Embracing the ranch house vernacular

“This is just a ranch house,” I had whined. Now I am embracing the ranch house vernacular. Why? In December 2007, my husband purchased Ranch House by Alan Hess for me while we were in Sarasota.

In January, we had a play date in NYC with design-savvy David and Barry. As I told them my tale of dream house woes, these modern-house-dwelling, important-furniture-owning friends said nice things about ranch houses. I thought they were simply being supportive until David said, “I had to stop subscribing to Atomic Ranch because I was getting ranch house envy.”

“Huh²,” I thought? Yes, huh squared because I was not only surprised to learn that there was a publication dedicated to all things ranch, I was amazed to hear the words “ranch house” and “envy” so close together in a sentence.

Until I knew more about this mid-century marvel, I saw the ranch as a ubiquitous suburban standard. In the book Atomic Ranch, Michelle Gringeri-Brown gives voice to my previous opinion, calling the style “architecture’s underdog” and “America’s architectural stepchild” (page 6). Per Hess, “There are few other examples in twentieth-century history where modern technology has been applied so directly in order to provide decent mass housing, and so the ranch house represents a victory for modernism” (page 79).

After perusing David’s collection of magazines and reading my books, I began to replace images from the so-called “Manifesto” with a vision of my own house—tweaked, but intact. By Hess’ definition, a ranch is informal, has an open-plan interior and a general horizontal emphasis (page 17)—check, check and check. It occurred to me it might not have been The Fates but my own home that had been exerting its will all along. “Let me be me,” it demanded!

So the time has come for me to embrace the ranch house vernacular not just intellectually, but emotionally. And if you’re among the people who say you like our home the way it is now, you’re in luck—and just wait until we start fixing this baby up!

Once upon a time…

…Now, in fact… There lived a Fair Prince and his little wife. They toiled valiantly in business. The Money Changers surreptitiously checked their credit and saw that it was good. They relentlessly tempted the couple with bags and barrels and cart-loads of coins.

In hamlets near and far, hillsides were denuded and cottages destroyed, replaced by McMansions and faux châteaus. The wifette looked up at her Prince and said, “I’d like to transform my dwelling now.” He secured a HELOC that was just the right size to meet their desires without putting them too deeply into hock.

Armed with this badge of credit—and with visions of $6.5 million dollar castles dancing in her head—she scurried off to find a draftsman, discussing the dream house project with candidates including an up-and-coming Starchitect, a Provincial Poser and Ivy League Man. Charmed by his tall tales and higher education, the lady of the house soon began trading checks for Snake Oil, a process that took more than a year and yielded no cure for their leaky roof.

The couple brought in builders who quaked at the sight of the site and cited great sums to erect the vision as drawn. As the seasons marched on, the deck became ever more flaccid.

Meanwhile, the usury that had enticed the lusty masses to live beyond their means resulted in a market correction. Bears began mauling the Money Changers, who panicked and began reneging on their promises of financing. On February 1, they lopped off a third of the dollars the Prince thought he had secured for Casa de Roo.

In the light of the crescent moon and through dawn’s early rays, the couple pondered what to do. Ponder, ponder, ponder… The consort’s reaction swung from heavy sighs of resolve to random manic cackling. Ponder, ponder, ponder…

The Fates, it seems, have spun a destiny for the couple that doesn’t involve an addition.