Intended to provide fast, affordable relief to America's post-World War II housing shortage, Lustron houses were designed to withstand rust, rot and other decay.
Progress is proving to be a much tougher opponent – as Gene Languell has discovered.
Languell, who bought his 900-square-foot, one-bedroom prefabricated steel Lustron 10 years ago, recently sold the house – one of about 2,500 built and one of only eight in Allen County – to make room for a new medical park. Although the developers say they're willing to make the house's components available to other Lustron owners in need of spare parts – for a price, of course – its imminent demise is just the latest setback for an idea that briefly seemed full of promise, but never quite delivered.
“They brought the parts in on a Fruehauf truck made in Fort Wayne, and built it by hand in five days,” Languell said as he stood in the cozy living room of the quirky house he rented then bought after a divorce. Its all-steel construction made it cool in the summer and warm in the winter, and the porcelain-coated exterior needed little maintenance. The decor – light gray on the outside and a darker gray for the interior steel walls – was nothing fancy, but the place was a model of efficiency, with built-in cabinets providing ample storage and removable panels offering easy access to wiring and plumbing.
The all-metal construction made the homes perfect for people with allergies,” Languell said.
And the house was not only practical, but fun. In most homes, the refrigerator is the place for magnet-supported notes and photos. In a Lustron house, magnets can stick just about anyplace, and do – as Languell's ceiling still demonstrates.
It all seemed so promising in the late 1940s, when Chicago businessman Carl Strandlund got $23 million in loans and converted a former airplane factory in Columbus, Ohio, into a 9-mile-long assembly line producing one- and two-bedroom homes costing between $10,000 and $12,000 each. In addition to “dove gray,” Lustrons were also available in “maize yellow,” “surf blue” and “desert tan.”
Between 1946 and 1948, about 20,000 homes were ordered. But only 2,498 were completed before the company went bankrupt in 1950.
But as even a cursory search of the Internet will show, the homes subsequently achieved a cult-like following, which is one reason Ridgewood Professional Park developer Brian Belland hopes at least some of Languell's home can be reused somewhere else.
“I'd like to salvage it. That house is pretty cool,” Belland said. “I would hate to destroy something of value.”
Just how much a disassembled Lustron might be worth is unclear. But if the law of supply and demand has anything to say about it, the value should be rising. The largest single loss of Lustrons occurred two years ago when the Marine base in Quantico, Va., razed 33 of the homes.
Languell's efforts to “improve” the house over the years make its loss less of a blow to local preservationists.
“It was altered so much it may not really be ‘historic,' ” said Angie Quinn, executive director of historic preservation group ARCH.
After buying the house, Languell updated the wiring, plumbing, windows, bathroom and kitchen – even installing wooden cabinets that seem out of place in an all-steel home. He added new floors and insulated the walls, which may make the panels harder to disassemble. After getting remarried, he moved out – but was preparing to install new carpet for a move back in when Belland's group made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
And it wasn't just the money: Work recently began on the $7.8 million widening of Aboite Center Road, which claimed about 30 feet of his property.
So now Languell, who is the plant facilities manager for the Memorial Coliseum, hopes to buy a few acres in the country someplace.
But, no matter what ultimately happens to his Lustron, serial No.835, Languell will remember, and fondly.
“This place was unique. I'll hate to see it go,” he said, looking around at the stark steel walls for one of the final times. “I really did love it.”
