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Ranch houses weren't exotic but sure felt like home

By ELIZABETH BETTENDORF
Published September 8, 2006

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the America of the mid 20th century, waxing nostalgic about its comforts and style and unbridled optimism that made it such an interesting time to live.

In particular, I've been reflecting upon the architecture and, most notably, the icon of the era: the ranch home.

Lately, though, ranches have become interesting again. They're gussied up in glossy decorating magazines, one-story symbols of the 'burbs with their simple floor plans, low-pitched roofs, George Jetson-esque intercom systems, sliding-glass patio doors and overall lack of adornment that led everyone to think of them as just plain dull.

Including me.

I'm 44 and lived for years in a classic 1950s ranch house that my family owned in the suburbs of St. Louis.

As a teenager, I longed for something romantic and fun, a Sears Roebuck catalog house, maybe, or an old farmhouse flanked by lilac bushes or a sprawling Victorian with a kitchen staircase and a big front porch, like the ones my cousins grew up in near Chicago.

Our ranch house was long and horizontal and filled with the classic features of the age: a see-through glass fireplace, a pink and aqua kitchen with metal cabinets, a pink hallway bathroom, a black-tiled powder room, a basement with a curving, padded aqua bar topped in gold-flecked Formica.

The house sat on a luxurious, shaded acre deep in the suburbs, built in a generation that hadn't yet known gridlock, commutes or $3 a gallon gas.

It was on a small cul-de-sac in a neighborhood that once was bucolic countryside dotted with apple orchards and small lakes.

The area was even immortalized in a Tennessee Williams play, A Lovely Sunday for Creve Coeur, in which the drama unfolds on a long streetcar ride out to the community for a picnic and afternoon at an amusement park.

Ranch houses, which became the rage after World War II and the suburban boom, featured attached garages and so much grass that eager new owners inevitably had to invest in riding lawn mowers.

All the recent research and literature on the subject suggest that people living in such neighborhoods didn't ever really know their neighbors because of the design of the homes, which were built for air-conditioned comfort rather than front porches.

But that wasn't true at all. We knew many of our neighbors far better than I have ever known my neighbors in other places I've lived, including historic neighborhoods, tightly squeezed condominium complexes, even downtown apartment buildings.

I think the reason for this may have more to do with the saner, more laid-back culture of that generation rather than the design of our 1950s houses.

The children were the products of the middle 20th century, loved and carefully watched, but not overscheduled. There was plenty of time for playing Wiffle ball, riding bikes, throwing snowballs and taking a freshly baked batch of zucchini bars to the neighbors.

Now, I occasionally long for such a house, with its big screened patio and generous spaces for entertaining.

Some experts say that ranch-style homes, also known as the Western ranch, California rambler and classic Florida ranch, evolved from several influences, including architect Frank Lloyd Wright's Prairie style and Usonian designs. They flourished thanks in part to everyone moving to the suburbs and owning at least one car, and eventually two.

We drove everywhere from our suburban ranch house - to the grocery store, restaurants, shopping malls, the art museum and theater. We carpooled to school and afterschool activities.

When I find myself missing our ranch house, I have to wonder whether I miss the house itself, or just that time, when long car rides provided quality time with family and friends, worry free, the cost of gasoline not even a blip on the radar.

Last week, it cost me $34 to fill up my little Toyota Matrix. I fret when the grass grows too tall and weedy outside my condo, even though I don't have to mow it myself.

So, at this point in my life, I can't imagine mowing an acre of land or having to drive to the library.

But I sometimes long for that suburban ranch house of my youth, especially that groovy intercom system and 1950s pink bathroom.

[Last modified September 6, 2006, 10:19:14]