She looks better already!”

Within two months, Kaycee looked and felt like a new person. For the first time in two years, she was free to drink more than one liter of fluid per day. And no more one-hour drives to the dialysis center and three-hour waits. And no more swollen ankles and highly restrictive diet.

In retrospect, I’d have to say that, of the two girls, Crystal may have gleaned an even bigger blessing.  After this event, her eyes were opened wide and she saw that one person can make a huge difference in this world and she’d been that one person. While she was still in the hospital room recovering, my quiet husband leaned toward her and whispered, “You are my hero.”

Crystal and Kaycee’s story was featured in a four-part series on a local TV station, and inspired thousands of viewers. The reporter told me that viewer response was wonderful and people were touched to tears by her unselfishness and pure love and generous spirit.

And I learned that our Creator gives us a few spare parts and one of them is kidneys. Most people can live a good, long life with only one kidney. And if Crystal is ever in need of a donor kidney, her name will be moved to the top of the donor list.

While convalescing, Crystal lived with my husband and I for several months and then she decided it was time to take action and make some long-term goals a reality. She returned to college and is now completing her bachelor’s degree and will graduate in Spring 2010. I’m so proud of her for so many reasons. Yes, I invested a lot of healthy food and good effort and persistent prayer into growing those two healthy kidneys. Little did I know that one of them would be needed 26 years later to save someone else’s little girl.

To read the original news article that appeared in the Illinois press, click here.

To read more about live organ donation, click here or here

Buy Rose’s book here.

Kasee and Rissle, several months after their surgery

In my wildest dreams, I never imagined that my life would end like this.

It was my own fault. How could I have been so stupid? I’d agreed to take a sailboat ride on the Mississippi River with some guy I’d just met online. When Date #33 first suggested this outing, the rule “always meet your date in a public place” popped into my mind, but I couldn’t imagine that a 65-year-old semi-retired hand surgeon would go to all this trouble, just so he could chop an unsuspecting writer into 328 little bite-sized pieces and feed her to the three-eyed, mutant fishies in the Mississippi.

We had connected through a Christian dating site. And up until now, our first date had been progressing beautifully. Bobbing about in a beautiful boat on the busy river, we talked freely and laughed easily as we watched the river traffic move to and fro.

And then my 33rd date asked if I was hungry.

“I could eat something,” I replied. Which, as most women know, really means “I’m about to faint from hunger because I haven’t eaten anything more than a package of sugar-free gum in the last three days. Bring me food and bring it fast and don’t skimp on the mayonnaise.”

He hastily disappeared below deck.

When he returned, he had a cooler in one hand and a fishing knife in the other. The kind with serrated edges. The kind that’s used to field dress deer and can easily and quickly remove all their internal organs with a simple flick of the wrist. The kind of knife that can slice and dice 45-year-old female writers, who are foolish enough to board a pretty sailboat and drift out to the wide-open sea with a total stranger who probably stole someone’s identity and/or their pretty sailboat.

We made eye contact as he ascended the stairs. A sinister sneer crept across his face. The connection between my retina and brain was momentarily lost as a massive fog of fear moved in and scrambled the signals. All I could see was a newspaper headline: Local Author Found Floating Face Down in Mississippi River; Serrated Knife was Murder Weapon.

Then I started thinking about that headline. Would it really say, “Serrated Knife” or would the editor go with just “Knife” or maybe, “Hunting Knife”? And I resented the “Local Author” part, too. I’d gained some national recognition and had been featured in the national media repeatedly. I was a National Author now. Maybe it implied that I was a national author that lived locally. I sincerely hoped that the distinction would be clarified in the first paragraph. What a nuisance that’d be to get all that straightened out after the fact, especially if the article didn’t include a proper bio. Especially if the national author was floating face down in the local river.

Number 33 paused at the top of the stairs. Time for me to make a decision. Was he a knife-wielding whack job or just another eccentric surgeon? The decision was unanimous. All my personalities voted together on this one. He’s a lunatic. How could I have not noticed those dark beady eyes? And his hands? Oh dear heaven, why hadn’t I taken the time to be more observant? He had five fat little sausages stuck on the end of his two formless mitts, parading as human hands. All surgeons have beautiful hands with long, sinewy fingers. And his clothes. Why hadn’t I paid better attention to his clothes? He didn’t dress like a doctor. He was wearing a ragged t-shirt, khaki shorts with a failing hem and worn-out boat shoes. Do most physicians shop at Goodwill so they can look like homeless bums? I think not.

He came closer and I glanced over the edge of the boat to see how much effort would be required to flop like a fish off the deck. The only reason I didn’t jump was my eyeglasses. Three days prior, I’d picked up my new $400 eyeglasses with designer frames and lightweight polycarbonate lenses. If I jumped, I’d lose my eyeglasses. It’s tough to make a dramatic getaway while pawing through the water and trying to save your sinkable specs.

Life.

Eyeglasses.

Life.

Eyeglasses.

Tough call.

Before I could decide, he clinched his jaw and raised the knife high above his head and stabbed a perfectly innocent chunk of Havarti Dill. The cheese took one for the team.

I breathed a sigh of relief. When he opened the cooler, he produced chilled grapes and ice-cold water. I was surprised at how hungry I was, so soon after seeing all 45 years of my life flash before my eyes.

Next:  The culture of loneliness and the “Happy” Holidays.

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Like this snippet? Read the rest here!

When my husband and I first became engaged, we went to a couple jewelry stores and eyeballed a few diamonds. I was looking at chips. He was looking at rocks.

“It’s just a symbol of our love,” I told him. “The love we share is the real gold. This diamond is just the paper currency, a tangible representation of something too wonderful for words.”

“This is the ring my wife will wear for the rest of her life,” he replied. “I want you to remember how important you are to me. Think of it as an ‘eight-cow diamond.’”

A few days later, we stood in the parking lot of the jewelry store, admiring the sparkly diamond prominently displayed on my left hand. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

“I checked the price of cattle futures this morning,” he told me. “And this ring is a little cheaper than eight head of cattle. I got off light.”

I smiled inside and out. And I still smile when I recall that happy memory. Yes, the ring is nothing more than a symbol. Yet three years later, I’m still surprised by how many times each day, I gaze at my ring finger and silently admire the diamond and all the beautiful and good things that it represents.

“I’m an eight-cow wife,” I tell myself over and over again, still waiting for the import of that precious message to sink in and establish a permanent home in the marrow of my soul. It does feel mighty good to see your own value through someone else’s eyes.

Want to read more? Learn more about Rose’s new book here!

Original story by Patricia McGerr here.

The Eight-Cow Wife

In my book, The Ugly Woman’s Guide to Internet Dating, I talk about my four theories on beauty.

My third beauty theory is The Eight-Cow Theory. This name comes from a story, “Johnny Lingo’s Eight-Cow Wife,” which appeared in the February 1988 Reader’s Digest. (Written by Patricia McGerr, it originally appeared in Woman’s Day.)

According to the story, Johnny Lingo lived in a place where men often paid a bride price to the father of their beloved. A less-than-beautiful woman might fetch a few chickens or goats and a stunning woman might fetch two, three or even four cows. A real babe might be worth five cows. But Johnny paid eight cows for a woman that others described as plain and homely. He explained to a visitor that “many things can change a woman” but the thing that matters most is how she sees herself. He wanted his wife to know that she had great value in his eyes; that she was an “eight-cow wife.” After Johnny saw her value and innate beauty, his new wife grew to see her own value and beauty.

Sometimes, we need outside help when we’re striving to rediscover our own beauty.

During the three years that I spent in my own post-divorce wilderness, I worked tirelessly to improve myself financially, emotionally, intellectually and physically. For three years, I read trillions of spiritually centered self-improvement books. Each day, I studied the messages contained on the billions of inspirational notes I’d taped to the walls of my home. But these efforts to boost my self-esteem paled when compared to the magical words sensuously whispered by a long-term romantic partner.

Some of the most memorable words came from my 69th first date, a man who happened to be a Longshoreman. He’s the one that told me (without any prompting), “Rose, you are a beautiful woman.” And then there was the day he called and left a voice mail that said, “Good morning, my curvaceous cutie.” And one Tuesday afternoon he called to tell me, “I love to close my eyes and remember your beautiful smile.”

When Date #69 left my life, the aroma of those compliments remained behind. This experience, an absolute first for me, was the equivalent of someone taking me up in a spaceship and pointing out the curvature of the earth, proving once and for all that it really is round, not flat. He showed me a new view of myself from a new perspective and there was no going back to the old way of believing.

This delightful experience prepared me for my 70th (and last!) first date. (Read more at The Eight-Cow Wife, Part II.)

And more recently, I learned that I’m not the only one who loves this “Eight Cow Wife” story. There are several websites devoted to the topic, and even a clothing manufacturer of the same name!  http://www.eightcowwife.com

Learn more about Rose’s new book here!

Read the rest of the story here:

Getting married the second time, I was quite surprised by how much compromise and adjusting was required - from both sides of the aisle. Mr. Second Husband was a good guy and an honest man and a smart cookie and he did his own laundry, but living with him day to day proved challenging. And according to him, I was also difficult to live with. That was a shocking tidbit, for sure!

And then one year after we were married, my middle daughter had her first baby - the first grandbaby in the family. My husband spent way too much money to buy a last-minute airplane ticket so he could join me in Illinois for a weekend. In short, he flew 1,000 miles to kiss the new baby. Me, the ultimate cheapskate, suggested that he save a few dollars and wait a few weeks to make the trek. He said it was important that he fly out there immediately.

“That’s just what families do,” he told me.

Besides, he added, he liked babies and wanted to hold a baby in his arms again.

And so it was that within 72 hours of the baby’s birth, Wayne held a brandy-new baby in his arms. And I managed to capture the image with my camera.

This is one of my favorite pictures of Wayne for so many reasons. Above all, it’s an important reminder that even when he leaves a sticky gooey spot on the kitchen floor for the 4,827th time, he’s still a keeper.  I’ve pasted a copy of this photo beside my red couch in my home office. That’s the room I retreat to when I’m so mad at him that steam hisses from both ears. He still drives me crazy on a semi-regular basis, but I can’t gaze upon this picture without smiling.  He’s a good man. He knows when it’s important to spend a few dollars. He loves family. He has a good moral compass. And he loves babies. Most of all, he loves his wife’s grandbaby.

Pop and Baby

The last few days of nasty weather, flooding and non-stop rain have left me seriously depressed. Well, it was partly the weather and also a few tough days where important things went badly and the little niggling things wore me down to a nub. There’s a story about a Victorian-era suicide note found on the body of a middle-aged woman. It read simply, “All this buttoning and unbuttoning.”

Sometimes, it’s the little things that get you down.

And then last night, a handicapped friend called and asked for a ride to church. It was a long ways out of my way, and would require that I leave way early and get home way late. But how could I say no? And then a funny thing happened on the way home from church. Out of the blue, I asked my friend if she’d like to swing by the chicken place and pick up a bucket of chicken and share it with her niece and their family (with whom she lives). My friend loved the idea.

Four hours later, I was back home with a new lease on life. That black cloud of depression had dissipated like fog in the morning sunlight.

Sometimes, it’s the little things that can perk you right up.

It’s rained for several days now and this “little storm” turned into a record-breaking Nor’Easter, that has trumped the tide levels of Hurrican Isabel. Teddy the Dog and I have nigh well had it with the rain.

My 1924-built house took a few hits, but in the big picture, we fared quite well. Lost an attic window when the 84-year-old oak tree threw something at the house. And apparently the oak tree threw something at the slate roof, too. And then the Nor’Easter monster ate a chunk out of my crown molding.

Yesterday, I had to drive to Portsmouth and that was a long, slow journey - but I made it. Today, I’m staying home. Tomorrow, I’m going somewhere - anywhere!

Flooding in my Colonial Place neighborhood

Flooding in my Colonial Place neighborhood

All kinds of junk has washed up into our neighborhood, such as this wooden pallet.

Teddy is ready for the rain to quit. She misses our long walks.

Big tree at the end of Gosnold Avenue came down

Brick ranch at LOW tide

From October 13, 2000 to October 25, 2005, I took care of my beloved Aunt Engie. She was my mother’s sister and she suffered from senile dementia. She lived in a nursing home in Alton, IL and I’d go by several times a month to sit with her, pray for her, sing hymns with her, eat with her and sometimes, just to sit by her bedside.

Like so many baby boomers, I didn’t have a proper appreciation of the full import of Veteran’s Day - until I observed a Veteran’s Day ceremony at the nursing home.

My Auntie had served in the Women’s Army Corp (WACs) and my mother in the WAVES.

Walking out of the nursing home one afternoon, the activity director stopped me and said that they were making their Veteran’s Day plans and would have a special celebration for the Veterans at the home.

At home, I called my mother (pictured below) and asked about Engie’s contributions to the war. A lieutenant in the WAVES during WWII, my mother was happy to talk about the war years.

“When we enlisted, we signed up for the duration plus six months,” she told me. “We didn’t know how or when or even if the war would end. Hitler looked unstoppable. There was talk that the war could go on for years and years. The media called us ‘the lost generation.’ We were an entire generation that missed the years of our youth. That time of our life was lost to those war years.”

On Veteran’s Day, I arrived just as the ceremony was beginning. The activity director was standing in a corner of the dining area, talking into a microphone wired through a karaoke machine. About 25 men and two women (all in wheelchairs) formed a large half circle around the room. About 40 family members made up the audience.

My eyes searched for Auntie. I found her near the far end of the circle and she was dressed in fresh clothes with a strand of faux pearls around her neck. Some thoughtful soul had dusted her cheeks with a little rouge.

Then the color guard appeared. Six old men from the local VFW, dressed in full military regalia, marched purposefully into the room. The moment the flag bearer came into view, there was a shuffling sound as many of the wheelchair-bound men pushed on their armrests and struggled to rise to their feet. The great majority of the men - whether upright or seated - proudly saluted the American flag. The sight of these old men forcing themselves to their feet - out of respect for their flag - brought tears to my eyes.

Speaking slowly, Karen told a little bit about each person, their rank, special commendations and what they did in the war. Listening to Karen, I heard descriptions of people who bore little resemblance to the frail, elderly men before me. Some were decorated war heroes who had been awarded medals like the purple heart, the bronze star and more.  Some had been POW’s in German and Japanese camps. Some had been on the front lines of the world’s worst war, ready to lay down their life for the fellow man. And, I kept remembering, they went into this hellish war for the duration, plus six months.

After each narrative, the color guard marched toward the individual being described and standing ramrod straight, the lead man crisply saluted the honored veteran and then bowed slightly, and presented each veteran with a tiny cloth flag and one red rose.

Some of the veterans sat up straighter in their wheelchairs and saluted back. Some just smiled. Many wiped a tear from their eyes as they clasped the tiny flag in their beautiful old hands.

When they came to Auntie, Karen told the group that she was a Sergeant in the W.A.C. and a truck mechanic and driver for the big transports. When the color guard presented her with a rose and a flag, she smiled from ear to ear.

By now, I gave up trying to maintain a modicum of composure. I was a mess. I pulled a tissue from my pocket and just like Mom, gave a nose-toot that could be heard around the whole building.

When the ceremony was over, Karen passed out music sheets and then sat down at the piano and played “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

I looked around the room at these honorable and selfless veterans and I loved them and I loved that old hymn and at 42 years of age, I got my first glimpse of the real meaning of Veteran’s Day.

Betty Fuller, during WW2, wearing her WAVES uniform

Writing about Sears Homes has been a fun gig, but my income from this career has been quite modest. But as I mentioned in a prior post, there are other means of compensation beyond dollars.

My co-author Dale and I are finishing up a book on the kit homes of Montgomery Ward. As part of this research, I pored over old Wardway Homes catalogs, reading the many testimonials from happy customers. And I saw an especially interesting testimonial from a man named “Ringer” in Quinter, Kansas.

“We are well pleased with our Ohio which bought of you,” wrote Mathias Ringer in the 1919 Wardway Homes catalog. “Everybody is welcome on the Ringer Ranch. Everything is modern and is from Montgomery Ward, furniture and all. We want to build two more of these later on” (page 44).

Thanks to Google, I quickly found that Quinter, Kansas is not a very big place so I took a gamble and sent a letter to all the Ringers in Quinter, Kansas. I sent a copy of the testimonial with my letter and told them about my project. Within 30 days, I had a letter from a Gail Ringer, telling me that Mathias Ringer was his grandfather and that Mathias had relocated to Quinter from Somerset County, Pennsylvania to get away from the coal mines. Then 19 years old, Mathias was told that he had the early stages of black lung, and that if he got out of the coal mines and into a better climate, he might live many more years.

And that’s how Mathias Ringer landed in Quinter, Kansas.

Gail Ringer invited me to come out to Quinter and stay with him for a few days and see the Wardway Ohio (a spacious cross-gabled kit home) that his grandfather had built. I readily accepted the invitation.

I flew into Hayes, Kansas, a wee tiny airport (and that’s another story all its own). Gail and his son met me at the airport and drove me back to Quinter. It was a wonderful few days and I saw the Wardway Ohio that Mathias Ringer had built in 1919. The Ringers of Quinter Kansas treated me like family and it was a very happy few days. Gail Ringer regaled me with stories of his grandfather and father. He shared his memories of growing up in the Wardway Ohio (pictured below). This trip reminded of the significant perks of being a writer. I had the time of my life, and it was a delight to find people who had such a clear and strong sense of family and integrity.

Yesterday, I received a letter in the mail that my friend Gail Ringer had passed on. It had been my hope that he’d see a copy of this new book on Wardway Homes before he died (with his interview inside), but it didn’t work out that way.

In the letter from Gail’s son, he wrote, “His anticipation of your 2007 visit was like a spring tonic for him. When the plans for your arrival began to materialize, he perked up immensely. Thanks so much for your part in reviving his spirit.”

As I said, sometimes the best recompense comes in non-pecuniary forms.

The Ringer Ranch in Kansas

For so many years, I had dreamt of being a successful writer. I submitted countless manuscripts to countless places and met with rejection after rejection. Every now and then, I’d sell a short piece to a magazine that paid with contributor copies. In other words, no money.

And then in 1995, I took a job as a stringer for the St. Louis Post Dispatch. It was a great job and a fantastic learning experience. From there, I was offered a job writing for the Christian Science Journal. Next, I was offered a job as a contributing editor at and up and coming website, and with that job, I felt that I’d arrived. I made $30 an hour, and it was steady work and it was in a field (architectural history) that I loved. And then my editor assigned me to do a story on Sears kit homes.

Illinois, it turned out, had thousands of them. That feature story turned into a series of articles and that series of articles eventually turned into a book, The Houses That Sears Built. That book turned into four books on kit homes, and a career until itself. For four years, I flitted around the country and traveled to 24 states and gave 200 talks. That was a whole lot of fun.

Today, I put the finishing touches on my fifth book on kit homes (co-authored by Dale Patrick Wolicki). This will be my seventh title going out into the world. Seven books. I’ve got books #8 and #9 in the hopper but I think after this, I may call it quits. In fact, I’m leaning hard in that direction.

Writing is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I surely do enjoy writing articles (and blogs!) but writing books requires a persistence and dedication that can be all-consuming. I spent four years writing The Houses That Sears Built. The amount of research that it took to produce that 160-page tome was mind-numbing. It took me six years to write The Ugly Woman’s Guide to Internet Dating. Each of these books require an incredible investment of time, energy and effort.

And what is the payback? Well, if you factor in all those hours I spent writing the books, I make about $1.03 an hour. It’s not about money, I’m sorry to say.

But the plusses are big. My books are my legacy. Long after I’ve left for heaven, these books will still be around. In the case of kit homes, I am confident that my research on kit homes will endure for decades after I’m gone. And there’s the satisfaction of knowing that my words touched people’s lives.

Years ago, I received a letter from an old man who said that after his wife passed on, he was despondent with grief. He couldn’t find a reason to get out of bed each morning. And then he discovered Sears Homes and the joy of looking for Sears Homes in his community. His letter said that my books had turned him onto this unique piece of American history and that now he had a reason to look forward to each day. He said my books had done all this for him.

When I look at the years it takes to produce one book, I get depressed and overwhelmed. When I look at my annual income from all this effort, I get even more depressed and overwhelmed. But that’s when I need to turn my gaze and look at the good that these books produce, and the joy that they bring into the world.

Maybe there will be a 10th book. One day.  Eventually. Maybe.

After my marriage of 24 years ended abruptly, it was my passionate interest in early 20th Century kit homes - Sears Homes - that kept me afloat - financially and emotionally. I loved writing about those houses. I loved learning about those houses. And I loved looking at pictures of those houses.

As it turned out, 2002 was one heckuva year. My beloved, funny, smart, eccentric, endearing mother died on January 1, 2002. In March 2002, my book - The Houses That Sears Built - was published. On May 1st, my marriage ended in divorce and in the blink of an eye, I lost all of my inlaws - people that I’d known and loved and cherished since I was a senior in high school. In June of 2002, my two eldest daughters moved out of the state and I moved out of the family home and into a crummy singles’ apartment.

It was a tough year.

Many mornings, waking up in my singles’ apartment, I’d look up at the ceiling and simply wonder, “What happened to my life?”

The stress of all this change was mind-numbing.

But in the midst of all that turmoil, wonderful things were happening. Six weeks after my self-published tome on Sears Homes hit the streets, a reporter tracked me down and said that he was writing a piece on kit homes, and would I mind being interviewed, and of course, they’d mention my book in the article. About three weeks later, the story ran in the The New York Times. A few weeks after that, I got a call from a New York production company. They’d seen the article and were calling to ask if I’d be interested in appearing in a new show that was being produced for PBS.

The tentative title for the new program was, History Detectives. And from there, it was off to the races.

For the last 10 years, Sears Homes have been my passion, my avocation and my joy. I referred to these early 20th Century kit homes as “My Little Pretties,” and that’s what they were. They really were my little pretties. The whole story of Sears Homes was wholly captivating. The houses were shipped from Sears and arrived at the building site in 30,000 pieces and came with a 75-page instruction book and a promise that a “man of average abilities” could assemble one in 90 days. But to me, they were more than just another quirky little chapter in America’s architectural history. They became the guiding light that enabled me to keep going when I feared that (at the age of 43) my best days were behind me.

By January 1, 2007, my life had turned a new corner. January 1st was my wedding day, and the start of a whole new chapter in my life. And in the last 10 years, my book and I have been appeared on A&E’s Biography, CBS Sunday Morning News, and more. And in Summer 2006, me and my little pretties made the front page of the Wall Street Journal.

Somtimes life’s endings are just paving the way for new beginnings.

Here are a few pictures of my little pretties:

Original catalog image from 1928 Wardway Homes catalog

Mongtomery Ward "Mayflower" in Roanoke, VA

Sears Alhambra - original catalog image from 1928 Sears Modern Homes catalog

Sears Alhambra in Richmond, VA

My husband tends to poo-poo Facebook as do many people of his generation. (He’s much, much older than I am; he was born six years earlier than me.)  But thanks to Facebook, I’ve reconnected with a handful of school chums that I met many years ago at John Tyler Elementary School. In 1971, Portsmouth Public Schools underwent a sea change, when the Supreme Court ordered that students be bused from other neighborhoods to create a diverse educational experience.

Sadly, most of my school friends from Glenshellah and Waterview didn’t go on with me to Harry Hunt Junior High and forever fell off my radar. That was ever more true for the girls. Their parents moved to Churchland or Western Branch or put their children into private school. I can think of only three girls from my class of 32 students that showed up in September 1971 at Harry Hunt.

Fast forward about 40 years to Facebook, and through the miracle of the internet, I rediscovered Mary Stuart, my dear friend from those halcyon days of youth. Finding her at Facebook, I couldn’t help but spend a few minutes clicking through all of her photos, including those of her sweet children. When I saw her daughter’s childhood picture, I saw the image and likeness of the Mary Stuart that I remembered from John Tyler.

To my delight, I found that she - like me - loves all things old, including old movies, vintage clothing and old houses. I sent her a copy of my book, The Houses That Sears Built and she wrote back to say that she loved the book and loved the topic, too. Soon thereafter, my newest book came out and earlier this week, when I logged onto my book’s brandy-new website, I saw that I’d had my first sale! And the bigger bonus was, Mary Stuart was the purchaser.

She and her family settled in central Virginia, about 75 miles away from my home in Norfolk. We’re working on a play-date in the not-so-distant future, when we go cruising around her city and see if we can find a few Sears Homes. Last time I saw Mary Stuart, we were such happy (and blissfully naive) little kids with siblings and parents, and we spent our childhood safely ensconced within beautiful houses in safe neighborhoods on the edge of the Elizabeth River. It’ll be a delight to see Mary Stuart, and re-visit those happy memories again.
I’ve written six books and I remember - with each title - the first purchaser. Thanks, Mary Stuart, for making this one such a special memory.

Walking up the sidewalk to my friend’s house, I heard a deep male voice yell out, “Hey Rosemary!” I paused for a moment, looked left and right and saw no one.

“Up here,” the voice boomed.

I looked skyward and there - perched at the very top of the home’s tall roof - was Tory. He and David Strickland were putting a new addition on my friend’s house. Both men had done a great deal of work on my old home, and I’d recommended them to my friend.

“Oh hey, Tory,” I shouted, squinting as I looked up at the bright sky.

“I was hoping I’d see you today,” he yelled from the rooftop. “I gotta tell you, I loved your book! I mean, I really loved it. I couldn’t put it down. Your writing style is strong and unique and the story just flowed so well. I read a lot of books and memoirs are my favorite, but I want you to know, I’m certain that you’ve got a best-seller on your hands.”

I smiled and thanked him.

Three days ago, I’d stopped by my friend’s house to take her a new copy of my brand new book, The Ugly Woman’s Guide to Internet Dating. David and Tory were in the back yard working hard on building the 700-square foot addition. I’d had a spirited debated with myself on the wisdom of offering two rough-as-a-cob construction guys a book on internet dating. But this was my new “baby” and I was proud of it, so I decided to meekly make the offer. Both men eagerly accepted and seemed thrilled with their personally inscribed copies.

I walked around to the back of the house and Tory came off the roof to join David on the ground.

David chimed in, “As soon as my mother saw the title, she snatched that book right out of my hands.”

David laughed. “She’s said I’d get it back when she was done with it.”

Last night, I’d laid in bed near tears, worrying and wondering if writing and publishing this little book o’mine was sheer insanity. This morning, still exhausted by the night’s ruminations, I sent up a prayer and asked for a sign that my efforts had not been in vain.

It was a delightful bonus to hear the happy news shouted from the rooftop!

Teddy poses with the book that Tory loved

In the 1995 remake of the movie A Little Princess, there’s a scene where Miss Minchin, the black-hearted school marm, is confronted by Sara (the little princess). With an astonishing measure of boldness, Sara tells Miss Minchin that she is a princess and that all girls are princesses regardless of their station in life, their physical appearance, their clothes, their intelligence or even their age.

With innocent eyes, Sara stares into Miss Minchin’s hardscrabble face and asks her, “Didn’t your father ever tell you that? Didn’t he?”

Judging by the look in Miss Minchin’s eyes, she never heard those words or even that sentiment expressed by dear old Dad. And judging by the current epidemic of low self-esteem among women, I’d venture to guess that most of today’s fathers follow the parenting model of Miss Minchin’s dad, rather than Sara’s.

The self-confidence that has its roots in childhood is like the tap-root of an old, established tree, which in time, has grown down to the water table. Such a tree will not be adversely affected by the summer’s heat or prolonged drought or the other storms of life. Self-confidence that’s nurtured and developed in the early years is a powerful, enduring quality that lives on, completely independent of the mean-spirited opinion of others.

In a perfect world, all girls would grow up hearing and eventually believing that they are little princesses. Throughout their formative years, their self-confidence would be tenderly cultivated and nurtured. However, none of us live in a perfect world and most of us don’t have that deep, sturdy taproot of self-worth.

I have met many women whom the world might define as “less than beautiful” and yet they possess the surety and self-esteem of a beauty queen. After talking with them, I invariably learn that they had a father (or father-figure) who conscientiously made an effort to develop and grow their sense of self-worth. Conversely, I’ve met women who were drop-dead gorgeous and yet they imagined themselves to be quite unattractive. Those women often had a sad story to tell about a father who degraded them or belittled them and/or called them ugly names.

Maybe the secret to raising women’s self-esteem isn’t to be found in self-improvement books or so-called women’s magazines. Maybe it’s just as simple as teaching men how important they are in the lives of their little girls.

Want to read everyone’s favorite blog entry? Read “Good girls DO chase men, and smart girls ignore the RULES!”

Buy Rose’s book here.

The poet Robert Frost wrote, “Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.”

In my case, the desire to be irresistibly desired is what inspired me to keep slogging through those 70 first dates. That’s a lot of dates with a lot of strange men, and trust me, these were some pretty strange men. Dating is an awkward affair and for the woman who thinks of herself as “less than beautiful” it can be emotional torture.

As much as I disliked dating, there was something I liked even less: The idea of living alone and growing old alone and being alone for the rest of my life. The independent, strong-hearted, intellectually-minded, career-driven feminist in me wanted to prove that I didn’t need no stinkin’ man, but the irresistible desires of my soul trumped all the intellectual wrangling.

I wanted to be irresistibly desired. I wanted to know how it felt to be mired in romantic love. I wanted to find someone that would love me unconditionally. The first two were reasonable goals, but the third may have been an overreach. Do spouses love unconditionally? Before you answer, think about this. Could you love your spouse if they caused harm to a child? Could you love your spouse if they committed a heinous act?

Unless you’re a real saint, the answer is probably, “No.” And most saints don’t marry.

In the book, Dogs Never Lie About Love, author Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson tells about a man who put his dog into a small boat, and rowed out into the deep waters of the Seine. Hoping to drown the poor beastie, he threw him overboard. It seems that this was 19th Century euthanasia for ridding oneself of unwanted dogs. The desperate animal tried repeatedly to climb back into the boat, but the owner forced the dog’s head under water again and again. This went on for a time, until the owner lost his balance and fell headfirst into the dark water.

“As soon as the faithful dog saw his master in the water, he left the boat, and held him above water till help arrived from the shore, and his life was saved” (p. 25).

This dog’s love for his master gives a beautiful and powerful picture of unconditional love, or perfect love. It’s a love that flows and grows, completely independent of the opinions, emotions, reactions, responses or hatred of others.

I am happy to report that I am now irresistibly desired by Date #70, aka Wayne. And thanks to him, I now know how it feels to be mired in romantic love. But as my friend Margee says, “You can’t get everything you need from one person.”

As for my desire to be loved unconditionally, I did what any right thinking woman would do.

I got a little dog.

And this silly little quadruped does indeed love me unconditionally. It’s mighty nice.

“But you’re not an ugly woman,” was the response I received from a few male friends when I told them the title of this book. Their words were very carefully chosen as they voiced their protest.

One man responded by telling me (rather haltingly, as he scrambled desperately to find the right words), “Rose, you have (pause) many (longer pause) attractive features” (deep cleansing breath).

The image of a Mrs. Potato Head toy popped into my mind. She has “many attractive features,” such as those full lips that curl up on the edges, her beautiful blue eyes with their luxuriant lashes (presumably for flirting with her special spud spouse). And all of  her detachable noses are just precious. That cute little tuft of hair is the finishing touch. However, I would never describe the missus as a pretty potato. Even with those “many attractive features,” she was still a homely tuber.

Was I a human version of that vintage veggie? The gentleman talking to me had obviously parked himself in an uncomfortable corner, but I knew that he meant well, so I graciously thanked him and left it at that.

The idea for this book - and the title - came to me in a flash of inspiration in early 2004. As the project evolved and the manuscript started to take shape, I began to have some doubts about the wisdom of using the word “ugly” in a title. From a marketing standpoint, a title can make or break a book. The sales of my other books (on historic architecture) have always spiked a month or two before the Christmas holidays.

It wasn’t likely that many people would be purchasing The Ugly Woman’s Guide to Internet Dating at Christmas for their female relatives. And if they did, they’d be looking for other books soon afterwards, like How to Repair Hopelessly Damaged Family Relationships and The Moron’s Guide to Better Gift Buying.

Wasn’t the word ugly being bandied about too much as it was? Weren’t there already enough women in the world who, for whatever regrettable reasons, were struggling under the oppressive mantle of “ugly”? 

As I agonized over this, the local library called and told me that the many books I’d requested on internet dating were now in. The books were an easy read and I finished them in a few days. I was disappointed. These books were not at all what I’d expected and the authors’ experiences bore little resemblance to my own. And while they contained some helpful information, they were devoted primarily to the mechanics of online dating. This is how you write a profile. This is how you respond to a profile. This is what  you do on a first date. Here is a list of the most popular dating websites.

No one was talking about dealing with 12 rejections in a row, or what to do when your email inbox remains empty day after day, or how to respond to a 50-something man when he explains he was hoping to find a woman who was a little more svelte and a little less old.

I checked out the authors’ biographies and photos. The pictures of the handsome, youthful, photogenic authors on the back covers explained a lot. These “how-to-date” books were written by and for the beautiful people.

The books all emphasized the importance of including a photo with your profile, claiming that profiles with photos generated eight to 20 times more response than photo-less profiles. This was the opposite of my experience. Consistently, my photo-free profiles (uploaded at a variety of different sites) generated more (and better) response.

The other salient point, the authors explained, was patience, because women at dating sites were deluged with email from potential suitors. Different things have different meanings to different people, but I wouldn’t consider five emails a month (my personal average) a “deluge.”

There were many such areas where my experience did not match the authors’ descriptions. And it was these differences that convinced me to proceed with this project.

The one-size-fits-all advice contained in the “Beautiful Woman’s Guide to Internet Dating” books is not going to work for all women because internet dating is so utterly beauty-centric. If you’re “average-looking” or “less than beautiful,” you’ll need to make some adjustments and tweak your battle plan.

My friend Liz advised, “Don’t write a book that says, ‘Men are idiots and dating sucks, so save yourself a lot of trouble and buy a puppy instead.’”

Conversely, I didn’t want to promote this flawed message either: “Men are wonderful and a woman’s life isn’t whole and complete unless she’s in a relationship.”

That’s not the thesis of this book. In fact, I’d dare to say that this book doesn’t have a thesis. This is simply my story, and it’s the true story of my experience in the dating world. I wanted to be married. I wanted to know how it felt to be someone’s beloved wife and I wanted it so badly, that I went on 70 first dates and kissed an awful lot of toads, hoping against hope that I’d find a good man with whom to spend the rest of my life.

My dogged persistence was fueled by a simple motive: I longed to be mired in romantic love. I wanted to know how it felt to be cherished and respected and adored and admired by a man. I wanted to have a man that I could cherish and respect and adore and admire. I wanted a man who’d call me pet names like “Peachblossom” and occasionally bring me breakfast in bed. I wanted to have someone to call with my happy news, and someone who’d let me cry on his shoulder when there was bad news.

During this four-year period, I became disgusted with the overly simplistic, one-size-fits-all advice I found in the mainstream books on internet dating. When you’re a “woman of a certain age” and a “woman of a certain size” and a “woman with a certain look,” much of the advice offered in these books is simply bad advice and it’s bad advice that may well leave you with a heart that’s been broken in too many pieces to count. If your heart does survive the experience intact, chances are your self-esteem won’t be so lucky. Dating via a medium that judges you by nothing more than your profile picture is hard for everyone and it is emotional torture for women who feel that they’re less than beautiful.

If it weren’t for the professional success I was enjoying with my newly published book on Sears Homes, I’m sure that my self-esteem would never have survived the experience of being rejected by so many men, who ditched me simply because - in their own words - I didn’t have The Look. In other words, I wasn’t pretty enough for them. And in talking with my less-than-beautiful women friends, I learned that these rejections were not unusual, but in fact, the norm.

As I talk about in Chapter Five, some men are just pigs.

Take Jack for example. Even this charming, decent man had his swinish tendencies. He confessed to me that he’d become so desperate and lonely one Saturday night that he’d gone looking online for a “quickie.” By 9:00 pm, he’d found his desperate fishie and started talking with her via IM. Around midnight, she invited him to her apartment in a nearby city. When she answered the door, he saw a 30-something woman who was morbidly obese, sloppily dressed and profoundly depressed. He was too “grossed out” to have sex with such an enormous woman. She sensed his disappointment as soon as he strolled through her front door. With her three little kids soundly asleep in another room, she offered him oral sex and he accepted. Afterwards, she begged him to stay the night and cuddle with her in the bed. He declined.

“When I got up to leave,” he told me, “she put her head in her hands and wept. She said was ashamed and humiliated by what this damnable loneliness had driven her to do. I didn’t know what to say. I’d used her for free sex and we both knew I’d never be back.”

As much as I hated being the non-stop rejections and foolish men and assaults on my self-esteem, there was something I hated even more: The idea of being alone for the rest of my life.