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Re: now this is inspiring: redneck mansion

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  • Dennis Fukai
    Dale Now that is fantastic, I wonder where it is....?;-) /D
    Message 1 of 8 , Mar 1, 2008
      Dale

      Now that is fantastic, I wonder where it is....?;-)

      /D



      --- In smallhousesocietyonline@yahoogroups.com, Dale Barnard
      <barnarddale@...> wrote:
      >
      > On the subject of mobile buildings, this seems resourceful:
      > http://www.sonnyradio.com/redneckmansion.htm
      > It kinda reminds me of Doctor Seuss or something.
      > Dale
      >
    • Robert Durkin
      HEY! I think I ve stayed in that motel ! Dennis Fukai wrote: Dale Now that is fantastic, I wonder where it is....?;-) /D
      Message 2 of 8 , Mar 1, 2008
        HEY!  I think I've stayed in that motel !

        Dennis Fukai <dennis@...> wrote:
        Dale

        Now that is fantastic, I wonder where it is....?;-)

        /D

        --- In smallhousesocietyon line@yahoogroups .com, Dale Barnard
        <barnarddale@ ...> wrote:
        >
        > On the subject of mobile buildings, this seems resourceful:
        > http://www.sonnyrad io.com/redneckma nsion.htm
        > It kinda reminds me of Doctor Seuss or something.
        > Dale
        >


      • Jean Bellinger
        Interesting description of an old timer s very basic three-room shotgun house in Texas: http://www.brigidsp lace.org/ journal/No- Place-like- Grandmas-
        Message 3 of 8 , Mar 1, 2008
          Interesting description of an old timer's very basic
          three-room shotgun house in Texas:

          http://www.brigidsp lace.org/ journal/No- Place-like-
          Grandmas- House.asp

          No Place Like Grandma's House

          by Yolanda Falcon

          When my grandmother came to visit us, she constantly
          complained about the traffic, pollution, and the high
          cost of living in Houston. In her opinion, life in the
          city was just too busy. Most of all, she disliked our
          house because we had central air conditioning and heat
          -- which meant there were no open windows for her to
          sit by.

          On the other hand, our trips to see her in her
          hometown of Woodsboro, Texas, were a real
          back-to-the- basics experience; rough, and humbling.

          She lived one block east of the town square --
          directly across from Mr. Bill's Texaco. Since she
          didn't have a telephone, that is where we would call
          to check on her and to leave messages. The gas station
          attendants there didn¹t seem to mind being Grandma's
          personal answering service. I guess that must have
          been one of the advantages of living in a small
          close-knit community.

          Her three-room shotgun house was repainted in basic
          white, year after year. Yet we never knew what color
          the house trim would be from one visit to the next.
          Sometimes, with leftover paint, she painted the door
          and window frames canary yellow, peacock blue, or
          Christmas green, like her "talking" parakeet, Rudy.
          Actually, the only word I ever heard him say was
          "pretty." Nevertheless, Grandma claimed Rudy had a
          wide vocabulary.

          Regardless of the season, a window in each room
          remained open at all times, allowing her pristine lace
          curtains to take flight with the whispering breeze.
          The red vinyl rocking chair had its place near a
          window. She always said that feeling nature's fresh
          air was like being in God's almighty presence. I now
          understand that air conditioning was just too
          confining to her spirit. However, that's where the
          word "rough" came to mind, especially during my
          summertime visits.

          During winter, the gas heater was used only when she
          had visitors, for she feared being trapped alone in a
          fire.

          In the front room, which served as both living room
          and guest bedroom, is where I slept when I stayed
          there. In the early morning hours, streaks of sunlight
          peered through the bare-board walls, illuminating the
          meekly framed family portraits and religious icons, as
          if to spotlight their importance. Most intriguing was
          the picture of Jesus with a crown of thorns whose eyes
          appeared to open and close when stared upon.

          Grandma was as plain as her house. She thought wearing
          makeup was a waste of time and "poison" to the skin.
          Yet her dresser with its square beveled mirror
          reflected a subtle hint of vanity. On display was a
          bottle of Jergen's lotion, talcum powder, hairpins, a
          rhinestone tortoise shell hair-comb, a jelly jar
          filled with cotton balls, and a trinket box containing
          odd pieces of costume jewelry that she never wore.

          In her bedroom, she kept a towering stack of
          meticulously folded quilts and blankets near an old
          bureau. Her dresses hung catty-cornered on a
          broomstick nailed to the wall. Over her clothes lay a
          thinly worn sheet, shrouding her best attire. I was
          amazed that her house could be so tidy without the
          presence of a closet.

          Occasionally, I invited a friend along when I went to
          visit her for the weekend. With a single glare from
          Grandma, they quickly learned about her unspoken house
          rules -- no running, no slamming doors, no sitting on
          the beds, no snooping, and not too much giggling. And
          never, never make a mess. She especially frowned upon
          those who sat on her chenille-covered iron beds, which
          squeaked with the slightest touch as if intentionally
          to sound an alarm. My friends often asked me, "Are we
          allowed to have fun?" Yet they always jumped at the
          chance to go see her, because at night we would listen
          to her tell ghost stories.

          The third, and perhaps most unusual, room in the house
          was Grandma's kitchen. Beside the refrigerator and
          stove, a washboard hung on the wall near the back
          door. Next to the kitchen cabinets stood a narrow
          closet-like structure with a shower curtain for a
          door. Few would have guessed that that was where the
          plumber installed her shimmering white porcelain
          toilet the day she retired the outhouse. (Considering
          its more private location, I thought the outhouse had
          its advantages.) That was the last of the modern-day
          conveniences she added.

          Recalling how content she seemed in her simple
          surroundings makes me realize that regardless of where
          you live, your house is your kingdom.

          As a final farewell, the hearse stopped momentarily in
          front of Grandma's shotgun palace on the day of her
          funeral.

          Yolanda Falcon, who considers herself a writer under
          construction, has had an essay published in the
          Houston Chronicle and a short story in last year's
          anthology Suddenly IV.









          ____________________________________________________________________________________
          Looking for last minute shopping deals?
          Find them fast with Yahoo! Search. http://tools.search.yahoo.com/newsearch/category.php?category=shopping
        • Robert Durkin
          Thank you for posting this. Jean, really exceptional glimpse into simple living that is devoid of the complications of mad modern world. Jean Bellinger
          Message 4 of 8 , Mar 2, 2008
            Thank you for posting this. Jean, really exceptional glimpse into simple living that is devoid of the complications of mad modern world.

            Jean Bellinger <jbellinger@...> wrote:
            Interesting description of an old timer's very basic
            three-room shotgun house in Texas:

            http://www.brigidsp lace.org/ journal/No- Place-like-
            Grandmas- House.asp

            No Place Like Grandma's House

            by Yolanda Falcon

            When my grandmother came to visit us, she constantly
            complained about the traffic, pollution, and the high
            cost of living in Houston. In her opinion, life in the
            city was just too busy. Most of all, she disliked our
            house because we had central air conditioning and heat
            -- which meant there were no open windows for her to
            sit by.

            On the other hand, our trips to see her in her
            hometown of Woodsboro, Texas, were a real
            back-to-the- basics experience; rough, and humbling.

            She lived one block east of the town square --
            directly across from Mr. Bill's Texaco. Since she
            didn't have a telephone, that is where we would call
            to check on her and to leave messages. The gas station
            attendants there didn¹t seem to mind being Grandma's
            personal answering service. I guess that must have
            been one of the advantages of living in a small
            close-knit community.

            Her three-room shotgun house was repainted in basic
            white, year after year. Yet we never knew what color
            the house trim would be from one visit to the next.
            Sometimes, with leftover paint, she painted the door
            and window frames canary yellow, peacock blue, or
            Christmas green, like her "talking" parakeet, Rudy.
            Actually, the only word I ever heard him say was
            "pretty." Nevertheless, Grandma claimed Rudy had a
            wide vocabulary.

            Regardless of the season, a window in each room
            remained open at all times, allowing her pristine lace
            curtains to take flight with the whispering breeze.
            The red vinyl rocking chair had its place near a
            window. She always said that feeling nature's fresh
            air was like being in God's almighty presence. I now
            understand that air conditioning was just too
            confining to her spirit. However, that's where the
            word "rough" came to mind, especially during my
            summertime visits.

            During winter, the gas heater was used only when she
            had visitors, for she feared being trapped alone in a
            fire.

            In the front room, which served as both living room
            and guest bedroom, is where I slept when I stayed
            there. In the early morning hours, streaks of sunlight
            peered through the bare-board walls, illuminating the
            meekly framed family portraits and religious icons, as
            if to spotlight their importance. Most intriguing was
            the picture of Jesus with a crown of thorns whose eyes
            appeared to open and close when stared upon.

            Grandma was as plain as her house. She thought wearing
            makeup was a waste of time and "poison" to the skin.
            Yet her dresser with its square beveled mirror
            reflected a subtle hint of vanity. On display was a
            bottle of Jergen's lotion, talcum powder, hairpins, a
            rhinestone tortoise shell hair-comb, a jelly jar
            filled with cotton balls, and a trinket box containing
            odd pieces of costume jewelry that she never wore.

            In her bedroom, she kept a towering stack of
            meticulously folded quilts and blankets near an old
            bureau. Her dresses hung catty-cornered on a
            broomstick nailed to the wall. Over her clothes lay a
            thinly worn sheet, shrouding her best attire. I was
            amazed that her house could be so tidy without the
            presence of a closet.

            Occasionally, I invited a friend along when I went to
            visit her for the weekend. With a single glare from
            Grandma, they quickly learned about her unspoken house
            rules -- no running, no slamming doors, no sitting on
            the beds, no snooping, and not too much giggling. And
            never, never make a mess. She especially frowned upon
            those who sat on her chenille-covered iron beds, which
            squeaked with the slightest touch as if intentionally
            to sound an alarm. My friends often asked me, "Are we
            allowed to have fun?" Yet they always jumped at the
            chance to go see her, because at night we would listen
            to her tell ghost stories.

            The third, and perhaps most unusual, room in the house
            was Grandma's kitchen. Beside the refrigerator and
            stove, a washboard hung on the wall near the back
            door. Next to the kitchen cabinets stood a narrow
            closet-like structure with a shower curtain for a
            door. Few would have guessed that that was where the
            plumber installed her shimmering white porcelain
            toilet the day she retired the outhouse. (Considering
            its more private location, I thought the outhouse had
            its advantages.) That was the last of the modern-day
            conveniences she added.

            Recalling how content she seemed in her simple
            surroundings makes me realize that regardless of where
            you live, your house is your kingdom.

            As a final farewell, the hearse stopped momentarily in
            front of Grandma's shotgun palace on the day of her
            funeral.

            Yolanda Falcon, who considers herself a writer under
            construction, has had an essay published in the
            Houston Chronicle and a short story in last year's
            anthology Suddenly IV.

            ____________ _________ _________ _________ _________ _________ _
            Looking for last minute shopping deals?
            Find them fast with Yahoo! Search. http://tools. search.yahoo. com/newsearch/ category. php?category= shopping

          • C H
            Wow! That s an amazing use of a compact site. I recently joined the American Society of Landscape Architects and one of the recent issues, I think it was
            Message 5 of 8 , Mar 2, 2008
              Wow!  That's an amazing use of a compact site.  I recently joined the American Society of Landscape Architects and one of the recent issues, I think it was February, contained tools for quantifying the virtues of trees in terms that politicians easily understand: money. Unless I'm blending articles in my memory, I believe the article also discussed the value of clustering homes when developing a site, such that significantly more greenspace is preserved.
               
              I've seen evidence for that in places such as the EcoVillage at Ithaca, where about 160 people live on land that it 10% developed and 90% preserved.  A typical development would have those ratios reversed.
               
              :)
               
              Crystal


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