Our vocabulary has really undergone many changes in the last 100 years. Below is an advertisement that appeared in a 1904 Ladies’ Home Journal.  At first glance, the phrase “Receipts for Frozen Dainties” conjures up an image of someone leaving the receipt for their Fruit of the Looms outside overnight in a chilly car.

In fact, “receipt” is an old word for recipe, and a “dainty” is not an undergarment but a small pastry - suitable for high tea, I’d imagine.

But laying all that to the side, the clown pictured below looks more like a psychotic axe murderer than a gracious host.

Other than promoting emotional eating, I'm not sure how this image is supposed to help sell the advertised products.

People in general and women in particular have great difficulty telling people, “No.” As a result, we get worn down, stresssed out, double-booked and overwhelmed. It’s not good.

In the book Be Careful What You Pray For, author Larry Dossey tells about an interesting study involving AIDS patients. Researchers found that some of the patients were living well beyond their anticipated life-span. Their secret - a common  personality pattern - was found in the answer to a single question: If a friend asked you to do a favor and you didn’t want to do it, could you refuse the request?

All of the long-term survivors said that, yes, they could refuse a friend.

Perhaps part of true authenticity is allowing a little of that God-given selfishness and self-preservation to bubble to the surface. Children (such as six-year-old girls) do this quite well and quite naturally, too. Grown-up girls, don’t do this so well. But extra-grown-up girls (middle-aged women) sometimes re-learn that a little selfishness can be good.

Women, as they age, start to shed the many layers of fake personas that the world (and/or society and/or parents, etc.) have forced them to cultivate. Buried underneath all those layers of regret and coulda/shoulda/wouldas, you’ll find a woman’s authenticity. And as that true self emerges, women start to find a little peace and a little joy and a little contentment. And that’s when their real beauty starts to shine. And that’s also when their self-esteem starts to recover.

And this helped me to understand another question that plagued me: Why are women so unhappy with themselves? Maybe it’s because they’re so busy playing so many roles for so many people that they have utterly forgotten what made their once-six-year-old heart sing with joy. While countless self-improvement books urge women to get outside of ourselves and focus more on someone else’s real needs, I know plenty of women who need to focus more on themselves, and less on the rest of the world.  As Dossey’s example shows, selfishness has salutary benefits too.

In 1926, Paramount celebrated its 15th anniversary in a big way, with full page ads in several magazines, including the Ladies’ Home Journal. The “blockbusters” advertised on the margins of this large ad are - for the most part - movies that I have never ever heard of.

Will today’s blockbusters leave people scratching their heads in wonderment?

Ever heard of these movies?

It was Christmas Eve night 2001 when Mom and I said our goodbyes. Our family (my husband and our three daughters) had come to town to visit her for the holidays. Standing at her back door the night before Christmas, we made plans for Christmas morning, and then Mom and I said our good-byes.

She threw her arms around me, pressed her soft cheek against mine and held me tight as we swayed left and right. She unclasped her arms and grabbed my upper arms and pushed me back a little bit and looked into my eyes. She put her hands up on either side of my face and said, “My beautiful, beautiful daughter. I love you.”

She hugged me again and said, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” I responded in kind. That was the last visit I had with my mother. As good-byes go, it was the best.

It was my expectation that she’d live far beyond January 2002. She was so healthy and strong. I had no inkling or idea that Christmas Even 2001 would be our last goodbye. This was an impossibly hard lesson to learn. Sometimes, people go to bed at night and leave for heaven in their sleep. Sometimes, there are no second chances to ask one more question. Sometimes, the last words you may ever hear someone say are, “Shut the door fast and don’t let the squirrels get in the house.”

It’s been eight years today and I still miss her so very much.

My mother with three of her granddaughters (about 1986)

Mom with her new granddaughter in Summer 1987

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.

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.

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.)

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!

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

Match.com worked for me!

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.

In the early years of the 20^th Century, cement was all the rage. And the idea of making your own cinder blocks (for fun and profit) apparently also became quite popular. The back pages of the 1905 issues of American Carpenter and Builder (a building magazine from that era) were filled with advertisements for block-making machines and cement-stirring machines.

Sears offered the Wizard Block Making machine which retailed for $57.50 (a bargain at twice the price!). And Sears suggested that a man could save a lot of money on building a new home if he made his own blocks. Now if a man devoted himself to making nothing but blocks and if a man had someone else preparing the cement for pouring, he could make about one every two minutes. To do this, the poured cement was loaded into a form, pressed down in this contraption and then removed. The form was not removed until the concrete had hardened a bit. That meant if you were serious about making blocks, you had to have several forms on hand.

The ad below suggests that the block could be removed immediately from the form. I’d love to know if that was accurate. Having never made a block in the Sears Roebuck Wizard Block Making Machine, I can’t say for sure.

Sears estimated that 1,300 blocks were needed for the basement of The Chelsea (one of their kit homes). The Chelsea was a modest foursquare on a short cellar. It’d be safe to assume that a Chelsea made of nothing but block would require more than 4,000 blocks. If you devoted yourself to the creation of those blocks and really hustled, you’d need about 17 eight-hour days to do nothing but work like a dog making blocks and setting forms in the sun and breaking open the forms and placing the forms back into the machine. And that’s if he had someone else preparing the cement. That’s a lot of work.

When I give talks on Sears Homes, I get a surprising number of questions about the Wizard Block Making Machine. Apparently this labor-intensive, cinder-block maker was quite a popular item for Sears.

Close-up of The Wizard

The Wizard Block Making Machine from an early 1900s Sears specialty catalogue

In what looks like a backwards evolution graphic, a man demonstrates how to use the "easy-to-use" Wizard block-making machine.

A gorgeous 25-year-old woman named America Ferrera plays “Betty Suarez” on the popular ABC sitcom “Ugly Betty.”  The Hollywood-inflicted “uglying” of this Hispanic beauty is a paper-thin veneer, and really does little to hide Miss Ferrera’s natural good looks. It’s not hard to look beyond the extra-bushy eyebrows, gray-metal braces, uncoiffed hair and unattractive glass frames, and see that Ms. Ferrera is quite beautiful.

In addition to her lovely facial features, Ms. Ferrara has a well toned, shapely, feminine form. Slap on some braces and stir up the extra-bushy eyebrows and voila, you’ve got instant ugly? If that’s the case, there’s little hope for the rest of us.

If “Ugly Betty” is the measure of an ugly woman, we’re all in trouble deep. We “average women” are in trouble. Mainstream media is constantly force-feeding us the crazy notion that we have to be beautiful to be worthy, or even worse, to be loved.

In the powerful book, Flesh Wounds author Virginia L. Blum talks about an interview she had with a famous plastic surgeon. He told her,

The way you look has a lot to do with whether you’re going to attract somebody else. Let’s be pragmatic about the fact that if a woman cease to be attractive physically, it affects the physical, intimate relationship. I’ve seen women who have not had particularly good relationships or haven’t had a relationship with men for a long time and I make them look younger and prettier and they go on to get married and have wonderful, stable relationships. There’s absolutely no question that the face-lift helped them. We live in a real physical world (p. 127).

Ms. Blum responds to this with her own insights:

[The plastic surgeon] spoke with such authority. Yoked to his honesty is a kind of fiction about the transformative possibilities of plastic surgery. You can change her life. You can make her someone whom someone else would be willing to love. More to the point, if she isn’t succeeding on the dating/marriage market, it must be because she’s not attractive enough. That’s the most unsettling part of his account, isn’t it?

The self-evident undesirability of the woman who isn’t young and pretty. Young and pretty. You can’t have pretty without the young. As a feminist, I am indignant. Outraged (Flesh Wounds: The Culture of Cosmetic Surgery, Virginia L. Blum, p. 127).

Like Ms. Blum, I also feel indignant and outraged. And Ugly Betty may be an award-winning sitcom, but the problem with it is, it perpetuates the tiresome message that’s been drilled into women’s heads for decades now. Ugly is a problem. Fix ugly with money. Spend money. Get pretty and then you’ll get love, because then you’ll be worthy of love.

In other words, money buys love.

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.”

And that seems to be the subtle message of Ugly Betty. We “less-than-beautiful” women need to spend a little more money on better glasses and better haircuts and invisible braces and electrolysis and then - only then - will the burdensome mantle of “ugly” be lifted off our shoulders and our true beauty will be revealed. And then, maybe then, we’ll find true love.

We just need to spend a little more money to be cured of that horrible disease of “terminal ugliness.”

I live for that happy day when I turn on the evening news and find that the male news anchors are young, svelte, well-coiffed and gorgeous, and the women news anchors are pudgy, untanned, hairless and unkempt. That’ll be my proof that the age of enlightenment has begun.

On May 20, 2006, I met my 70th first date at a coffee shop in Portsmouth, Virginia. Less than 90 days later, we were officially engaged to be married. Our wedding date was set for January 1st. Those were some of the happiest days of my life. Being mired in romantic love was every bit as delicious as I’d imagined it would be.

The best part was knowing that my dating days were behind me and also knowing that I’d survived my last lonely Christmas. In years prior, I’d gone to desperate measures to avoid the emotional pain of being utterly alone on Christmas Day. One especially memorable Christmas, I asked my ex in-laws if I could come to their house and watch my children unwrap their many presents. It was awkward and odd, but it was the best I could do that particular year and frankly, it was far better than being alone. (In another post, I wrote about the culture of loneliness.)

And then came Christmas 2006, my first post-divorce, pair-bonded Christmas event. A few days before Christmas, my soon-to-be husband and I walked through Macarthur Mall on our way to the movies. Our youngest daughters (his and mine) walked side-by-side in front of us. He and I held hands as we walked and I leaned over to him and said, “Isn’t it nice to be here with our little girls and be a family again?”

With his voice cracking with emotion he said, “I was just thinking the same thing.”
This man, my 70th first date, my fiance, had been single for 10 years after his divorce. I’m sure he knew about lonely holidays, too.

A few days before Christmas he sent me a text message that said, “It is a sheer joy to have this holiday season with you.”

Ditto.

Christmas 2008 at our home in Virginia

If I’d known how much fun it was to have my own website, I would have done this years ago. As “Administrator” of my own site, I can look at the day’s stats and figure out what search terms people are using to find me. Studying the daily statistics is wholly fascinating and ever-so-slightly addicting.

More than a few people are landing here after doing a key word search with terms such as “Dating Sears Homes.” That always makes me smile. This website was created to promote my newest book, The Ugly Woman’s Guide to Internet Dating: What I Learned from 70 First Dates.”

However, I’m also the author of several books on Sears kit homes so when some lucky duck googles “Dating Sears Homes” it is this website that pops up first.  I surmise these folks are not trying to figure out how to get a Sears Home to go out for dinner and drinks, but rather, they’re trying to figure out how to determine the age of a kit home.

I suppose I should answer that question. Sears homes were offered from 1908-1940, but their main years were the 1920s and early 1930s. Sears Homes were rare before WW1 (aka The War To End All Wars), and sales plummeted about four years into the Great Depression (1933).  In other words, probably 80% of sales occurred between 1919 and 1933.

If you want to learn more about the topic “dating Sears Homes” post something in the comment section (below) and I’ll do what I can to answer your question(s).

Sears Modern Homes were most popular in the 1920s

The older I get, the more I yearn to know something of our family history. My timing for all this  has turned out to be rather poor. My mother and her siblings passed on years ago. My father is still around, but his long-term memory is not. We recently looked at an old picture album together and I remembered more than he did about relatives I’d never met. After I was born in 1959, I became extremely ill and required a three-week hospitalization. My elderly father had no memory of any of this.

After my Aunt Engie passed away a few years ago, I went through an old shoe box I found buried in her closet and found several photographs from the 1920s and 30s. Sadly, there was no information scribbled on the back of the black and white snapshots. Now I can only make educated guesses as to who these people were.

During the years my children were growing up, I faithfully maintained photo albums, replete with names and dates and places. These many years later, those photo albums are the source of much joy. My oldest daughter Crystal told me recently, “If the house catches fire, and you can only save one thing, save the photo albums first! Everything else can be replaced!”

But what to do with all these early 20th Century photos that I found stuffed in a shoe box? These were my ancestors - I think. These were people my mother and her sister loved - I think.

Back in the day, photographs required an investment of time, effort and money. Photos were reserved for important days and special events. Who were these people? And what were the stories? All I know is that these pictures were taken in Rockford, Illinois (early 20s) and then sometime in 1925 or 1926, my grandfather (Edward Brown) moved his children to Alameda, California.

I wish I knew more.

The only person I recognize in this photo is my late mother (center on bottom row).

This is a photo of my mother (youngest girl) with her sister (Engie) and older brother Harry.

This is probably a picture of my maternal grandmother with her first son, Harry. It was probably taken in early 1910s.

Mom (the younger girl) and Aunt Engie with unknown person, perhaps a nanny?

Unknown person at unknown house in unknown place (house is late 1910s or early 20s)

I believe this is my Uncle Harry with his father (my maternal grandfather).

So reads a large advertisement in the 1912 issue of American Carpenter and Builder. I own a number of these architectural magazines from the early 1900s and the majority of advertisers offered products with a connection to the new and modern building miracle:  Concrete.

In 1867, Parisian gardener Joseph Monier was awarded a patent for reinforced concrete, which is concrete with embedded metal.

By the early 1900s, concrete became a hot item in the building trade. The rear pages of American Carpenter and Builder were filled with concrete products and concrete dry mixes and concrete mixers and concrete block makers. Concrete was big money. One of its biggest selling points was the fact that concrete was fireproof. In a time when fire was one of the great threats facing city residents and farm owners alike, creating a fireproof building was a big selling point.

As someone who loves to read old architectural magazines, I thought I’d seen it all - until I found this ad for concrete pine boxes. The ad promises, “Wooden boxes are rapidly becoming a thing of the past.”

Uh, it’s been almost 100 years since that statement was made and it hasn’t proven true.  “Wooden boxes” still abound.

I’d love to know how many contractors made money selling concrete caskets during the slow seasons of their building business.

Concrete pine boxes offer big profits (from 1912 American Carpenter and Builder Magazine)

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.

I have four basic theories regarding beauty and self-esteem, and the first is 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.  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.”

Read the rest of Rose’s book here.

In 1912, this vehicle (see photo below) was apparently considered “modern” transportation. It was offered by International Harvester and it was promoted as a device for “saving time” and tooling around town.

The solid-rubber wheels offered two benefits: One, as the ad promised, there’d never be a “blow out.”

The other benefit was the molar-jarring ride that’d jiggle you senseless and probably leave the badly bounced rider in a mental state that was akin to a bad trip on LSD. Perhaps this 1912 International Scooter with its hard-rubber wheels and ultra-primitive suspension system are the very source of that phrase, “bad trip.“  (Those of us who are less than 60 years old and riding around happily on our Michelin Tires don’t realize that there’s a reason that old cars carried TWO spare tires! Early tires were extremely unreliable and suffered catastrophic failure and blow outs on a regular basis.)

But I digress. This interesting “vehicle” (and I use that term loosely) was promoted as an “international auto wagon.” Now I realize that the name “International” is part of the company’s title, but labeling this inter-farm transportation device with the heavy moniker “international” is generous to say the least. I doubt this vehicle saw much service on rough country roads. I *know* it couldn’t traverse the seven seas.

Nice wheels

We’ve broken a record in Norfolk. A bad record. We’re not far from breaking the 1889 record of 70 inches of rain in one year. And hey - we got three weeks to go!

We had more torrential downpours last night. And then more rain in the wee hours.

This morning, I arose at 4:30 to get some writing work done. I went out to my sunporch and heard the plop, plop, plop of a leaky roof splashing raindrops onto my beige carpet. So then I had the husband run around and fetch plastic buckets and containers for the SEVEN places that were dripping water.

I ran upstairs and out to the sunporch ROOF (which is flat) and wearing my jammies, I went out on the roof (barefoot), got down on my hands and knees and bent over the edge of the sunporch roof in the POURING rain and cleaned out the gutters. When the gutters get too full, the water rises up behind the flat-roof’s flashing (bent over into the gutters) and then - thanks to that little miracle we call “gravity - flows merrily into the sunporch ceiling. The low spot on the sunporch ceiling is in the center, so that’s where it drips.

While I was up above - traipsing to and fro on this black rubber roof - my bare feet hit a slick patch of black rubber roofing (at 4:30 am keep in mind) and that sent me slip-sliding across the roof. In that split second, as the roof’s edge came closer and closer, I thought, “Great. This is how it all ends. The architectural historian slides off the flat sunroof of her own 1924-built Colonial Revival at 4:30 in the morning, with green-handled salad tongs in one hand and a blue Mag-light in the other.”

However, I survived that event.

Then hubby came out in the darkness and held the flashlight for me while I cleaned partially decomposed leaf matter and acorns and twigs and squiggly pink worms out of 35 linear feet of gutters in the pouring rain while wearing my jammies.

About 20 minutes later, I came back inside, drenched to the bone, and put on clean jammies and dry socks.

At 10:30 am, another torrential downpour clogged up the gutters again. This time, I went out with my drill motor and my hammer. I was going to fix those *&#^ gutters once and for all. I drilled about 129 half-inch holes in the gutters and then using the hammer, I *beat* the downspout off the gutter. I could *see* the problem - the downspouts were clogged with all manner of debris, but everytime I jammed my hand down into the downspout’s elbow, I only made matters worse, because when I pulled my hand *out* of the downspout, the razor-sharp sheet metal screws removed a little more downspout-clogging organic matter from my right hand.

I saw someone driving by on the street slow down to watch this amazing show. I am quite sure I looked like a mad woman. That’s because I *felt* like a mad woman.

At this point, if I’d had access to 13 sticks of dynamite I would have used all of them to blow those sunporch gutters to aluminum-gutter hell, where they surely belonged.

Again, when I re-entered the bedroom (where you access the sunporch roof) I was soaked through and through. As I walked toward the bathroom to peel off soaked clothes, I muttered, “Those gutters won’t hurt anyone now.”

I washed my hands in the bathroom and they burned from the death of a thousand cuts. Forcing my large hands into the downspouts’ mouth again and again and again left me with a right hand that resembled an uncooked rump roast. I focused on something other than pain and wondered if it’s possible to go into shock from having 83 small slices on one hand.

So I went back to my work and then I realized I need some boxes to ship books to people overseas. I went downstairs to my basement (where we store boxes) and as I descended the steps, I saw one of my boxes gently floating by at the foot of the stairs, like a cardboard gondola (sans gondolier).

My basement has five inches of standing water and a POS sump pump with a lot of ’splaining to do. Remembering the MANY extension cords we’d draped throughout the basement floor (to run fans and humidifiers after the last GREAT FLOOD - two weeks ago), I decide to not step into the potentially electrically charged water.

Instead, I pause and don my husband’s insulated rubber-sole boots and then courageously step off the basement steps and into Lake Colonial Revival. Nothing sparks or zaps and if I have just died instantly from an electric shock, it happened so fast that I have no conscious memory of it, so it’s all good. Perhaps with this one great step, I’ve walked right into eternity and never even knew it. I wonder if this is the case. However, I don’t see Mother anywhere nearby so I figure I’m still among the living and walk over to the sump pump.

Once at the sump pump, I give it a good swift kick in the float and it roars to life. Forty minutes later, we’re down to 1/2″ of water. Using my water-puddle-rapid-movement-device (something I used to call a broom), I sweep a little more recalcitrant water into the sump and then I notice that the formerly dry spots in the basement are wet again. The basement is refilling itself with an endless supply of flood water.

At this point, I call my husband and tell him, “I’m leaving. Don’t know when or if I’m coming back, but I’m leaving. I’m off to find dry ground and a dry house with beige carpet that doesn’t squish when I walk across it and gutters that don’t channel rain water into my office space where I store boxes and boxes of early 20th Century irreplaceable documents. If I come back with an olive branch, you’ll know I was successful. If not, it’s been nice knowing you.”

Long day. And I just got back home. He reported that the basement refilled after I left.

It’s nuts I tell you - just nuts. Our basement hasn’t flooded since 1924. An old man built our house in 1924 and he built it on its own tall hill. And yet - we flooded. Second time in 87 years. And the first time was two weeks ago.

Anyone got a rubber room I can borrow for a few weeks? I might need it…