Cover Me In Tiles and Swoop Me Away

 A tomorrow place

As I pulled into the driveway one cold, dreary winter morning, I had to do a double-take. The house before me looked like a bathroom floor, its exterior completely covered in what appeared to be bathroom tiles. As a repair tech, I’d visited countless homes over the years, but this one stopped me in my tracks. It was way offbeat.

The elderly couple who greeted me at the door were as warm as their unique home was eye-catching. While the husband led me to their broken television, I couldn’t help but marvel at the interior. The kitchen, wow, that kitchen! It was something straight out of “The Jetsons” — cabinets with graceful curves and swoops that defied the angular conformity of typical home design. Each element seemed to flow into the next, creating a harmony that was both retro and somehow timeless.

As I worked on their television, the wife brought me a glass of lemonade and shared their home’s story. This was no ordinary house — it was a Lustron home, one of only 2,680 ever manufactured between 1947 and 1951. Those weren’t bathroom tiles on the exterior, but rather porcelain-enameled steel panels, each exactly two feet square, painted in a serene shade of surf blue that had weathered the decades beautifully.

Their son, who checked in on them regularly, grew up in this steel sanctuary. I wondered if these walls held the same magic for him as they did for visitors like me. Did he still notice the unique touches that made this house so special, or had familiarity dulled its charm? The way his parents’ eyes lit up when they spoke of raising him there, I suspected this atomic-age dream home had woven itself into the fabric of their family story.

As I finished the repair and packed up my tools, I found myself lingering, taking one last look around. In my line of work, you remember the people more often than the places, but sometimes a house isn’t just a house — it’s a piece of living history, a testament to American innovation and post-war optimism.

This Lustron home, one of only 2,000 still standing, wasn’t just a curiosity or a relic. It was a beloved family home that had sheltered three generations of dreamers, its steel walls containing countless memories and its distinctive design still catching the eye of passers-by, just as it had caught mine that memorable morning.

Years later, I can still picture that house perfectly — its gleaming panels, those sweeping kitchen cabinets, and the proud smiles of its owners. In a world of cookie-cutter developments, it stands as a reminder that homes, like the people who inhabit them, can be wonderfully, uniquely different.

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