Everybody today has a vision of what the Mid-Century years were like. Our nostalgic view says that everyone then had sleek steel-and-glass houses, George Nelson furniture, and tail-finned convertibles with two-toned paint and Continental kits on their rear bumpers. When people wanted to get out of their futuristic abodes, they jumped into the car and visited a Googie malt shop or bowling alley.

It's an attractive picture, but there's one thing wrong with it: the Mid-Century years really weren't like that for most people. There was definitely Modernism everywhere, but most people experienced it only in its mass-market manifestations. For the masses, Dansk, Herman Miller, Knoll and Raymor were the stuff of magazine layouts, not real life. The truth about the era is that it was lived very much as we live today, out of chain stores and mail-order catalogues. Just like today, people had budgets and constraints that had much more of an effect on how they lived than the blandishments of designers ever did.

Many a Mid-Century family's story started in government-built housing like this. Low-rise units like these were seen in smaller towns; larger, denser cities got high-rises. While a certain barracks-like quality was evident, these apartments permitted young married couples the financial breathing room needed to save up the down payment for a house. Photo: National Archives and Records Administration.

As glorious as architect-designed houses of the era were, what most people bought was a tract house. In the Mid-Century years, a starter house like the Cape Cods of Levittown, Pennsylvania could be as little as $9,990.00, brand-new. At that, most families didn't get to own a home right away; government-assisted apartments were the housing of choice for newly married couples. Today such housing can have a stigma attached to living in it; then, a generous percentage of the population began married life that way. At the time, assisted housing was cheap and new and clean, if a little basic. Every apartment was painted alike, asphalt-tiled floors were usually found in every room, and closets didn't necessarily have doors.

Nobody minded much; these apartments were often the best housing that the young marrieds living in them had ever had. Huge sprawling developments of them were to be found in most major cities, built to serve the needs of the enormous numbers of new families started after World War II. Very few people in them saw them as permanent housing; the idea was to use the financial break to amass a down payment for a house. If both husband and wife worked, and managed money carefully, the dream was achievable; only a few hundred dollars were needed for a down payment and closing costs if the husband was a veteran.

The "Levittowner" model was one of Levitt and Sons' most popular models, priced new at only $10,990. It had three bedrooms, one bath, a living room, and kitchen with a dining area. You remember. Photo: Historic Levitt and Sons advertisement.

The houses affordable for these couples would be considered very Spartan today; most original Levittown houses have been expanded and remodeled nearly beyond recognition. When new, they offered three bedrooms, one bath, a living room, and a kitchen with a dining area. Central heat, and a stove, refrigerator, and washing machine were included, but that was the extent of the amenity. Space was so tight that local contractors offered package deals on changes to the basic Cape Cod or Levittowner floorplan, making somewhat better use of its square footage. Air-conditioning, dishwashers, and carpeting were dreams of the future; most people didn’t have those items until the late Sixties at the earliest.

As the years rolled on, Levitt and Sons upgraded its product, answering demand for more space and luxury. By the end of the Fifties, the Country Clubber model was available at $16,900, complete with a turquoise GE dream kitchen that included a dishwasher. Other, later developments around the country were based on the Levittown model, like Florida's Deltona, built by the Mackle Brothers beginning in 1962. All these suburbs were built for purely business reasons, but all of them have evolved into genuine communities in their own right.

One of the most cherished rituals of Mid-Century life was Introduction Day for new car models. Taken in September, 1957, this photo shows the excitement and curiosity generated by the all-new 1958 Edsels. Photo: © McAuley Motors Lincoln-Mercury, Merced, CA. Used by permission.

Living in the suburbs created needs for a family that city living didn't, namely flexible, on-call transportation. Cars were extremely important to the way life was lived in the new developments, and automakers did their best to provide glamorous, yet affordable products to meet demand. In 1955, all three of the major American manufacturers upgraded their lines so that even their cheapest offerings had at least some futuristic touches. Wraparound windshields, tailfins, and toothy grilles were standard. For a bit more money, the buyer could have two-toned paint, whitewall tires, a radio, and even an overhead-valve V-8 engine- something that had been the exclusive province of expensive makes, though Ford had offered a flathead V-8 since the Thirties.

When Mid-Century dads flocked to see new cars each September, they dreamed of owning something like a glamorous, loaded Ford Sunliner convertible. Once Mom voiced her opinion, Dad often drove off the new-car lot in something a lot more practical, like a Falcon sedan. Photos: Historic Ford advertisements.

Each year, the new models were introduced in late September, with enormous ad campaigns and great fanfare in local dealerships. It was customary to curtain off dealership windows for a few days prior to Introduction Day, to increase the suspense for prospective buyers. On the appointed day, the new models were revealed; dealers always took care to have the most glamorous and expensive cars in the line on the showroom floor. The fully-loaded, fantastically beautiful top-of-the-line models always generated a lot of traffic, but there was a secret: most buyers left with something considerably more practical and modest. Once in the showroom, Dad might gawk at a turquoise-and-white Edsel Citation hardtop with power windows, air conditioning and a Teletouch pushbutton transmission. What he actually bought (usually because Mom insisted) was often something like a green Ranger two-door sedan, with rubber floor mats instead of carpeting, and a three-speed manual column shift.

Once the family had a car, it was often nursed along in ways that today's owners wouldn't consider. Fifties auto upholstery tended to wear out quickly; local businesses offered replacement seat covers for professional or do-it-yourself installation. Tires were often retreaded instead of replaced outright, to save money. Engines were treated to valve jobs and other rebuilding with some regularity; lubricants and fuels of the era promoted rapid engine wear. And when the family bus really began to look old, the Earl Scheib folks would repaint it for only $29.95. The reality of family living in the Mid-Century years was that money had to go a long way; there was generally only one paycheck per family. The dream depicted in the magazines was there, and people chased it as best they could, but they did without a lot of things that people today consider indispensable.

(Left) Seat covers were a Mid-Century necessity for most cars over a year or two old; auto upholstery fabrics of the era were selected more for showroom appeal than their wearing qualities. (Right) Most Mid-Century auto interiors were pretty modest on less expensive makes. The copy for this 1966 Studebaker ad tried to convince buyers that this two-door Daytona sedan was just as sporty as the Ford Mustang. People didn't buy the argument, or the car: Studebaker closed its doors forever that year. Photos: (Left) Historic Sears advertisment (Right) Historic Studebaker advertisement.

Other money-saving tactics abounded: women's magazines offered recipes specifically designed to feed a family inexpensively, sometimes stretching one can of tuna to make six servings of a casserole. Noodles, potatoes, and rice were such popular makeweights that recipe writer Peg Bracken wisecracked, "Ballast is a girl's best friend." Beginning in 1963, radio host Jim Loyd became the darling of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, with a call-in recipe-sharing show on WMT, named "Open Line". Housewives could share their latest creations with the world. Viewed today, the "Open Line" recipes can be seen to fall into one of two basic categories: rib-sticking, money-saving main dishes, and no-holds-barred desserts. There were so many goodies like Gum Drop Salad and Potato Coconut Fudge, the highways around Cedar Rapids must have been jammed with convoys of trucks bringing in more sugar, nuts, and condensed milk to keep up with demand.

"Open Line" was also famous for its selection of household hints, which helped homemakers strip floor wax, take rings out of furniture finishes, and get mildew off the bathroom tile in an era that didn't have fancy bathroom cleaning sprays yet. If the high cost of window cleaner was a concern, "Open Line" offered a formula for a homemade version, and generously advised listeners that it worked best on cloudy days. Whether you needed to know how to grow cactus plants at home, or stiffen crocheted doilies into permanent ruffles, "Open Line's" listeners were ready to share their knowledge with each other.

This Sears living-room furniture was termed "Danish Modern" by both the company and its Middle-American customers. While the Scandinavian style was popular in the States, American manufacturers never lavished the quality on it seen in Scandinavia itself; this set was of walnut-stained elm, with rayon-and-nylon fabrics. Photo: Historic Sears advertisement.

The sleek, beautifully-designed Modernist furnishings seen in ads and magazine layouts were envied by many, but the truth is that most people bought what they owned from national chains like Sears, and from local furniture stores offering mass-market brands like Kroehler, Lane, and Bassett. The most popular Modernist style in the mass market was Scandinavian Modern, known to Middle America as "Danish Modern". While the exquisite detailing and finishes of real Scandinavian furniture were seldom copied by American makers, the overall styling was sometimes reasonably authentic. Bassett copied Finn Juhl; Lane was more partial to knocking off Hans Wegner. Lane even brought in Paul McCobb to design one of its lines.

These Sears dinette sets show just part of the range of styles available; "period" styling was in the catalogue, as well. The set at left is a very fair copy of a Fritz Hansen table and chairs, but with a Formica top in walnut woodgrain, to make it practical for American households. Photo: Historic Sears advertisement.

One Modernist touch seen in almost every home was the so-called "dinette set", a table and matching chairs that had tubular metal legs, a Formica tabletop, and vinyl upholstery. Even if a homeowner had decided on a period style like Colonial for the rest of the house, the practicality of a dinette set for everyday meals was too great to be foregone. The kids could spill anything they liked and the furniture would be none the worse for the accident. Storage needs were often met by small metal carts and stands specifically designed to hold hi-fis, televisions, and record albums. Lighting was often Modernist, knocked off from the high-end offerings of companies like Gotham Lighting and Lightolier. The pull-down ceiling fixtures and pole lamps popularized by these two firms abounded at mass retailers, often bastardized with cutesy pseudo-period shades.

The wealthy might eat from Raymond Loewy's "Continental" china for Rosenthal, but Middle America got a terrific design value when Royal China used the "Continental" shape as inspiration for some of its ironstone patterns designed by Curtis Fahnert. "Blue Heaven" (Left) was one of Royal's biggest successes ever. "Santa Fe" (Center) was of extraordinarily high design quality for mass-market dinnerware. "Star Glow" (Right) was another big hit.

At that, the big companies like Sears, J.C. Penney's, W.T. Grant's, and Woolworth's could put Modernist design into almost any home, at any price point. If you admired the expensive hand-looming of Scandinavian textiles for draperies and curtains, you could get machine-made copies in rayon or Fiberglas. If you liked teak-handled flatware, but couldn't afford it, Ekco had a lookalike handle made of Bakelite on its "Eterna" range. If the children were too rough on the china, every store had Melmac dishes available, in designs ranging from Russel Wright's sleekly unadorned "Residential" to the tackiest rosebud-printed patterns. If you were really in a financial bind, a weekly visit to your local A&P offered you the opportunity to purchase one of Royal China's promotional patterns of ironstone dinnerware. Millions of pieces of designs like "Blue Heaven" and "Star Glow" were purchased at 29 cents per piece; their basic shape had been adapted from Raymond Loewy's "Continental" china for Rosenthal.

Audrey Hepburn wore many a Givenchy in the movies, and an ambitious home sewer could have her own, actually designed by Givenchy and licensed to Vogue Patterns. If Mama's sewing skills weren't up to the flawless seaming and lining techniques needed for DIY couture, Simplicity offered its Jiffy line of patterns, designed with only three main pattern pieces. Either way, a little time at the sewing machine could save a lot of money hugely important in a single-paycheck family.

There was more; housewives of the day were often adept at home sewing, interpreting the latest looks at their Singer zig-zag machines. If you were new to making clothes, Simplicity offered its Jiffy line of patterns for simple items like wraparound skirts and simple tops. If you were more ambitious, Vogue Patterns offered models licensed direct from the Paris couture; Mama could have her very own Givenchy or Balmain if her sewing skills and time permitted, complete with an official designer label included in the pattern's package. Patterns for children's clothes abounded; many a Mid-Century girl wore nothing but dresses made by loving hands at home. Boys' and mens' clothes weren't so likely to be made at home, since their construction was more complex, but the sewing machine was often pressed into service patching the knees of Junior's blue jeans, or turning Dad's collars, to coax a little more wear out of them.

Only a few people lived the fantasy life seen in the pages of the vintage magazine layouts we admire today, but almost everyone participated in the Mid-Century dream at some level. A canny shopper with good taste could actually approximate the look of high-end Modernist décors with mass-market knockoffs. If financial concerns were sometimes pressing, the tactics used to address them often promoted family unity; eating those tuna-noodle casseroles was a communal, familial experience, unlike today's eat-on-the-run mealtimes. It wasn't always the life people aspired to, but it was a life that permitted even the working class to amass wealth in the form of home ownership, achieved through economy and self-reliance- a life more settled, more secure, more safe and more fun than anything most people have today.

You really had to be there.

LINKS

Learn more about the way it really was at Mid-Century from these great sites:

Thirty-nine years' worth of great recipes going back to 1963 can be found at the "Open Line" fan site at: www.n-connect.net/lynxy/open. Click on the "Bulletins" link to navigate the recipes and household hints. Be sure to click on the old-time radio icons at the top of the home page to hear the sprightly, sassy "Open Line" theme music!

Interested in seeing the all-new '58 Edsels? Visit the site of the Smith Motor Company at www.edsel.net. Site owner Jim Peeler has collected vintage Edsel photos (including more Introduction Day photos from McAuley Motors), ads, and advertising media that really bring back the experience of Mid-Century new-car shopping. Don't forget to listen to the Edsel jingle: "You can read about it / hear about it / but you've got to f-e-e-e-e-e-e-l it!"

Proof that government-assisted housing of the Fifties wasn't grim can be found at the Website of the Park Forest Historical Society. Beginning in 1948, and continuing to the present, Park Forest has offered Illinois residents affordable housing. The Society maintains one Park Forest unit as a house museum, which can be toured in person, or online at www.lincolnnet.net/users/lrpfhs.intex.shtml. Check out the kitchen!

The Smithsonian has a Park Forest exhibit online, too. See it at:
americanhistory.si.edu/onthemove/exhibition/exhibition_15_1.html

Levittown isn't a sales effort any more, it's a real place, with real history and real traditions. Learn more about Levittown, from its earliest days to its vital present, at the State Museum of Pennsylvania's online exhibit: server1.fandm.edu/levittown. As with the Park Forest exhibit, a look at the kitchen is highly recommended.

TRADEMARKS / COPYRIGHT NOTICES

Open Line™ is a trademark of WMT Radio 600 AM, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and Clear Channel Communications.
Edsel® is a trademark of the Ford Motor Company. Yes, still. Really.
Vogue® is a trademark of Condé Nast Publications.
Deltona™ is a trademark of the Deltona Corporation.
Levitt and Sons™ is a trademark of Levitt and Sons, L.L.C.
Dansk® is a trademark of Lenox, Inc.
Knoll™ is a trademark of Knoll, Inc.
Herman Miller™ is a trademark of Herman Miller, Inc.
Simplicity® and Jiffy® are trademarks of the Simplicity Pattern Co., Inc.
Singer® is a trademark of the Singer Sewing Machine Company.
All other trademarks mentioned in this article are the property of their respective owners.

SOURCES

The Websites found in the Links section of this article provided source material.

The I Hate to Cook Book, by Peg Bracken. Harcourt, Brace Jovanovich, Orlando. 1960 and reprints.
Sears "Big Book" Catalogue, Fall / Winter, 1967. Sears, Roebuck and Company, Chicago, 1967.
Populuxe, by Thomas Hine. Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1986.
Mid-Century Modern Dinnerware, by Michael E. Pratt. Schiffer Publishing, 2002.