The Pink House

I think between the time I was five and the time I was fourteen, I must’ve moved about a dozen times. Literally. We’d move to a new apartment, then back to grandma’s, then to my stepfather’s parents’ house, then to Florida, then back to grandma’s. It was exhausting. But I’ll never forget my favorite house of all time: the blue house.

I think I loved the blue house so much because it brings back memories of the happiest times in my life. I was fourteen and had just finished my freshman year of high school. I had made a few best friends, was dating a few different guys, and I absolutely loved my life. I had finally gotten over my angry teenage depression phase and was finally realizing what life was all about: it was about being happy.

The blue house was a large, two-family house on a main road in my hometown. We rented out the bottom floor, but since no one was living in the apartment upstairs, my friends and I would run around the top abandoned apartment and pretend it was our own. Sometimes we’d go up to the attic and videotape ourselves and pretend we were making music videos. Other times, my friends would just come over and hang out in my bedroom and we’d listen to music. My bedroom wall was a collaboration of magazine pictures of my favorite bands, and the pictures covered the entire wall. I also had those multi-colored hippie beads hanging down from the ceiling, which I thought were divine. They’re actually kind of tacky now that I think back.

There was one mystery in the area that my friends and I were dying to discover: who lived in the pink house across the street?

Across from where I lived, there was an old house that was painted bright pink. The garden in the frond yard was always full of giant flowers, and there were always a million cats hanging out on the front porch. Sometimes you’d see an old fashioned yellow Volkswagen bug in the driveway. It looked like a scene out of a movie made in the 1960’s. My friends and I were dying to know who lived there.

One afternoon, a few boys from the neighborhood came by my house to hang out with my friend Liz and me. One of the boys turned to us and asked, “Do you guys want to come to my friend’s house with me?”

“Sure”, I replied. “Where does he live?”

“In the pink house across the street.”

“WHAT?!”

Liz and I looked at each other in excitement. Finally, we were going to see who lived in the mysterious pink house!

We made our way across the street, to the house that, unknown to me at the time, I would spend the next few years practically growing up in. The pink house became my home away from home throughout my teenage years.

We walked into the house and met the boy who lived there, his name was Chris Ellis. He was tall with red hair and glasses. He had a genuine smile and I could sense that he was truly happy to meet us.

We also met his friend Matt, who had long hair and really baggy pants. The two of them looked like they had just got back from Woodstock.

Then we met Linda Mae, Chris’ mom. Linda Mae is one the sweetest souls I’ve ever met. She’s one of those cool moms, but not the kind of cool mom who tries to act like she’s fifteen again. The kind of cool mom who is such a genuinely nice person that you know her son would never do anything irresponsible for fear of disappointing her. The kind of mom who trusts her child because she knows she has no reason not to. The kind of mom you know that you can tell anything to, and she’d never judge you.

The pink house always had a friendly, welcoming atmosphere. I suspect that was because Linda Mae wouldn’t have it any other way.

The one thing I’ll never forget is when we first walked upstairs and into Chris’ room, he was blasting Sublime’s “40 OZ To Freedom”. I didn’t really listen to Sublime at the time, besides “Santeria” which was becoming a popular song on the radio, but Sublime soon became a big part of my adolescence. 

Liz and I left the pink house that day, and she turned to me and said “I really like that Chris Ellis boy.” Then she proceeded to repeat that same sentence about forty more times throughout the course of the day. Liz has a habit of repeating herself, not because she doesn’t think you heard her the first time, but because she thinks a lot. Aloud.

Liz soon began dating Chris, and we spent every spare minute of our time at the pink house. Sometimes late at night, we’d sneak out of my bedroom window and run across the street to hang out with boys. And every time we made our way up the stairs and into Chris’ room, I’d always hear one of the tracks from “40 Oz. To Freedom” blasting from the stereo.

Listening to the album now makes me feel like a teenager again, hanging out at the pink house, my home away from home. I think the old cheesy saying “home is where the heart is” originated from places like the pink house. A place where, even if it wasn’t your home, you always felt welcome.