The Pink House

Project and the empty nest

When my youngest graduates from high school next week, I will finally be free to do the Pink House Project. Don’t worry, neighbors, I’m not buying any paint. Our neutral split-level will stay as-is.

Still, I’ve always had a fondness for pink houses. Our bungalow in Monticello was nestled next to a bubble-gum pink one for years until a new owner repainted it a next of kin to our own—white with green trim. When it was pink, a forsythia bush had yet to obscure it from our daily view. Each summer morning its pinkness cheered me—even more than if it had been my own. Others derided it as silly, even obnoxious. But it gave me a secret pleasure—the way I used to feel when my toddler daughter would dress herself in stripes and polka dots and mis-matched socks. She was expressing a joie de vivre I was too tame to express myself.

I have a friend who dresses that way, even now that she is 50 years old. It’s fun to meet her for coffee, not knowing what to expect. Her outfits are always coordinated fully, either by color or print or unified by some outlandish theme like umbrellas. From little parasol earrings to an umbrella print circle skirt to a matching full-size parasol, she is a walking art piece. The children she teaches, in a tony private girl’s school in Manhattan, look forward to her daily fashion show.

But I digress. The Pink House Project is a dream deferred. Before it dries up like a raisin in the sun, I must pursue it.

My theory is that behind every pink house there is a story. A good old who, what, where, when, why story. Somebody didn’t like it, somebody did. The somebody who did, won. Therein lies the story. Why pink? Why a house?

My own pink fling is a bathroom in our city apartment that is only used by my husband and me. It’s painted a deep pink called Autumn Sunset. An odd name, I think, for something I would characterize as Bazooka, but it cheers me, morning and night. If you asked my husband what color it was, he’d have to think about it. He just doesn’t notice things like that. But I do. And I want to know why. It’s that journalist streak in me. And maybe a throwback to my life as a six-year-old who loved the color in all of its many shades.

Pink houses are pretty, even when they are crumbling. A weathered gray porch looks cozy on a pink background. Green grass is a further complement. Only a gray roof really looks right, although I could be swayed by a rich chocolate brown. Pink and black is a classic pairing. There must be hundreds of pink and black diners out there in the heartland.

So I will combine my skills as a journalist with my photographic eye and yen for wandering, on a journey to anywhere a pink house lives. I’m putting out the call to friends and readers, near and far, for leads to the pink houses in their midst. This won’t be a scientific survey—it’s not the way I’m made. Highly distractable, I may skip from Kansas City to Portland, Oregon, missing Minneapolis entirely. I’d like to go international, but my budget will not permit. In fact, my budget will have me begging for lodging as I press my quest.

The South is a haven for pink houses, especially Florida, I guess. Because of pink flamingoes? They would be easy to find in the tropics. Bermuda is famous for its pink houses. But I’m more interested in the oddball pinks. I’ve seen them in the dark Irish landscape, blazing through winter’s slant light.

With any luck, the Pink House Project will distract me from my newly empty nest, at least until Thanksgiving. I wonder if there are any pink houses in Saratoga Springs, where my daughter will be? Maybe I could crash in the dorm for a night.

- Cass Collins