None that I can tell.

There’s a popular website where you can post pictures of your face and/or your body (in parts or as a whole) and then wait for others to rate your physical attractiveness and desirability.

Posting a head-shot at an internet dating site is just another version of “rate this face” but with much deeper ramifications. If you’re judged and found wanting at a public website, you’ll get a low score from the peanut gallery. If your face is judged unattractive at an internet dating site, the ramifications are far more grievous: You could be alone for the rest of your life.

The process of posting my pictures online for the entire world to judge was agonizingly painful and the steady stream of rejections that followed multiplied my pain tenfold. Despite all that pain, there was really only one thing that I hated even more than rejection:  Loneliness.

Many mornings and evenings, I’d plop down at my computer and log into my account, only to find those three dreaded words at the top of the web page: No new emails. Each time those words appeared, it felt like yet another “I don’t think you’re very attractive” vote from some anonymous man out there on the world-wide web.

Each day that my email inbox remained empty was a bold affirmation that yes, I really was as unattractive as I had feared. That was on my better days. On my not-so-good days, the empty inbox brought forth a torrent of tears and a growing dread that I was destined to spend the rest of my life alone, just because of my less-than-average physical appearance.

Read more here.

Thanks to terrorist du jour Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab , airline passengers will now have to remain seated one hour before landing, and during that last hour, they’ll not be allowed to access to their own carry-on bags (or anyone else’s, I would hope). For those who have been avoiding the television for the last 48 hours, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab is the Nigerian charged with trying to blow up NWA Flight 253 as it descended into Detroit Metro Airport on December 25th.

Three years ago, I took a one hour and 45 minute flight from Denver to Quinter, Kansas. After I made the reservation (and paid for the tickets), I learned that my plane was a 12-seater puddle jumper with no bathroom. For many days before the plane’s departure, I had nightmares about being stuck on a tiny little plane with no access to any bathroom.

And then the day of my flight arrived. As soon as the pilot shut the wee door to the wee plane, I suddenly had to go wee wee. For one-hour and 45 minutes, I did everything within my power to not think about how badly I needed to go. It was horribly unpleasant. And it was also an experience that I will never ever repeat.

Think about the implications of this new law. Practically speaking, it means that on 90-minute flight, there will be no access to the lavatory, period!

Speaking as someone who’s flown on many planes to many places, it’s typically 20-25 minutes into the flight before you’re allowed to “move about the cabin.” And now that the final hour is shaved off the moving around time, that’s pretty much a “sit-down-and-shut-up” arrangement for anyone on a 90-minute flight.

Many years ago, airlines stopped serving olives on their salads - in the hopes of saving money and reducing weight. Next, they ditched in-flight telephones to reduce weight. More recently, in-flight magazines were removed from planes.  Now, with this new law, it’ll probably be the restroom that gets removed from these CRJs and Embraers and other commuter planes.

What’s the point of hauling around a lavatory that weighs a few hundred pounds if the passengers will never be allowed out of their seats?

It’s enough to scare the &#^% out of someone.

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For Christmas, I gave my two-year-old grandson a new red wagon. His delight with this age-old classic was palpable. It was love at first site. He loved sitting in it. He loved rolling it around the house. He loved being rolled around in it, and he loved putting his animals in it, and rolling them around in it.

The new little red wagon is his new favorite toy.

It’s so fun to see a little boy with his little red wagon, and it’s so fun to see a child delight in a simple toy. And it’s so interesting to see a two-year-old boy discover what millions of tw0-year-old boys have been discovering for the last 150 years: Little red wagons are a whole lot of fun for a whole lot of reasons.

And the best part, no batteries required. They’re fueled wholly by a child’s imagination and his own foot-power (and sometimes a favorite Auntie gives a push).

Elias enjoys just sitting in his little red wagon.

Corey gives her nephew a push through the house.

Grandma (far left) comes to give Elias a few rolls around the house.

Merry Christmas from Teddy the Dog!

Teddy has been with us for one year now, and we’ve hit a few bumps along the way, but she’s turned out to be a delightful little dog. And at 30 pounds, she’s not so little anymore. She’s a very sweet and polite dog, and even tolerant of being asked to sit in a little red wagon for a Christmas photo.

Speaking of good gifts, check out this one.

Teddy the Dog hopes you have a good Christmas

Anyone who’s flown recently knows that many things can delay a plane’s departure. Sometimes, it’s security troubles and sometimes there are mechanical issues and often it’s bad weather and sometimes, it’s otter problems.

Yes. Otters.

A Continental Airlines flight departing for Columbus, Ohio was delayed on December 23rd when two otters in the cargo hold made a run for it and were seen scampering across the tarmac. The slippery duo was re-captured and returned to their cages, and the flight left about an hour late.

I know just how the Otter twins feel. Seated on a tin tube waiting for take-off, I’ve wanted to bolt for the door many times myself.

In the early 1900s, asbestos insulation was added to better quality homes to improve their heating efficiency. It was the better homes that had the most asbestos added to their heating pipes and furnaces and water tanks. Today of course, nary a soul in America doesn’t know about the trouble with asbestos.

The bigger problem is that way too many personal injury attorneys have become fabulously wealthy by suing any and all companies that had any connection to the production and/or manufacture of asbestos products. In fact, if you google the word “asbestos,” the great majority of websites (detailing the horrors of abestos) are lawyer-owned websites.

In the early 20th Century, Johns-Manville was one of America’s largest companies. By 1982, this corporate giant was forced into Chapter 11 bankruptcy by the repeated class-action lawsuits that were brought against it.

We all know that asbestos is a nasty bit of business and we all know that  it’s a material to be avoided, and it’s right that corporate America paid a price for continuing to produce a product that was a known hazard to health, but how much good are we really doing for Americans when we allow personal injury lawyers to systematically destroy every American business that ever had any connection whatsoever with this product?

And now that most of the asbestos-related businesses have been sued into oblivion, a new monster has been discovered: Black Mold.  If you google those words, you’ll find a plethora of personal lawyers, chomping at the bit to file suits against anyone and everyone who had any potential connection whatsoever to your home’s problem with black mold. Some are saying that black mold is “The New Gold.”

It’s time for tort reform. It’s time to rein in the personal injury lawyers and demand that they stop being a party to the wanton destruction of American businesses - large and small.

Click here to learn more.  Warning: Please don’t click on that link unless you’re feeling strong. It tells the story of a small business owner who was financially crippled by a lawsuit brought against him because his bathroom mirrors were two inches too low.

Johns-Manville was one of the largest companies in America in the early 1900s.

An article in this week’s news tells of a Kansas Dad who lifted a Mercury Sedan off his six-year-old daughter.  Click here to read.  That story really is a beautiful demonstration of the awe-inspiring power of love. And it reminded me of a story about my own mother.

Unlike me, Mom never loved driving. She saw it as more of a duty than a source of joy. And it wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I knew the reason why.

Many years ago, my mother had been the chauffeur of her family, driving her sister and their mother everywhere and anywhere they wanted to go. And then one year, they got an almost new 1937 Chevrolet and took it for a ride in the country. Riding along the state route, Mom got too close to the shoulder of the road. When those thin automobile tires hit the loose gravel on the shoulder, things went bad in a hurry.

In the blink of an eye, the car lurched hard to the right and then flipped over and did two complete rolls before coming to rest at the bottom of the hill.  My mother and her sister survived the accident with bumps and bruises and a few scrapes. As they roused themselves, they heard their mother’s urgent pleas for help.

Their mother had been thrown from the car and was now trapped under it. The edge of the roof was resting on her arm. Four sailors driving by had seen the accident and rushed to help. My mother recalled that “despite several valiant efforts, the sailors struggled to lift that car off” and couldn’t get it high enough for my grandmother’s arm to be pulled clear.

Mom told me that her mother then looked in her eyes and said, “Betty, help me.”

My mother said that a quiet voice inside said, “You can do this.  Just try.”
The four sailors had stepped back to reassess the situation. Before they could respond, Mother walked over to the car, gave it a great heave and the car raised up high enough in the air that her mom could get free.

The men were too shocked to make a sound.

That experience stayed with my mother on many levels. The downside was, it took away her enjoyment of driving. I suspect she felt responsible for the accident. The upside was, it was a real faith-builder for Mom. She said that she knew there were heavenly helpers on that field that were unseen to the naked eye and she said that she realized that we are all capable of more than we can imagine. Above all, she learned that love - something you can’t see, touch or feel with your five senses -  is the most powerful force in the whole world.

New government regulations state that airlines will be subject to $27,500 per head fine if passengers are trapped in the airplane for more than three hours after boarding.

We’re treated more like cattle these days when we fly “the friendly skies” so it seems fitting that penalties assessed against airlines would be billed “per head.” However, there’s one problem with this $27,500 per head fine. The money goes to the government.

When I read that the airlines would be fined $27,500, I thought “Thank goodness that the poor passenger will finally get some financial compensation for being held captive - against their will - on an aluminum tube” and then I read the *rest* of the story.

This $27,500 fine is just another way for the government to extract more dollars from the public, because as most folks know, corporations do not pay taxes (or fines, for that matter). The expense is passed along to the consumer. Always.

Get this thing in the air, or else...

In 1918, Standard Oil of Indiana made mail-order history when they placed a $1 million order with Sears Roebuck & Company for 192 Honor-Bilt homes. It was purported to be the largest order in the history of the Sears Modern Homes department. Standard Oil purchased the houses for their refinery workers in Southwestern Illinois.

Of those 192 houses, 156 went to Carlinville, 12 were built in Schoper and 24 were sent to Wood River. Throughout the 1920s, pictures of these homes were prominently featured in the front pages of the Sears Modern Homes catalogs.

Construction of the 156 houses took nine months, not six as expected. The reason?  A nationwide shortage of wheat. Charles Fitzgerald, spokesman for Standard Oil and Manager of Houses explained to The Chicago Daily Tribune (November 3, 1919) what happened.

“The company (Standard Oil) purchased a forty acre wheat field and the government would not permit the destruction of the crop,” he said. “On the first home, we were erecting the studding while the harvesters were shocking wheat twenty yards away.”

According to the papers of the day, “smut” was another reason for the wheat shortage. When I first read about smut and the wheat shortage, I imagined a large group of idle field workers, sitting cross-legged in the expansive fields, poring over magazines with pictures of scantily-clad women.

Smut, I later learned, is a particularly nasty fungus that creates black, odious spores and ruins wheat crops. In 1919, smut damaged a large proportion of America’s wheat fields.

And “shocking” was another interesting term. As a city girl, I’d never heard that phrase before. “Wheat shockers” are the field workers who bundle up the wheat.

While doing research for my book The Houses that Sears Built, I read hundreds of newspaper and articles from the early 1900s and learned that there is a wholly different vernacular for that time period. Words have different meaning in different times.

One of the Sears Homes in Wood River, Illinois - part of that $1 million order that Standard Oil placed in the late 1910s. There are 24 of these Sears Homes in a row on 9th Street in Wood River. The 12 Sears Homes built in Schoper, Illinois were torn down in the 1930s.

One year ago today, I adopted a new baby. She was the cutest little thing I’d ever seen. It was not my intention to get a dog at that moment, but I fell completely in love the second I saw the little furry form, sitting in the large yard and looking a little worried about life.

At first, my husband wasn’t too keen on the idea of getting a dog, but in time, he also fell in love with our “Teddy.” In fact, Teddy’s newest problem is a little bit of weight gain. Every time the hubby walks into the kitchen, he gives her a treat. She’s now four pounds too heavy and for a little dog that weighs 25 pounds, that’s a lot.

Unfortunately, with her extra fluff, she really does look like one of the family now.

The baby in Wayne's arms. She was about seven weeks old here.

Our little girl is getting all grown up. She's about one year old here.

Thanksgiving dinner with the family. Teddy especially loved the gravy.

We met on May 20th, 2006 at a little coffee shop in downtown Portsmouth.  The meet and greet went very well and after about 90 minutes of “getting to know you” chatter, he invited me to attend a local art show with him.

As we strolled around the Stockley Gardens Art Show, I had a recurring urge to reach out and hold his hand but hesitated. A raging debate about handholding ensued.

Was it forward to reach out and grab someone’s hand? If I held his hand within 90 minutes of meeting, did that mean that we’d be kissing within the next hour, breathing heavy by noon and then back at his place for hot sex by 3 o’clock? Is that how men think? Was it wise for a woman to send that message so early on the first date? Or maybe I was thinking about this all wrong.

Maybe, if I reached out for his chubby little mitt, he’d see my sweet and playful side. Maybe he’d think it was cute and endearing.  But I hesitated. Did male/female hand-holding constitute foreplay in today’s dating world? I couldn’t decide. And then there was the whole matter of rejection. Heaven forbid, what if he turned away awkwardly, just like that crazy Date #8. It was bad enough when Date #8 rejected my end-of-date kiss. I’d die from sheer horror if Date #70 rejected a hand-holding.

It was too risky. I decided not to reach out for his hand.

Walking along the city sidewalks, he stopped me for a moment and said, “Hold on,” and then he took a step or two backwards and gracefully positioned himself on my other side.

“A gentleman always walks on the street side,” he said.

“Nice,” I replied, “but do you know why a gentleman always takes the street side?”

My 70th first date knew the reason why. (Gentlemen, in days of yore, walked on that side to protect a lady from the mud and muck manure thrown by a passing carriage.)

Now I wanted to grab him by the lapels on his flannel shirt and tell him that he was the man I’d waited for and dreamt about and prayed for and I could show him my four-page mission statement and it was very clear on all these points and could we just forego all the societal silliness and get married that afternoon and wouldn’t it be great to tell our kids that we got married on the very day we met and plus, was anyone ever married in a green flannel shirt, with the bride wearing red sandals and sporting a black laptop case as an accessory? It’d all be grand.

Read the rest here.

Years ago, I was reading an early 20th Century book on house painting and there, amidst the many ads for “high quality, high lead” paints and “natural horse hair bristle brushes” was a little snippet on painting porch ceilings. “Sky Blue” was the preferred color for porch ceilings, the article said, because it was a known fact that mud daubers and wasps would not build a nest against a blue ceiling.

One hundred years ago, front porches were a big part of American culture and they became - in a way - auxiliary living rooms. Elderly folks have told me that when they were little kids and it was raining outside, their mom would send them out to the front porch to play - for the day!

The porch was a place for social gatherings, too. City sidewalks bustled with pedestrians moving to and fro, and front porches provided a window on the world and a place to chat with neighbors and catch up on the local happenings.

Front porches were comfortable, too. Before World War Two, air conditioning was something you found at a few movie theaters. In these pre-A/C days, front porches (and their fresh breezes) provided a little relief from the summer’s heat.

And all of that could be ruined by a few stings from an angry wasp.

One hundred years ago, homes were built intelligently and thoughtfully, and everything builders did had a good practical reason behind it, including using the color blue on porch ceilings.

It is a blog writer’s dream to get a “following” and have dozens of people leave comments on his/her well-written, thought-provoking blog entry. At the top of my “administrator’s page” there’s a “hot blog of the day” link. In an attempt to get a feel for what’s popular, I click on that link several times a day and read a few words of the hot blog.

The “hottest” (most viewed/most commented) blog entries are gossipy bits on popular celebrities (who’s dating whom and who is pregnant with who’s baby) and the second hottest are the techy blogs, discussing the latest and greatest hand-held, gee-whiz devices. A third popular blog is the whole “climategate” affair, and these blogs are often bogged down with incredible detail and complex charts.

I am getting a few comments at my site, but most of them are written by semi-literate people wishing to share lots of dandy information on drugs guaranteed to enhance one’s sex life.

It’s a little depressing to think I arise each morning at 5:30 am and write a new blog entry just for me and Teddy (the dog). And frankly, she’s not even much of a reader.

If you’ve read something here that you’ve liked, or something that’s made you think, or something that’s made you laugh out loud, leave a comment and make a blog-writers day. 

Teddy hopes you'll leave a comment here at Rose's blog

Prior to my divorce, I hadn’t asked anyone out since 1976 when I asked Richie Brooks to be my date for the senior prom. In other words, it had been awhile.

Being thrown back into the dating pool, I had to sink or swim. I learned a lot in a hurry.

For instance, which is better? Dinner or drinks?

In the beginning, I had dinner with my first dates. Bad choice. Too much time and too much money and too many calories. Drinks are better and more affordable and it’s easier to split the tab. I preferred to pay my own way, but - I didn’t argue if he insisted on paying.

Secondly, how do you talk to a guy you just met?  It’s easy. Treat him as you’d want to be treated, and don’t ramble on about your ex, your health problems, your flaky skin, your weight or your diet.

Ask questions. Remember, she who asks the questions controls the conversation. Learn about him and his interests, because your goal is to figure out if he’s worthy of a second date.

Next, there’s the good night kiss. Many men will move in for the good-night kiss at the end of the first date. If you’re already feeling like there’s not going to be a second date, avoid the kiss. It just muddies the waters.

When a not-so-great first date was drawing to a close, my preference was to step back and extend my hand for a warm and meaningful handshake. Then I’d say, “Thank you so much for a delightful evening” and walk away quickly. This simple action spared me many awkward “what do we do now” moments.

If he asks for a second date, be honest and straight-forward. If you don’t want a second date, have a ready-made phrase ready for moments such as this. Mine was, “I had a lovely time but I don’t feel like we’re a good match.”

Don’t get mired in an argument over this. If he wants to argue the point, just say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to change my mind on this,” and walk away.

If you do want a second date, be clear and forthright. Above all, ignore those so-called “Rules” that tell women to play games in order to snare a man.

Be authentic and be real. Don’t play a part.

In short, treat Mr. First Date the way you’d want to be treated, with honesty and grace and sensitivity and forthrightness and good manners.

Next:  Red Flags to Watch Out For!

Buy Rose’s book here.

When my husband read an early draft of my manuscript on internet dating, he suggested I make a change in the chapter I’d titled, “Rose’s Tidbits and Miscellany.”

“You’ve listed ‘persistence and perseverance’ as two important qualities for successful internet dating,” he said. “I’d put much more emphasis on that, because those are two of the most important qualities.”

He had a point. I’d talked to so many women who’d given up after a dozen dates, and had reconciled themselves to living alone for the rest of their lives. And I’d met also many women who’d found their one true love in less than a dozen dates.  But that wasn’t my experience. As the months rolled by and the dates kept coming (and going), I had only two choices: give up or push on. I decided to push on.

Perseverance is a common quality found amongst successful people. It was clear to me that perseverance had been the key to my success as both a freelance writer and self-published author. In 2002, I spent more than two years lobbying (perhaps even hounding) a woman at the Smithsonian to allow me to speak at that prestigious and well-known institution.

Eventually, she said yes and that event - that one-hour talk on Sears Homes - became one of the proudest moments of my career. For four years, I mounted a campaign to get the Wall Street Journal to write an article about my work and my book, The Houses That Sears Built. In Summer 2006, the Wall Street Journal called and asked for an interview. That article appeared on page one, above the fold! Reviewing my successes in those hard-to-succeed-in areas, I reasoned it’d be helpful in the dating world as well. And it was.

On October 29, 1941, Winston Churchill told a gathering of upper school students, “Never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense.”

The great statesman’s words apply across the whole spectrum of human effort. If you give up too soon, you’ll be depriving not only yourself of much potential happiness, but some well-deserving and decent man, as well.

My 70th first date (now my husband) tells me that he’s glad I persisted and persevered. So am I.

Want to read more? Buy Rose’s book here.

Old houses were built for another time and another way of life. And back in the day, the overwhelming majority of people died at home in their own beds. Next, they were sent off to the undertaker for embalming, and afterward, they went back “home” for the wake and the visitation.

In my own house, we learned that the owner’s first wife died soon after they moved into their “new” 1925-built home. The wake was held in the spacious living room, in front of the beautiful fireplace. This was not unusual for that time. Sometime in the early years of the 20th Century, wakes and visitation moved out of the home and into funeral parlors.

In the mid-1800s, many two-story homes were actually designed to accommodate the problem of moving a heavy coffin from the second floor (where the bedrooms were located) to the first floor.  Dignity in death is something the Victorians did very well. Because of this, the coffin was carried upstairs to the deceased, rather than the deceased being carried downstairs to the coffin. Logistically, this made things a little more difficult.

To accommodate this occasional need, the staircases in older houses were built with a coffin-width space between the railings on the staircase and the second-floor hallway.  Think of the staircase railing going up the stairs as point A, and the staircase railing on the landing as point B, and the staircase railing along the upper hallway as Point C.  Points A, B and C formed three of four sides of a rectangle (see picture below).

With ropes and a couple strong men, the coffin could easily be lowered over the railing and down to the first floor without trying to navigate the twists and turns and 24 steps of an old staircase.

I’ve included a picture of my own staircase until I can find a better picture of a real 19th Century house. My house has a “make-believe” niche that demonstrates the concept, but it is too narrow to be used for anything as wide as a coffin.  As soon as I can get into an older house, I’ll upload better pictures.

When I tour older houses, I love showing the homeowners this interesting feature of their intricate staircase balustrade. They’re always taken aback and always pleased to learn a little something more of their home’s history!

A view of my staircase from the first floor

Dr. Joseph Lister - a 19th Century physician - is largely responsible for the bungalow craze, but that’s one tidbit that I’ve never seen in my books on architectural history. The fact is, Joseph Lister and his germ theory dramatically changed the way Americans thought about their homes.

For so many years, mothers could only watch in helpless horror as their young children died from any one of a myriad of “common” diseases. And then in the late 1800s, Dr. Joseph Lister discovered that germs were culprit. Mothers and fathers, weary of burying their infants, had a new arch enemy: household dirt. As is explained in the 1908 book, Household Discoveries and Mrs. Curtis’ Cook-Book:

Not many years ago disease was most often deemed the act of Providence as a chastening or visitation for moral evil. Many diseases are now known to be merely human ignorance and uncleanliness. The sins for which humanity suffers are violations of the laws of sanitation and hygiene, or simply the one great law of absolute sanitary cleanliness… Every symptom of preventable disease and communicable disease…should suggest the question: “Is the cause of this illness an unsanitary condition within my control?”

Now that the enemy had been identified, modern women attacked it with every tool in their arsenal. Keeping a house clean was far more than a matter of mere pride: The well-being, nay, the very life of one’s child might depend upon a home’s cleanliness. What mother wanted to sit at the bedside of their sick child, tenderly wiping his fevered brow and pondering the awful question: “Was the cause of this illness an unsanitary condition within my control?”

Because of Dr. Lister and his germ theory, the ostentatious, dust-bunny-collecting Queen Anne, with its ornate woodwork, fretwork and gingerbread fell from favor with a resounding thud.

Simplicity, harmony and durability are the keynotes of the modern tendency. The general intention seems to be to avoid everything that is superfluous; everything that has a tendency to catch and hold dust or dirt. Wooden bedsteads are being replaced by iron or brass; stuffed and upholstered furniture by articles of plain wood and leather. Bric-a-brac, flounces, valances and all other superfluous articles are much less fashionable (from Household Discoveries and Mrs. Curtis’ Cook-Book).

Remember the movie “It’s A Wonderful Life”?  There’s a 1920s scene where George Baily and his girlfriend pause in front of the massive Second Empire house. It sits abandoned and empty, deteriorating day by day.  This was not an uncommon fate for Victorian manses in post-germ theory America. Who knew what germs lay in wait within its hard-to-clean walls?

The February 1911 Ladies’ Home Journal was devoted to the new housing style: Bungalows. One headline said, “The Bungalow, because of its easy housekeeping possibilities is becoming more popular every year.

And all because of Dr. Lister.

(By the way, Dr. Lister did not invent the popular mouthwash but it was named after him and his discoveries.)

On 16 December 2009, the news reported that Roy Disney, Jr. died at 79 years old. Roy was the namesake of Roy Sr., and the nephew of the Walt Disney, founder of the Disneyland empire.

In early 2006, I got a phone call from Roy’s cousin, Diane Disney Miller (daughter of Walt), who wanted to know more about the homes her father (Walt Disney) and his brother Roy had built side-by-side on Lyric Avenue near the Disney studios in Silver Lake (Los Angeles area). The homes had been ordered in 1928 from Pacific Ready Cut Homes, a kit home company based in Los Angeles. (Read the full story here.)

The houses were true kit homes, ordered out of a mail-order catalog and shipped to the site via train or truck, and typically arriving in about 12,000 pieces. The kits came with a 75-page instruction book that told you how all those pieces and parts went together.

In 2004, I’d co-authored a book on Pacific Ready Cut Homes and due to a dearth of information on this early 20th Century company, that book made my co-author and I the new experts on this topic. And that’s how Ms. Miller came to call me.

So when I traveled to Los Angeles in June 2006, I had the opportunity to visit the Disney brothers’ kit homes on Lyric Avenue. As was frequently the case, these kit homes had been customized and upgraded when built. This was very common and about 50% of these kit homes were altered to meet individual needs.  In more recent years, the houses had been the victim of insensitive remodeling and many original features had been stripped away and/or destroyed. Nonetheless, it was fun to stand in the living room of the old bungalow that Walt Disney and wife Lillian had occupied and feel the remnants of the creative energy that had once permeated those plaster walls.

As I mentioned in a prior posts, writers are the original starving artists and most of us make only a very small income but the benefits are lovely. Were it not for my books on kit homes, I’d never have had the opportunity to find myself chatting on the phone with Walt’s daughter Diane, and standing in the living room of Walt and Roy Disney’s former homes.

Buy Rose’s book on Pacific Ready-cut Homes here.

Read full article from Los Angeles Times here.

An image from the 1925 Pacific Ready Cut Homes catalog

In Pasadena, this Pacific Ready-cut home looks much like it did when built in the early 1920s.

An image from the 1925 Pacific Ready Cut Homes catalog shows how many pieces and parts came with your mail-order house.

1919 Pacific Ready Cut Homes catalog

Image from the 1925 Pacific Ready-cut Homes catalog

The news media is reporting that Oral Roberts passed today, and already countless blogs - those ubiquitous internet personal journals that seem to have absolutely no social filters or editorial double-checking - are already offering extremely negative and vitriolic commentary on the man’s life.

Color me old fashioned, but I think it is wrong to speak ill of the dead, and it also shows a lack of grace and a lack of basic civility. Victorian essayist Henry Drummond once wrote that good manners are the habit of showing “love in the trifles.”

Oral Roberts was just a human being with all the accompanying foibles and follies that go with that condition, but he accomplished a tremendous lot with his life, including founding a major university in Oklahoma. That is a life well lived.

How about we look at the good that he did, instead of examining his mistakes, and hope and pray that someone will do the same for us one day?

When people hear that I’ve had 70 first dates, their reactions are varied and usually interesting. The married women cozy up to me and in a tone that can only be described as slightly voyeuristic, they whisper, “What was it like to have so many dates?” The married men snort out a laugh and say things like, “You must have been a busy girl.”

The single women adopt a serious tone and look deep into my eyes and say, “Which dating site would you recommend?”

Between Eharmony and Match.com, I much preferred Match.com and that is where I met my last first date.  I like Match because you’re in the driver’s seat and that’s appealing to us proactive types. At Eharmony, I met several so-called “Christian” men who had the morals of an alley cat. Not impressive.

I wasn’t looking for a fling and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life dating men (or even one man). I was looking for a man who shared my interests and shared my morals and shared my ideas about life in general. I wanted a man who wanted a life-long romantic partner.

From 2003 - 2005, I was a semi-regular, somewhat faithful subscriber at eHarmony. That’s where I met the semi-retired hand-surgeon (and self-professed “good Christian”) who took me for a ride on his sailboat, and invested a lot of time and effort in convincing me that he was wonderful and then dropped me lot a hot rock. That’s also where I met the other “good Christian” (my 32nd date), who told me that I wasn’t pretty enough for him, but asked if we could just get together and have hot sex from time to time. He earned himself his own chapter, which I titled, “Good Christian Man Seeks Good Christian Woman for Friday Night Booty Call.”

For about 90 days, a male friend keep me apprised of his matches at eHarmony.com. During that time, I also kept track of my matches at this website. A week-by-week comparison consistently showed that he was getting eight-to-ten times more matches than I was. In other words, there were eight to ten times more women than men at eHarmony.com.

I did not fare well at eHarmony.  During one 90-subscription period, I received 11 matches and way too many of them “closed communications” before I could even shoot them a quick note. My male friend received more than 100 matches during this same time period.  I asked my friend why these guys were “closing” communications before we’d even “met” and he said, “I’m inundated and overwhelmed with ‘matches’ and I don’t have time to investigate all of them. I just pick the best looking in the bunch.”

There’s a lot wrong with that sentence, but that’s another blog for another day. Suffice it to say, there are a lot of fishies in the Match.com stream. That’s a big plus. And Match.com introduced me to my favorite fishie.

Next:  How to read between the lines when reading men’s profiles.

Want to read about something different? How about an article on how the germ theory changed American architecture - almost overnight!

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Match.com worked for me!

In 1975, I could be found tooling around Portsmouth in my 1959 red Cadillac Sedan de Ville. It was a great car with a four-barrel carb, dual exhausts and a powerful V-8 engine and more than 300 horsies under the hood. Or so I told people. When I shared that statistic, people would cock their head a little and look at me funny. (That has happened to me a lot in this life…)

And then I’d tell them that it was a 390-cubic inch engine which produced about 330 horsepower.

Mechanically speaking, one horsepower equals the amount of effort needed to move 33,000 foot-pounds per minute, or (in simpler terms) the ability to lift 33,000 pounds one foot in one minute’s time. When used as a measure for electric motors, one horsepower equals about 746 watts. The term “horsepower” was coined by James Watt. He was an 18th Century genius who is credited with significant innovations to the steam engine, making it useful, affordable and practical. The historians say that Watt’s inventions and innovations transformed America from an agricultural society to an industrial society.

There’s a reason our old expressions developed the way they did. Back in the day, stage coaches often had six horsepower, with the six sinewy animals straining at the reins to pull the carriage down the dirt roads. Or, as in the case of the 1905 advertisement shown below, the most modern concrete mixers of the day had ONE horsepower.

BTW, there’s a significant problem with this advertisement. There’s no legal disclaimer at the bottom that says, “Horsie not included.”

one-horse powered cement mixer

Closer look at the one-horsepower concrete mixer

For 10 years, I wrote about old houses and toured other people’s old houses and helped other people learn more about the history of their old house. For 30 years, I read about old houses and subscribed to magazines about old houses and perused vintage magazines and books on old houses.

And then in 2007, six weeks after my second marriage, my new husband and I purchased a place of our own. My very own old house. And then I realized that the foyer in my old house looked a lot like the foyer in an old house photo from an old house book.

Old houses are times sinks and money pits, but they have a beauty and an elegance and a life history that modern architecture can’t touch.

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My old house foyer (left) compared to the foyer pictured on the cover of the book, "Colonial Style." It would seem that I have a "classic" Colonial Revival house. But I already knew that. ;) The biggest difference is, my house is a Colonial Revival. The photo on the right is a true Colonial (circa early 1800s).

In 2002, when my long-term marriage ended, I sat down and wrote my four-page mission statement detailing what I wanted in a man. That mission statement said nothing about finding a man who bore a strong resemblance to Santa Claus.

In my previous life (like so many good wives and mothers) I’d spent 20 years “playing” Santa and doing Christmas for others. It was a wife’s job to handle all the organizational details for Christmas. I was the one who ran myself ragged buying things and making things and cooking things. One year, I spent countless hours writing and editing a 130-page memoir, a typewritten manuscript for the kids, filled with memories of their growing up years.

In short, Christmas was a fantastic amount of work. The ex didn’t believe in giving Christmas presents beyond a token gift. I gave a lot and got a little. And so it went for many years. I looked to my left and right and saw many other wives and mothers in the same boat as I was. A woman’s lot in life, I’d decided.

And then, when I was 47 years old, I met my 7oth first date. And then we were engaged. And then came Christmas. I was touched to my core with the number of gifts I received from him. And they were all delightful surprises and thoughtful gifts and beautiful things.

But wait, there was more.

He did the Christmas errands, too. He fetched the tree. He decorated the tree. He purchased fresh wreaths for the house and fancy bows for presents. He handled Christmas cards and bought holiday stamps. It was an amazing thing to behold.

“It makes me very happy to be able to enjoy the holidays with a woman who loves me,” he said when I expressed awe at the gifts and the work and the errand-running. “And this is our first Christmas together. I wanted it to be special.”

Turns out, my 70th first date didn’t just look like Santa. He has St. Nick’s warm heart and generous spirit, too.

The fake St. Nick gazes up at the real Santa with a measure of reverential awe and envy

The real estate agent must have thought I was off my rocker when she saw me lean my hand against the plaster wall in the empty house, close my eyes and concentrate. After a moment of silence, I opened my eyes and said, “This house has known sadness and pain, but predominantly, it’s a house that’s filled with many happy memories and good times and joy.”

The real estate agent’s eyes grew big and her brow furrowed. After looking at me askance for a moment, she turned her attention toward the hallways and said, “And what a beautiful staircase it has.”

“The listing says it was built in 1920,” I said to the real estate agent. “That’s not right. I’d say 1924 or maybe early ‘25.”

“Those listings are based on tax records and they’re pretty accurate,” she replied. “If it says 1920, it was 1920.”

I poked my husband and whispered, “That’s not right. It’s clearly 1924 or ‘25.”

When we toured the basement, I admired the oversized beams and massive piers. I reached up and stroked the beautiful knot-less lumber.

“It was an individual owner who built this house,” I said as my fingertips caressed the beams. “Someone who knew their lumber built this house. In fact, I’d venture to guess it was someone who was involved in a lumber business or maybe construction.”

Within 30 days, my husband and I were the happy owners of the 2,300-square foot, center-hallway Colonial Revival home. And I went right to work tracking down the home’s prior owners. With the help of one of my neighbors, I found Laura and her brother, Ed. The two siblings - fraternal twins - had been born in the house in 1949 and now lived in a nearby city. I invited them to come out to the house on a Sunday afternoon. In a few days, Ed and Laura were back at the front door of the house - my house - where they’d spent their childhood.

“My grandfather started building this house in 1924 and finished it in March 1925,” Laura told me. “He owned a local lumber yard in downtown Norfolk. When we were kids, he told us that he’d hand selected every piece of lumber that went into this house. He loved this house.”

I poked the hubby again and whispered, “See, I told you.”

We also learned that their grandfather had built the house for his wife. She was ill during the construction and he told her, “Just hang on, and I’ll build you a beautiful house.” His wife passed on a few months after they moved into the house. Her wake was held in the living room, in front of the large fireplace.

The grandfather - the home’s builder - died in the house in the 1960s, leaving the house to his son. Laura and Ed’s parents moved out of the neighborhood in the early 1970s. The house had remained in the same family from 1925 to 1971. In the 1990s, the grand old house was converted to a boarding house, and still has the scars to prove it.

Laura, Ed and I walked upstairs and they reveled in the tour of their family’s home. Tears came to Laura’s eyes as she stood in the hallway by the walnut staircase railing.

“This was such a good house for us to grow up in,” she told me as she brushed a tear from her cheek. “So many happy memories here.”

I turned to my husband and mouthed the words, “I told you so.”

Laura and Ed replicate a pose from the early 1950s

The house as seen in 1949

In one of my favorite movies, Fried Green Tomatoes, there’s a scene where the young woman dies and her attendant immediately arises and covers a large mirror and then stops a nearby clock. I’d always been fascinated by this old tradition/ritual and wondered about its meaning. I assumed that these practices must have a reason , but I had no idea what that reason might be.

And then I happened to talk to an old friend who explained the reasons for these “odd” traditions.

Let me tell you about my old friend. Her name is Joyce and she’s in her late 70s now, but was raised in the backwoods Georgia of the 1930s. Translated: It was a land and a time more reminiscent of Victorian America. When Joyce was growing up, she had a little sister named Louise that died at the age of three from whooping cough. Joyce remembers “Granny” rocking the child through the night and praying for her, hoping against hope that the little girl would pull through. It wasn’t to be.

Sometime in the wee hours, the little girl looked up at Granny, smiled broadly and passed on quietly. Later that morning, someone in the family went outside and rang the large bell in the front yard.

“It was almost like morse code,” Joyce said. “The bell was tolled a certain number of times for different things. When Louise died, they rang the bell a certain number of times and everyone knew what it meant. Almost immediately, people started coming to the house to help.”

Joyce said they sent the little girl’s body to the mortician who embalmed it and returned the body to the family, for the wake at home. In preparation for the wake, the mortician brought heavy, deep red draperies into the front room of the old house and hung them over the windows, blocking out all sunlight.

“I’m not sure why they put up those drapes,” she said. “Maybe it was to give a solemnity to the wake.”

During the two days of the wake, the little girl’s beloved dog sat dutifully beside the coffin and emitted a mournful wail. The mourners commented on that lamentable howling, and it left them all with a chill. After the wake, the coffin was moved to the church where a service was held. The child’s body was buried in the church cemetery.

The dog followed the family to the cemetery. Some time later, the dog’s body was found along the road. It appeared that the little girl’s pet had literally laid down and died.

My friend Joyce knows a lot about the old ways and about these old rituals.

When one of her elderly aunts lay dying, a family member sat quietly by the bedside. When the old woman breathed her last, the family member arose and draped a heavy cloth over the mirror and opened the clock’s glass face and stopped the clock.

“I saw someone do that in a movie,” I told Joyce. “What’s that about?”

“The cloth over the mirror is for the protection of the departed,” she said. “It’s believed that the spirits of our loved ones may glance into a mirror and become frightened when they see no one looking back.”

That had a resonance of truth, as I’d heard stories about people with near-death experiences saying they couldn’t see any reflection when they looked in a mirror. Wonder how they knew about that back in the 1930s?

“And the clock was stopped for a much more practical reason,” she said. “The clock was stopped so that the mortician would know the time of death.”

There was also a requirement - never to be breached - that a loved one sit with the body until burial. I’d imagine this was a throwback to olden days before medical equipment when the dead occasionally came back to life (much to the surprise of the watcher).

It was all fascinating.

As Tevye sings in Fiddler on the Roof, “because of our traditions, we’ve kept our balance for many years.”

Traditions should be remembered and honored, because oftimes, they were created for very practical reasons.

Note at the bottom of this old tombstone, the macabre reminder, "Reader, you must die." Photo is courtesy of Crystal Thornton, copyright 2009, Crystal Thornton.