Five years ago, I met and married this guy (thanks to Match.com) and we’ve now been married five years. It’s been quite an adventure, and a wild ride, and a lot of fun. As I told him on our wedding in January 2007, “You are the very specific answer to many years of faithful and persistent prayers.”

It was true then, and it’s still true today.

When I first met him, he was wearing a green flannel shirt and old blue jeans, and I could hardly believe this down-to-earth average fellow was a smarty-pants lawyer who had a good job and an impressive career. In fact, I was quite relieved when I saw his law degree hanging on the wall in his office. It provided some proof that he really had attended law school, and even graduated (second in his class!).

Wayne at his office in downtown Norfolk.

To learn more about the kit homes I’ve found since I moved to Norfolk, click here.

* * *

My husband loves his little truck. He purchased it brand new in 2001, and has enjoyed it ever  since. He takes good care of it, too.

Imagine our surprise when a well-known Ford dealership here in Hampton Roads told us that they refused to even give a bid on repairing the vehicle. Their reason - Hubby’s truck had more than 75,000 miles. The service writer explained that they don’t do major mechanical work on vehicles with more than 75,000 miles.

That tells me a LOT about what they think of their Ford products.

When a Ford product hits 75,000 miles, apparently that’s the end of its usable life, and we’re supposed to just park it on the street and call for the tow truck to haul it off to the junk yard.

My Toyota Camry sits in the garage as I’m writing this, with 165,900 miles. Last time I had it serviced, the mechanic explained, “I’d be surprised if you don’t get 225,000 miles out of this car. It’s in excellent condition.”

So there we have a tale of two cars, with similar care and similar attention, and yet one will last for years, and the other - according to a representative of Ford Motor Company (which is what a dealership is), it’s not worthy of major repairs after 75,000 miles.

And people wonder why the Japanese have cleaned our clock in the automotive industry?

Our Ford F150 sits in our driveway with a piece of cardboard to catch the dripping oil.

According to the Ford representative (the dealership), they won't perform any major mechanical repairs on these vehicles after 75,000 miles.

We live in a nice area, and we're really not pleased with the prospect of having to use cardboard to deal with our Ford's leaking issues. It's the rear seal that's gone bad, and needs to be replaced. Ultimately, we'll probably get a local mechanic to repair this problem, but I am very disappointed in Ford. How can they expect the consumer to believe in their products, if *THEY* don't believe in them?

Please leave a comment for Rose, or you can email her directly at thorntonrose@hotmail.com.

*   *   *

When I first found the old photos of my great, great Aunt Addie, I immediately assumed that she had it all.

She was a stunningly beautiful woman, and in 1896, she married a very wealthy older gent and moved into Lake Mills’ finest mansion.

You know what they say about “assuming” things? If you assume, you’ll end up making an “ass of u & me.”

A short time later, I learned that Addie’s life did not end well. In 1901, five years after marrying Enoch Fargo, she was dead, and her death was not caused by diphtheria (as is stated on her death certificate). According to Mary Wilson’s book (History of Lake Mills), Addie’s own husband shot her dead, and within seven months, he was re-married to Maddie Harbeck, who (coincidentally?) had been living in the Fargo Mansion with Addie and Enoch.

If Addie hadn’t been so beautiful, so elegant and so glamorous, would she (like her sister, my great-grandmother) have lived to a ripe old age?

My great-grandmother lived to be 99 years old. She wasn’t as beautiful or glamorous as her baby sister, Addie.

It does give one pause.

And my favorite photo of Addie, taken in 1894. Look at that tiny waist!

I do believe that's a little mink atop her hat!

Enoch Fargo and his bride, Addie Hoyt Fargo. This is their wedding photo from 1896. Addie was 22 years younger than Enoch. He had two daughters from his first marriage, the oldest of which was four years younger than Addie. Addie died a mere five years after this picture was taken. Addie Hoyt Fargo would have been my great-great Aunt.

Addie was a stunningly beautiful woman. Was that a blessing or a curse when Enoch decided that he wanted to marry her?

Addie was not only beautiful, but elegant and poised.

To learn more about Addie, click here.

*   *   *

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:

According to a story my father used to tell, this bedroom set was an exhibition piece, given to my father in 1933 or 34, when he was 13 or 14 years old, and he recalled that it was an antique back then!  Recently, a local antiques dealer inspected the set, and told me the bed dates back to the late 1800s, probably mid 1890s.

All the wood is inlaid, and the furniture was refinished in the 1980s. It is truly, as many have said, a museum quality piece, made with sold Mahogany, detailed inlay, and replete with hand-carved accents.

And now, due to my father’s passing, it is to be sold.  If you’re interested in this item, please leave a comment below and it’ll be forwarded to Edward Fuller (Raleigh, NC) who will respond to your inquiry. This beautiful bedroom suite is currently being stored in Portsmouth, Virginia.

Beautiful dresser, with matching mirror. Keep in mind, the floral pattern is comprised of countless teeny tiny pieces of wooden inlay.

The bureau's top is also ornately arranged inlay.

Close-up on the drawer hardware and inlay.

Beautiful piece!

detail on dovetailed drawers

Headboard and footboard.

close-up

Detail on headboard

close-up of hand-carved piece atop headboard

Not part of the set, but this item will be sold with the rest.

If you’re interested in these pieces, please leave a comment below, and your message will be forward to Edward Fuller.

*   *   *

Make up. What an interesting term. Turns out, this modern marvel has its roots in ancient Egypt, where women applied colorful concoctions to their eyes, eyelids, cheeks and lips to emulate the look of a post-orgasmic flush. Think about that next time you’re at the store looking for the perfect shade of lip-gloss.

Mother was right. Beauty does have a price. And it’s the price of beauty that led to the passage of the Food and Cosmetic Drug Act. In 1933, a woman named Mrs. Brown was permanently blinded after using a new mascara product called Lash-Lure. The mascara contained a synthetic aniline dye, something, it turns out, that should never ever be put on human skin. In 1938, after The Food and Cosmetic Drug Act was passed, the first product that the new government agency seized was Lash-Lure.

In 1936, writer Ruth deForest Lamb penned a fantastic book titled, American Chamber of Horrors: The Truth About Food and Drugs. In this book, Ms. Lamb explains that Mrs. Brown was one of the lucky ones because she only lost her vision. Another woman was actually killed by Lash-Lure. It’s a great book that proves that beauty has been costing women their health and well-being for many decades.

Oh, and a final note: The average woman consumes (as in eats) 5-6 pounds of lipstick per year. Ick.

The image below came from Ladies’ Home Journal, 1903.

(American Chamber of Horrors: The Truth About Food and Drugs), New York, NY: Farrar And Rinehart, 1936), p. 18.

Beauty has a price!

This little ad for the Chicago and Alton rail line promises that they’re always on time. Look closely at the photo (below) and you’ll see that a woman appears to be sitting with the train’s engineer. Is *that* why this particular rail line is always on time?

Probably so.

This little ad appeard in the 1905 American Carpenter and Builder.

Close-up of the woman driver

To buy Rose’s book, click here.

To see more great old ads, click here.

*   *   *

Opting out of the scanner inflicts punitive measures on the traveler. I speak from experience.

Recently, I flew out of Atlanta and ended up in the “random pick” line for the Nude-o-scope (or porn-scope, as some people call them). I told the TSA barker that - due to personal and religious beliefs - I wanted to opt out.

She rolled her eyes and told me to step around the machine. In a strident voice, she then screeched, “I need a female attendant for a pat down!”

This was my first time dealing with this new technology, but I’d decided months ago that I was NOT going to be microwaved on “medium defrost” *and* have my 51-year-old body ogled by a TSA employee.

So the angry TSA attendant parked me next to the scanner and told me to stay still (as though I were a trained dog). I kept looking at the scanning device and and hoping that the Plexiglas shroud would effectively block the machine’s radiation.

Meanwhile, my personal belongings hit the end of the conveyor belt, but parked in my spot beside the scanner, I could barely see the gray bins containing my brand-new Toshiba laptop, my small leather wallet, my cell phone and my keys.

I literally pleaded with the TSA attendant to allow me to retrieve my personal possessions and she refused. I was traveling alone (as I often do). I then pleaded with her to allow me to at least be in the line of sight of my things and she again barked that I was to remain still.

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to your thangs,” she said, obviously annoyed.

“This is what happens when you opt out,” I thought to myself. “You lose your wallet and your laptop. Very, very effective.”

I watched the hordes of travelers moving through the “traffic lanes” of the security line, retrieving their personal items and realizing, anyone one of them could easily lift and pocket my things and no one would be the wiser. I was sick with fear. There were no TSA agents near my belongings (which I now realize was a blessing). No one watching out for them. All my things just sat at the end of that conveyor belt, about 20-25 feet away from me.

The minutes ticked by. I kept edging over a little more and a little more until I could at least SEE my personal things. The angry TSA agnet would periodically screech, “I need a female attendant for a pat down.”

Each time she screeched, I watched dozens of heads turn in the long line, eyeballing the crazy woman who’d been removed from the regular line and set aside. I served as an excellent example. While I dutifully waited for a female TSA attedant, not one other soul opted out of the scanner.

Dozens of passengers went by as I stood there, moving so close that they literally brushed past me. Finally, after a 30+ minute wait, a female appeared and moved me several feet away to another area. Now, I was closer to my things and could at least keep an eye on them.

The attendant started patting me down. She offered to allow me to do this in a private screening area, but I had declined for fear of losing my wallet, my cell phone and my laptop. It was a helluva bad spot to be in. Which was worse - this intense public pat down or having my things stolen? I opted for “b.”

Next, she ran a circular pad all over my clothes and then put it in the sniffer. This is where I nearly threw up with fear. Last time I’d gone to the target range with my .38, I’d worn these jeans. After firing the weapon, I often wiped my right hand on the right thigh of my pants. I wondered if the gunpowder residue would show up on that sniffer.

It was terrifying. I was nauseous and started to feel light-headed and faint.

Finally - 45 minutes later, it was over.

The entire affair was very punitive, and humiliating and time consuming and emotionally distressing. When I retrieved my things, I walked into the women’s restroom and wept.

Make no mistake - this was intended to be misery. I opted out. I’m a rebel, and judging by the TSA’s behavior, I must be punished.

To read the letter I wrote to my politicians, click here.

The letter below was sent to my elected representatives (with the exception of Bobby Scott, who has never responded to my letters, except to ask for campaign contributions).

The TSA must be abolished. They’re out of control. And they’re an egregious violation of our fourth amendment rights. Further, it appears that their raison d’etreis to inflict more harm on our economy, specifically by destroying the airline industry.

Recently, I flew out of Atlanta and ended up in the “random pick” line for the Nude-o-scope (or porn-scope, as some people call them). I told the TSA barker that - due to personal and religious beliefs - I wanted to opt out.

I was treated like a criminal and made to wait 45 minutes, while at least 50 passengers moved on through the Nude-o-scope. I asked if I could retrieve my belongings (sitting alone at the end of the conveyor belt) and was ordered to “Stand still and don’t move.” I asked if I could move to a position where I could at least see my things. Again, the woman screeched at me to remain still.

It was a miracle that my laptop, wallet, cellphone and briefcase weren’t stolen.

Forty-five minutes later, after I’d had my crotch and breasts thoroughly examined by a $9 an hour employee, I was free to go. The entire affair was very punitive, and humiliating and time consuming and emotionally distressing. When I retrieved my things, I walked into the women’s restroom and wept.

Make no mistake - this was intended to be misery. I opted out. I’m a rebel, and judging by the TSA’s behavior, I must be punished.

Please stop the abuses of the TSA.

Sincerely,

Rosemary Thornton

Continued from Part 1.

Beautiful women, such as my daughter, don’t need help in attracting men. As proved by my experiment, they can post a head-shot and write a meaningless profile and within moments, hoards of eligible bachelors will magically appear, sniffing around their virtual yard and begging for a date.

But Mother was right. Beauty does have a price. And sometimes, beauty exacts a price from men, too. Like 20 years of alimony payments.

Many of these newly-divorced men liked to tell an obviously well-rehearsed and emotional story about how much they despised the mother of their children. Speaking as a woman who’s read four billion self-improvement books, I can not imagine sharing this type of story on a first date, where you’re (supposedly) investing your best energies in hiding your personal psychoses and neuroses and bad habits.

“My first wife is such an unbelievable witch,” these middle-aged men would often tell me (and that’s “witch” with a capital B).

“She’s depressed and she’s depressing and she’s lazy and she’s crazy as a loon. And she sleeps half the day and she drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney and swears like a sailor and she’s a lousy mother, too. And she likes to eat cheezy fizz right out of the can. She’s really disgusting.”

On and on they’d go, telling me how utterly awful their ex-wife was. When they’d exhausted themselves, I’d look ‘em right in the eye and ask a single, simple question:

“What attracted you to her in the first place?”

Their answer was always, and I mean always, the same. Sometimes they used different words, but the meaning and import never changed.

“She was so beautiful,” they’d tell me with their eyes glazing over. “She was a real knock-out.”

The more troubled men would often continue with, “When I walked into a room with her on my arm, all the men would turn and stare. They were so damn jealous, their eyeballs would pop out of their head. Man, she was gorgeous.”

In Between Men, Eve Sedgwick says that men are often more interested in having a relationship with other men, rather than having a relationship with a woman. She says that a man’s sense of self-worth is fueled and fed by the envious gaze of other males. Women become pawns in a game, and Sedgwick says their purpose - in the eyes of men - is to cement the “bonds of men with [other] men.”

To read another excerpt, click here.

To learn more about Rose’s new book on internet dating, click here.

Weary of being judged and found wanting (based on nothing more than my thumbnail profile picture), I conducted a little experiment. With my daughter’s permission, I posted an ad at a popular internet dating site, using her gorgeous image and likeness. Her “ad” (profile) was carefully written, sprinkled with a few not-so-subtle suggestions that she was high maintenance and had some serious gold-digger leanings. Purposefully, I dumbed her down so she wouldn’t sound too interesting or too well-read. Her age was listed at 35.

Within 24 hours, she had more than 20 emails. By the end of the first week, she had 75 emails from 75 men, pleading for a response. Within 30 days, she had received more than 250 letters from men (ages 25 to 62)  who were begging to meet her.

After reading through this deluge of emails, I became incensed. I was an intelligent, capable, independent, interesting, well-read, well-traveled, self-educated, nationally known author, and men were ignoring my profile because I didn’t have The Look. In 24 hours, my daughter’s picture brought in six times the response my picture garnered in 90 days.

The majority of those 250 emails said, “Something about your profile really spoke to me.”

They were either liars or fools, or perhaps both.

If these men were even bothering to read the profile, they might have noticed that it didn’t speak to much of anything. It was fluff and silliness and trivial nonsense. Other men cut to the chase and waxed poetic about her great beauty. More than 20% of the emails included graphic descriptions of the men’s wealth.

One lonely soul wrote, “I’ve done very well in the stock market and I can provide you with all that you’ll ever want or need.”

Another man said, “Thanks to some very wise investing, I’m now retired and just hoping to find someone who wants to travel the world with me.”

Some were more blatant.

“I’ve got everything a man could want: plenty of money, a beautiful home and fine cars, but I don’t have you.”

Reading between the lines, it’s not hard to figure out the formula that these men - and apparently society - have settled on. You have plenty of beauty. I have plenty of money. We’re a perfect match.

These are the mathematics of a woman’s social value.

Some call this a “social price,” the sum total of our desirable qualities and attractive features, as judged by members of the opposite sex. But what’s a woman to do if she doesn’t have this supremely valuable asset of physical beauty in her arsenal?

I wish I had an easy answer to this. I don’t.

In Fay Weldon’s poignant novel The Life and Loves of a She-Devil, the protagonist Ruth Patchett states plainly, “As an [ugly] woman my physical match is an old, epileptic, half-witted man.”

Beautiful women, such as my daughter, don’t need help in attracting men. As proved by my experiment, they can post a head-shot and write a meaningless profile and within moments, hoards of eligible bachelors will magically appear, sniffing around their virtual yard and begging for a date.

To read the rest of this chapter, click here.

To learn more about Rose’s new book on internet dating, click here.

To read another excerpt, click here.

August 2010, Tory finished painting our house on Gosnold Avenue. With every passing day, I love this color more and more, and that’s a good thing because this was an enormous project. We used 40 gallons of paint and primer (field and trim) and we chose Sherwin Williams Duration ($50 a gallon, 25 year warranty).

My 1925 Colonial Revival looks stunning in pink. Black shutters will soon arrive (or so I hope), which will create the perfect complement for this old house. Pink field, white trim, black shutters = the prettiest house in all of Norfolk.

My daughter says it looks like strawberry ice cream. My other daughter says it looks like a sheet cake. I think it looks perfect.

To read, “Pink House, part ii,” click here.

Pretty in pink

Side view

The process

The back looked worse than the front. It's likely the front had been repainted, but the rear had not.

Close-up of dirty eaves

Little House

Schadenfreude. Who’s ever heard of it?

It’s a German word that means delighting in the misfortune of others. I had never heard of this word until I was doing some research for my book The Ugly Woman’s Guide to Internet Dating: What I Learned From 70 First Dates. Before this, I’d heard it described as “The Crab Theory.”

Put one crab in a five-gallon bucket and Mr. Crab will do everything in his power to scale its smooth wall and crawl out of that bucket. Put two or more crabs in a bucket and when one starts to climb up, the others will grab him and pull him back down into the bucket. Unfortunately, humans sometime exhibit the same tendencies as crabs.

In my own life, I’ve struggled mightily with envy, and I’m sorry to say that too many times, I had a decided leaning toward the crab/schadenfreude side.

And then one day, I read a story in the Christian Science Sentinel about a woman who’d spent a lifetime cultivating the habit of gratitude. She said that her mother had taught her to feel sincerely joyous and grateful for the good things that happened in other people’s lives, and to take it as a personal promise from God that, if it happened for them, it could happen for her, too.

The Buddhist have a word for this: Mudita. It’s the practice of finding joy in other people’s success and happiness.

The fact is, we’re all cracked pots and fallible and prone to foibles and missteps and mistakes and even lapses in good judgment. Who among us hasn’t lost our temper and said something we deeply regret? Who among us hasn’t surrendered to temptation when we could have done better? My point is, maybe the real need is to stop staring so hard at other people’s sins and take a better look at our own shortcomings and work on improving those.

Maybe we need to stop cultivating the habit of schadenfreude and work on mudita.

For two decades, I’ve been a writer. The majority of my writing has been on internet dating and old houses and historic architecture.

Today’s the exception.

In June 2010, my 91-year-old father moved into assisted living. It’s been a flurry of activity, closing up his house, moving him to a new place, getting things settled, and dealing with the 101 details of his life. As his POA, the details seem to be endless.

Making all this ever more difficult is the fact that my father made many poor choices in life, such as walking out on my mother and me in 1974.  It’s a long and lugubrious story but in short, Forgiving our Parents, Forgiving Ourselves was one of the best books I ever read. I highly recommend it.

In 2001, after my father’s second wife died, my father started to re-enter my life bit by bit. He was 82 years old.

Now he’s 91, and old and frail and needs a lot of help on a lot of fronts. Sometimes, despite my daily prayers and best efforts and dogged determination, there are days when I still feel angry with him.

When we were cleaning out his house, we found a baby book - his baby book - from 1919. I’d expected to find a few loose photos stuck within its brittled pages. Instead, I found an incredibly detailed record of a little boy’s life from June 1919 to sometime in 1926. The “baby book” was filled with vintage photos and detailed information and stories and even a locket of baby’s hair, safely ensconced in a tiny envelope with a delicate blue ribbon.

Looking at the handwritten notes, I saw my father in a new light. More than 90 years ago, he was someone’s beloved baby boy. This cute little baby, smiling back at me from the faded-pages of an antique book, warmed my heart and softened the wrath I’d felt.

I’ve heard it said that the kindest thing we can do for our heavenly Father is to be kind to His children. It occurs to me that - in addition to the divine command - perhaps the kindest thing I can do for my paternal grandparents is to be kind to their youngest son, their beloved little boy, Thomas.

My father was a twin, born ten minutes after his brother "Junior." Here's their picture from Fall 1919. The caption (written by my grandmother) said, "In their buggy, Junior always reaches out to hold Thomas' little hand."

"Junior" and Thomas at the park. Apparently, Thomas doesn't like the fact that Junior (left) has a toy and Thomas does not. Thomas is so rattled, he's on the verge of falling over.

Thomas and Junior (front and rear) with their maternal grandparents, the Whitmores.

Edward Atkinson Fuller Junior (left) and Thomas Hoyt Fuller (right)

A wicker basket built for two!

Thomas in the foreground, playing with his brother "Junior."

Awesome necklace

Junior (Ed) on left, Mom (Florence Whitmore Fuller) and Thomas.

Thomas with his horsie

Boys with Judge Aurelius Hutton's "prize collie" (according to the caption).

"Junior" (Ed) on the left, Thomas on the right with an unnamed kitty.

My father in the early 1950s with two of his four children.

Opting out of the scanner inflicts punitive measures on the traveler. I speak from experience.

Recently, I flew out of Atlanta and ended up in the “random pick” line for the Nude-o-scope (or porn-scope, as some people call them). I told the TSA barker that - due to personal and religious beliefs - I wanted to opt out.

She rolled her eyes and told me to step around the machine. In a strident voice, she then screeched, “I need a female attendant for a pat down!”

This was my first time dealing with this new technology, but I’d decided months ago that I was NOT going to be microwaved on “medium defrost” *and* have my 51-year-old body ogled by a TSA employee.

So the angry TSA attendant parked me next to the scanner and told me to stay still (as though I were a trained dog). I kept looking at the scanning device and and hoping that the Plexiglas shroud would effectively block the machine’s radiation.

Meanwhile, my personal belongings hit the end of the conveyor belt, but parked in my spot beside the scanner, I could barely see the gray bins containing my brand-new Toshiba laptop, my small leather wallet, my cell phone and my keys.

I literally pleaded with the TSA attendant to allow me to retrieve my personal possessions and she refused. I was traveling alone (as I often do). I then pleaded with her to allow me to at least be in the line of sight of my things and she again barked that I was to remain still.

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to your thangs,” she said, obviously annoyed.

“This is what happens when you opt out,” I thought to myself. “You lose your wallet and your laptop. Very, very effective.”

I watched the hordes of travelers moving through the “traffic lanes” of the security line, retrieving their personal items and realizing, anyone one of them could easily lift and pocket my things and no one would be the wiser. I was sick with fear. There were no TSA agents near my belongings (which I now realize was a blessing). No one watching out for them. All my things just sat at the end of that conveyor belt, about 20-25 feet away from me.

The minutes ticked by. I kept edging over a little more and a little more until I could at least SEE my personal things. The angry TSA agnet would periodically screech, “I need a female attendant for a pat down.”

Each time she screeched, I watched dozens of heads turn in the long line, eyeballing the crazy woman who’d been removed from the regular line and set aside. I served as an excellent example. While I dutifully waited for a female TSA attedant, not one other soul opted out of the scanner.

Dozens of passengers went by as I stood there, moving so close that they literally brushed past me. Finally, after a 30+ minute wait, a female appeared and moved me several feet away to another area. Now, I was closer to my things and could at least keep an eye on them.

The attendant started patting me down. She offered to allow me to do this in a private screening area, but I had declined for fear of losing my wallet, my cell phone and my laptop. It was a helluva bad spot to be in. Which was worse - this intense public pat down or having my things stolen? I opted for “b.”

Next, she ran a circular pad all over my clothes and then put it in the sniffer. This is where I nearly threw up with fear. Last time I’d gone to the target range with my .38, I’d worn these jeans. After firing the weapon, I often wiped my right hand on the right thigh of my pants. I wondered if the gunpowder residue would show up on that sniffer.

It was terrifying. I was nauseous and started to feel light-headed and faint.

Finally - 45 minutes later, it was over.

The entire affair was very punitive, and humiliating and time consuming and emotionally distressing. When I retrieved my things, I walked into the women’s restroom and wept.

Make no mistake - this was intended to be misery. I opted out. I’m a rebel, and judging by the TSA’s behavior, I must be punished.

To read the letter I wrote to my politicians, click here.

A few days ago I was hiking through the woods around Pilot Mountain State Park and thank goodness I had my camera with me.  Look what I saw!

Its the Niveus Ursus Americanus Waynus. This specimen seemed mature, well-fed and surprisingly tame. He approached our cameras with little or no trepidation.

Look closely at the above photo and you’ll see a spot of blue walking toward the camera.

Here he's emerged from the woods to explore the lake

Despite their natural tendency to stay away from flash photography, this Niveus Ursus Americanus Waynus continued walking our way.

Here's he returned to his native element

And here's a kindred spirit - Ursus americanus cinnamomum - delighted to see Waynus returning home.

Last week, I spent countless hours bundling up the children and getting them ready for their new homes. Shipping books is a lot of work and time-intensive, and standing in line at the Milan Station (Norfolk Post Office on 38th Street) is a foretaste of hell, but…

It sure is fun to think about this book - Montgomery Ward’s Mail-Order Homes - leaving home to be enjoyed by others. Dale Patrick Wolicki and I spent five years researching and writing this book, and it’s new research on a new topic. As I’ve told my husband and my friend Dale many times, this book will still be in use as a reference work many years after we’re all gone from this earth.

If you’d like to learn more about Wardway Homes, click here.

If you’d like to give your friends and relatives the perfect Christmas present, click here.

And if you’d like to support your local library by donating a copy of Wardway Homes, click here.

Wardway books leaving home

Handsome hubby poses with the new book. Two cuties together in one photo!

Friday afternoon, my newest book (co-authored with Dale Wolicki) came home. This is my seventh book but it’s always so exciting to see a long-awaited dream come to fruition. Dale and I toiled over this book for five years. Hopefully, we’ll sell out that first printing within 90 days or so. It’s a beautiful book (347 pages!), filled with photos, vintage pictures, facts and details on the kit homes offered by Montgomery Ward.

To buy a copy, click here.

To read more about Wardway Homes, click here.

Teddy stands guard over the new books in my hallway

She was especially interested in the chapter on Neo-Tudor homes

The Wardway Newport caught her eye.

The cover of our new book.

In the mid-1880s, while working as a railway station agent in Redwood Falls, Minnesota, Richard Warren Sears paid $50 for a shipment of watches that arrived at the train station and had been refused by a local merchant. Selling them to other railway agents and passengers, Sears turned $50 worth of watches into $500 in a few months.

His timing could not possibly have been any better.

With the advent of the steam locomotive and reliable passenger rail service, people could now travel hundreds of miles each day, but there was a problem with all this expeditious movement. In the early 1880s, the United States had 300 different time zones. You read that right: 300.

In November 1883, railway companies established four time zones to help manage and standardize the complex train schedules. As folks adapted to the new time zones, watches became a hot commodity.

In 1886, 23-year-old Sears invested his $5000 cash profit into a new watch business and called it the “R. W. Sears Watch Company.” He advertised his watches in regional newspapers and in a short time, he moved the business from Minneapolis to Chicago.

Around 1891, Sears and Roebuck published their first mail order catalog, offering jewelry and watches within its 52 pages. By 1893, the little watch and jewelry catalog had grown to 196 pages and offered a variety of items, including sewing machines, shoes, saddles and more. One year later, another 300 pages were added, creating a 507-page mail order catalog.

On November 1, 1908, 44-year-old Richard W. Sears emerged from a terse closed-door meeting with his business partner Julius Rosenwald and announced that he would resign as President from his own company. Sears’ reason for retiring: He “didn’t see the work as fun anymore.” A short time later, Sears sold his stock for $10 million dollars. There was another reason for his departure. Sears wanted more time to take care of his ailing wife, who had suffered from ill health for years.

In September 1914, at the age of 50, Sears died, having turned $50 worth of pocket watches into a multi-million dollar mail order empire. His estate was valued at more than $20 million.

Richard Warren Sears at his office at 925 Homan Avenue, Chicago, IL

In just a few days, my newest book (co-authored with Dale Wolicki) will roll off the presses. Montgomery Ward’s Mail-Order Homes will be my 7th book. Writing is tough. This most recent work represents five years of steady effort. Kit homes are something about which I’m passionate. Good thing, because the financial benefits of writing aren’t that great.

In 2003, Illinois sponsored a gala event to honor the state’s authors. It was a black-tie affair with an elegant meal served on fine china edged with gold leaf. Only 50 authors were invited to attend and thanks to my book (The Houses That Sears Built), I was one of them. It was quite an honor.

There were three speakers at the formal dinner, all of whom (unlike me)  had hit the big time with their literary works. The first speaker spoke at length about the contributions of his beloved wife.

“Without her,” he told the audience as he gazed lovingly at his gorgeous wife, “I could never have accomplished this.”

I squirmed in my chair a bit. I’d already noticed that everyone had entered the spacious hall in pairs. And I thought about how the event organizer had pleaded with me to find someone to bring along. Now I understood.

The next speaker was a woman who followed the first author’s lead, and also waxed eloquent about her husband’s specific advice and honest encouragement and how she could never have done it without him.

Third speaker. Same talk, different body. And that’s when I excused myself and went into the bathroom. I don’t like crying in public. Leaning over the glistening white sink and staring into the oversized mirror, I told myself, “When I write the book that hits the big time, and someone asks me how I did it, I am never going to say that I could not have done this without a romantic partner in my life.”

I know the speakers’ comments were innocuous and well-intended, but to the lone unattached, one-partner-shy-of-a-full-pair woman in the audience, it was a neon-sign that flashed, “Writers are without hope unless they’re in love.” My dating life and my romantic life were already in the ash heap. Was it really necessary to throw my dreams of a magnificent career onto the smoldering ruins too?

That was seven years ago. Now, I’m re-married and yes, the new husband has been an incredible blessing in my writing career. But if my newest book on Wardway Homes hits the big time, I get invited to address a large audience, I don’t think I’ll say that I never could have done it without him.

I’m just not willing to believe that there’s always a romantic partner behind every successful woman.

Conscious worth satisfies the hungry heart, and nothing else can. - Mary Baker Eddy

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 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.

Which brings me to the first of four basic theories regarding beauty and self-esteem.

First, there’s The Little Princess Theory of Beauty. You are miles ahead of most of us if you were raised on a steady diet of compliments and kind words. Bonus points for hearing these compliments and kind words from a man with an important position in your life. You might have a third eye centered on your upper forehead with one massive, circuitous eyebrow over all three of your lovely gray eyes, but the fact is, if your father (or a suitable alternate) told you that you were beautiful, you’re going to act, feel and behave like someone who is beautiful.

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.

If I were queen of the world (and it shouldn’t be long now), I’d tell all the fathers of the world this one thing: “You possess the ability to make your daughter - your little girl - feel good and confident about herself and you wield a powerful influence over her ability to attract a desirable partner. Further, the man that she selects as her life partner - good, bad or horrific - will be determined largely by your words and actions. You’re teaching her what kind of man she should select, accept, or settle for. You have the potential to make her adult life perfectly lovely or unspeakably hellish. Open your eyes and your heart before you open your mouth and think about the far-reaching implications of your word choices.”

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.

If throughout childhood, you were frequently surrounded by a cloud of negative, ugly comments about your physicality, that’s very hard to overcome in adult life.

In The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf writes that women’s magazines make their money by selling women on the idea that they’re suffering from a disease of “terminal ugliness,” and that this opens the to sell billions of dollars of “cures.”

Too many women already believe that they’re afflicted with this “disease.” The painful throes and agonized wails imposed by this disease can be heard in the ladies’ dressing room of any clothing store in America. Next time you try on a blouse or a dress, stop for a moment and listen to the cacophony of criticism that women unleash on themselves as they’re squeezing into clothes in adjoining stalls. Their self-inflicted vitriol and disparagement will make your blood run cold.

“I’m such a fat pig,” they snarl out loud at their mirrored image, or “If I don’t lose 20 pounds, I swear I’m gonna kill myself.”

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 and developed. However, none of us live in a perfect world and most of us don’t have that deep taproot of self-worth. And that’s the reason for The Bootstrap Theory.

It’s also named the Eleanor Roosevelt No-one-can-make-you-feel-ugly-without-your-consent Theory. (You can see why it’s easier to call this The Bootstrap Theory.)

So your father was a louse and your uncles weren’t much better and no one ever told you that you were a little princess. The Bootstrap Theory states that if a woman lacks self-esteem, she should go right to work on this particular short-coming and pull herself up by her own bootstraps.  This theory holds that improving one’s sense of self-worth is entirely an inside job and something that you must do for yourself and by yourself. According to this theory, there are a myriad of ways to raise self-esteem, such as affirmations or meditation, or perhaps accomplishment and success, or achieving long-awaited goals.

As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

This notion is expressed in different ways, such as “No one is going to love you until you’re able to love yourself.” Or its derivative, “You’ve got to be the first one who sees your own beauty. Then, and only then, will the world be able to see it.”

There are some elements of truth to The Bootstrap Theory but it also has many, many flaws. No woman is an island. We are swayed by the opinions of others and that’s especially true in those places where we’re already feeling unsure and insecure.

Fortunately one of my heroes, Virginia Woolf, agrees with me on this one. In a Room of One’s Own (originally an address given to college students), she writes, “Moreover, it is all very well for you, who have got yourselves to college and enjoy sitting rooms of your own to say that genius should disregard such opinions, that genius should be above caring what is said of it. Unfortunately, it is precisely the men and women of genius who mind most what is said of them…Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.”

The “opinion of others” is tough enough, but the opinions of our so-called loved ones cut especially close to the heart. In the secret sanctuary of our soul, we assign each person a value and a cherished place in our world. Their words - directly proportionate to their assigned value - wield ever more power. For a sensitive soul, it’s tough enough to shake off the criticism from an ignorant stranger, but dismissing the sharply worded critique of a loved one is darned near impossible.

Recently, I drove to Cape Charles to photograph some of the kit homes there. First off, let me say that I *LOVE* that community and if anyone would like to bequeath The Sears Lady (that’s me) a piece of property in Cape Charles, that’d be just dandy. It really is a beautiful place and I’m surprised it did not make Forbes’ “Best Places to Live” list.

Really and truly.

I’ll be expanding this post as the days go by (these picture-heavy posts take time), but here’s a few very interesting homes I found on the main drag into Cape Charles.

To read more about Sears Homes, click here:

The Aladdin Sheffield was a very popular house for Aladdin.

Here's an Aladdin Sheffield in Cape Charles, Virginia (on the Eastern Shore)

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This was one of Sears' biggest and nicest homes.

Right down the street from the Sheffield (see above) is the Sears Glenn Falls. Although it's partly obscured by the trees, you can see the familiar lines of the Glenn Falls.

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The Pheonix is one of Sears' most unusual kit homes. Interesting design and lots of fun details.

Sears Pheonix - in the flesh - in Cape Charles, Virginia

Side view of the Pheonix

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Sears Somerset

The porch has been altered, but I'd be willing to be money that this is indeed a Sears Somerset.

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Sears Walton

This "Walton" is one of two, side by side, in Cape Charles, Virginia

My dear friend Dale and I have sent our baby to the printers. Our new book - The Mail-order Homes of Montgomery Ward - will be in our hands in about 30 days. It was a real labor of love and represents several years of research, work, and dogged persistence.

To learn more about the book - or just to read a handful of cool articles about Wardway Homes - click here.

For years, I’ve dreamt of cultivating and creating a perfect and private oasis in my backyard.  When we found our current home in Colonial Place (Norfolk), I was ready, willing and able to work on realizing that dream.  About 3-1/2 years later, I’m about to abandon hope.

My current backyard is a mess. Grass won’t grow.  Azaleas wither and die. Gardenias don’t even put forth a good effort. The Hydrangeas held on for about a year and then curled up and turned brown.  And for my veggie garden, I used a raised bed and paid to have four cubic yards of rich top soil delivered. There’s not a smidge of native soil in that raised bed.  (My husband said our “home-grown tomatoes” will cost about $287 each.)

One of the home’s former occupants (1949-1971) told me that they’d also invested countless hours and dollars trying to grow grass in the yard - without success.

Some people tell me it’s the 87-year-old oak trees in the yard that deplete the soil. Some people tell me it’s lack of adequate moisture. Some people claim its the sandy soil (we’re about two blocks from the water).  I’m not sure what the problem is, but I know that I’ve given up hope of creating a formal garden space in my back yard.

In 2008, my husband and I visited Asheville and saw Biltmore Estates. My favorite part was the formal garden. Nice views of the mountains, too. I sat down on the bench and took several photos of the gardens. It was all so incredibly beautiful.

Next time I visit Asheville’s Biltmore Estates, I’ll just tary a little longer in the formal gardens and soak in its magnificence and splendor, and maybe I’ll just pretend that I’m sitting in my own back yard.

The Gardens at Biltmore Estates in Asheville, NC

The view from the gardens

Sears Homes were kit homes that were sold right out of the pages of the Sears Roebuck catalog in the early 1900s. More than 370 designs of kit homes were offered - everything ranging from Arts and Crafts bungalows to foursquares to Colonial Revivals. These homes came in 30,000-piece kits and were shipped to all 48 states. Sears promised that a man of average abilities could have these homes assembled in about 90 days.

Today, the only way to find these kit homes is literally one by one.  And that’s what I do. When I decided that Sears Homes would be my career, I endeavored to memorize each of those 370 designs of Sears Homes. Now I can drive the streets of small town America and find the Sears Homes - one by one.

Not surprisingly, the Midwest has an amazing collection of Sears Homes in particular and kit homes in general. Below are a few pictures of the kit homes I’ve found during my travels in the Midwest.

In addition to Sears, there were other companies that sold kit homes, including Aladdin, Gordon Van Tine, Montgomery Ward, Harris Brothers and more.

To see Rose on Youtube, click here.

To learn more about Sears Homes, click here.

To buy a book on Sears Homes, click here.

The Sears Sherburne was not a very popular house, but it was a beauty!

Close-up of the catalog image

Sears Sherburne in Peoria, IL

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A pre-WW1 Sears Home: Modern Home #264P202

A close-up of Modern Home #264P202

The Sears #264P202 in the flesh. This house is in Okawville, IL

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From the Sears Modern Homes catalog, here's the Sears Glendale

Sears Glendale in Cairo, Illinois

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Sears Gladstone from the Modern Homes catalog

A Sears Gladstone in Carbondale, Illinois

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Sears Fullerton

This Fullerton is in Aurora, Illinois

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The Alhambra was a very popular model for Sears

An Alhambra in Casey, Illinois

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The Sears Argyle was also a very popular house for Sears

Here's a Sears Argyle in New Baden, Illinois.

Below is a perfect little Crescent in Bloomington, Illinois. Every detail is perfect!

To learn more about Sears Homes, click here.

To see more pictures of Sears Homes, click here.