Green House, Pink Door

2/11/2012

Lately, I find, I am introducing myself in third person objective, as in, “Hi, Annette Wick, green house, pink door.” I don’t know when I slipped inside that edifice and began to associate myself as one with this house, but for the better part of three or four years, the house itself had hidden behind a pink door, painted by Keep Cincinnati Beautiful programs, dedicated to improving a community’s environment.

The green facade, probably came along in the 1970s. An absentee landlord, perhaps wanting to hide from the IRS, took on Kelly Green Notre Dame and imagined hiding behind the purity of the color.  And the house has remained Kelly green.

As the new owner, let me first address the Kelly Green issue.  Marion L. Steele High School Amherst Comet Colors were green and gold.  Since my days as cheerleader, volleyball player, spirit wearer, no one could convince me that I looked hot in Kelly Green. Only redheads or deep brunettes looked good in Kelly Green. I was neither.

It strikes me as funny we might even be drawn to this historic home which had been wrongly painted Kelly green. But now the house’s colors have become iconic in the neighborhood.  Every one, including the Street Vibes vendor, knows which house is the green house.

Along came KCB, and painted the door a bright pink, as if to attract more attention to this Italianate wonder.  Last weekend, during our open house before reconstruction, a friend of mine came up the walk, and said, “Tell me this has a pink door.” I swung the door partially closed, to prove she was at the right address.  Sue had photographed the house, and those pictures were now hanging in a local coffee shop. Before she ever knew this one was mine.  The focal point?  The pink door.

I plan to keep the pink door. I want to hang it in the girl’s room, or perhaps in the basement, in the wine cellar.  Its so unbelievably feminine, and I HATE pink, not because of pink-washing, though I hate that too. My dislike stems from being the second girl in the birth order. The first girl got pink.  I got yellow. Each color suited our personalities, but I decided some where about 2^nd grade that I would protest the color pink all the days of my life.  At least now, I can choose.  I will save the door, but choose to banish the color pink to the basement.

As for the new color palette, I was shopping for cocktail napkins for the open house,  at local party store recently.  I was thinking purple.  My friends know I love purple. My husband does not buy red flowers for me on Valentine’s Day, but he does buy flowers in the purple scheme.

I found a few striped options, and one floral. The floral theme seemed to match more the style of the proposed home, so I picked up 100 count and left.  The morning following the party, I had tossed the extra napkins in the napkin holder on the breakfast table.  Mark was seated next to me. We were both reading the paper.  I looked up and begin staring off into the woods, thoughts from the previous night’s open house running through my mind.  Green house, pink door, green house, pink door. The refrain was beginning to sound like a John Cougar Mellencamp song.

I absentmindedly reached for a napkin to dab at my lips, when a new thought cut in.  The color schematic on this napkin would be absolutely perfect for the Italianate details that adorned our new home.  There was a deep eggplant background, with deep tan and beige flowers. At the center or stigma of each petaled flower, a dark spot, almost black-like purple.

“Here’s the color scheme for the home’s exterior…” I said aloud, and tossed the napkin into Mark’s lap.  He immediately responded with a nod.  He knows I am sold on anything purple, and its important to keep me buying in.  We later showed the napkin to the builder’s interior designer, who has yet to share it with the builder, until she has a chance to flesh out the schematics more.

In the interim, we attended another open house, one for the businesses located in the new Sangerhalle, diagonally down the street from our home.  As we circulated amongst business owners and associates, I once again, began introducing myself as a new owner of a home in OTR.  When asked “where?”, I once again held out my hand, “Hi Annette Wick, green house, pink door.”  The intended target of my handshake shook his head in recognition, not of my name, but of my place.

The green house, pink door, has become a reference point for many working in the neighborhood, from construction workers at Washington Park, Music Hall musicians, drivers heading south down Race from Findlay Market. 

Though drivers, pedestrians and neighbors alike might be lost without the green house as orientation, they will learn to love purple instead.

Consignment

The days dawns an unfamiliar purple,
shedding darkness of the winter sky.
We will toast to a rare warmth today -
and a home to be occupied later.

I have spoken soulfully of homes -
what do they mean -
on an ocean’s side,
or a looming shadow in a small town,
or the home I presently sit in
which has reinvented itself -
refuge, reception, reality, retreat.

Now shards of sunlight
break through the deepness,
punctuating what was supposed
to be a welcomed silence
after the children were gone.

We will trade in emptiness
for consecration
and the commotion of the city,
a gangland some still see it as.

Today only the dog breaks the hush,
in his unspoken pact to protect me.
In his tomorrow, and mine,
there will be many dogs and smells
to compete with my attention.

I don’t know how I will dwell,
In this new place we are making.
I feel only a heightened awareness
of someone re-purposing her life.

2/3/2012 AJW