The Pink House: A Eulogy

I still haven’t accepted that Ciro’s Pizza, in the location now occupied by Sea Level, shut down in the late ‘90s. As a kid, I fondly remember grabbing Ciro’s pies to go, driving back to Plum Island with my parents, and settling in for a grainy VHS movie courtesy of Express Video. I can still smell the piping-hot cheese when I walk through the Firehouse lobby. Plenty of alternatives have sprouted up over the years, with better pizza than Ciro’s. Actually, I think they shut down because they failed health inspection. So why does this restaurant ignite such powerful nostalgia for me?  

Admittedly, the unique aesthetic beauty of the Pink House can’t be directly compared to an old pizza place. But as the iconic house’s destruction looms, many of us are grappling with similar feelings of loss. A fixture on Plum Island Turnpike, the house is also a fixture of our reality. How many times have we noticed it sitting there under a cotton candy sky, and remarked on its beauty? How many times have we driven by, distracted, without noticing it at all? Losing the Pink House isn’t actually about losing a cool photo-op, just like losing Ciro’s wasn’t about being deprived of pizza. It’s about a piece of our reality being yanked away from us before we’re ready to part with it.

I won’t rehash or relitigate the details of the Pink House drama here, but for once, it doesn’t seem like we can expect an 11^th-hour intervention. Despite multiple attempts by community members, the Support the Pink House organization, and Governor Maura Healy herself, news just broke that the house will be torn down. Yes, we’ll dearly miss our unofficial “Welcome to Plum Island” landmark. Yes, it’s a little funny that the Fish & Wildlife Service is the great villain in this story. And yes, it’s pretty remarkable that in a world where no one agrees on anything, a solution can’t be found for an issue with such resounding consensus. But this feels like more than just the destruction of an old, dilapidated house.

Just as I struggle to explain why Ciro’s was so alluring, it will be impossible, a generation from now, to explain the magic of the Pink House. When I describe it to someone from out of town, it usually goes something like this:

“It’s this really beautiful old house that’s falling apart, sitting alone on a marsh. Artists set up on the roadside to paint it, and photographers sell photos of it all around town.”

“Is it one of those cool historic houses from the 1700s?”

“Nope.” 

“So it’s bright pink? That’s kinda interesting.”

“No, the paint has peeled so much you can’t even see the color anymore.”

“Okay…but you can go in there and hang out, and get views of the marsh?”

“Well, it’s off-limits to visitors and probably dangerous, so it’s your funeral.”

“So they want to tear down a ‘pink’ house that’s dangerous, falling apart anyway, isn’t even pink – and this is what everyone’s protesting?”    

When we stop romanticizing the ordinary, we become less childlike and more cynical. We get closer to buckling under the pressure of adult common sense — which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly inspiring any paintings. The confusingly picturesque Pink House is part of the romantic imagination, like so many other “ordinary” experiences we’ve seen vanish: browsing Express Video for Cookie Dough Bites and the perfect VHS; grabbing breakfast and a comic book at Fowles; seeing the Weeper smoke a cigar on the corner of Broad Street; dancing at the Grog before the downstairs went dark; playing ball in the overgrown, weed-covered Woodman Park before an expensive renovation rendered it unrecognizable; and walking the halls of the Kelly School.

When these things disappear, we mourn a fixture of our community. But mostly, we mourn ourselves – the person we used to be on those swings, in those pizza shops and video stores, when the world felt slower and simpler. If nostalgia is an expression of loss, the most powerful nostalgia comes from losing the thread that tethers us to experiences that can never be relived. When the Pink House finally disappears, a piece of our childhoods, our favorite summers, our artistic inspiration, disappears with it.

Nostalgia doesn’t usually set in until the lights are off and the wind carries away the debris. It shouldn’t be that way. We can, and should, feel nostalgic for things that are still with us. Next time you walk through town, look around. Consider the fixtures of your everyday life that, should they vanish, would leave you feeling nostalgic. Maybe it’s your favorite downtown restaurant. Maybe it’s guiltily enjoying a Richdale’s hot dog, or jogging a particular section of the Rail Trail. Maybe it’s the guy banging the buckets on State Street, which sounds more like noise than music – until, of course, the day he stops showing up.

If the Pink House has taught us one thing, it’s that nothing is permanent. So slow down and indulge while you still can. If a mildew-riddled house and a pizza place of questionable sanitation have one thing in common, it’s the sweet scent of nostalgia they release even before they’re gone. We just have to remember to inhale.

Eben Diskin
Newburyport resident
Editor, The Townie

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