Sears wasn't the only purveyor of ready-made housing, as Dr. Know points out in this response from the July 2013 issue.
My elderly aunt still gets misty-eyed when she talks about the “wonderful Lustron home” she and my uncle had when they were first married. What was a Lustron house—and what was so special about having one? —Architecturally Uninformed
Dear Uninformed:How fitting it is that in the city where Branding is King, your misty-eyed aunt still refers to her postwar dream home by its copyright trade name. And the Doctor understands the sentimental tears. Who wouldn’t miss a house that—thanks to the miracle of baked-on enamel—could take a shot from the garden hose and it would sparkle like your just Easy-Offed and Jubileed Magic Chef? The brainchildren of a brilliant Swedish engineer, Lustrons were the answer to not one but two thorny post-WWII problems: 1. What do we do with all this industrial capacity we built up to beat the Axis? And: 2. Where the hell are we going to put all these veterans and their mushrooming households? The answer was for a factory in Columbus to crank out some-assembly-required house kits made of porcelain-enameled steel. Cleverly designed to look just like, well, other houses, Lustrons were solidly built all the way up to their steel shingle roofs. Loathed by conventional homebuilders, the Lustron company lost its political support within a couple of years and collapsed. The houses endured, but they’re hard to distinguish from their contemporaries. The Doctor thinks he has spotted one off of Dudley Pike just before it dives down to the Dixie Highway.
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