Years ago… many years ago, I found myself starting over in my life. It wasn’t the first time, and unfortunately, would not be my last time. I was fresh out of a broken marriage. The decision to end my sad, oppressed marriage was not an easy one. It took me two years to gather enough belief in myself that I could make it on my own. But when I finally did find the courage, it was like a rebirth.
I found myself raising my three children in the tiniest of a rental house that consisted of two small bedrooms and one bathroom. The house was constructed in the mid 1940’s. It had charm. The covered front porch was perfect. All it lacked was a porch swing and you would be taken back to days gone by of lazy Sunday afternoons, sipping lemonade, and watching the neighbors drive by. The screen door still had the time stamped “B” (for Beeler) in the center of it. There was a large picture window in the living room that hosted as a frame to the beautiful mature trees outside. But along with that charm also came some drawbacks. The lack of electrical outlets, the little boxes they called closets, and the spookiest dirt basement you could imagine. But it was home, right from the beginning.
Our Freedom Home (1994)
I left my marriage with very few belongings. Not because they were refused to me, but I wanted a fresh start. Money was tight, very tight. But thanks to easy payment plans, I purchased a new (and very inexpensive) bedroom suit and a dining room table. Back in the day, painted hunter green furniture was quite the rage, and that is exactly what I purchased for both rooms. My oldest daughter, Heather, was with me when I picked out the dining room table, and no two people could have been more excited over a table and four chairs than we were. She was in her late teens, and wise beyond her years. Heather named our table, “The Freedom Table.” Eventually, our tiniest of a house became our “Freedom House.” We could breathe again. We could leave every light on in the house and no one would have harsh words (and we did, on purpose I might add). My children once again could feel the luxury of not being judged, or worse, ignored. That table, that house, represented our independence, our resurfacing into the world.
With the inspired energy that comes from renewed strength, I set out to turn that little house into a home for me and my children. My artist friend Denae taught me how to stencil with paints. I personalized the kitchen with stenciled chili peppers. Stenciled ivy crept along the walls in the living room. When you walked into Heather and Robin’s bedroom, you were greeted with an array of stenciled sunflowers as a border in their tiny room. As you can see by the photo above, I painted the outside shutters carnation pink.
Our chili pepper kitchen
The door you see goes into that scary basement!
That’s Shane “hiding” in the corner
That was early spring of 1994. My heart sang. My joy overwhelmed me. I discovered simple pleasures again; getting my hands dirty in the soil of newly planted flowers, dancing in the kitchen with my daughters, watching my son climb his first tree.
One particular joy that I encountered was going to our local Farmer’s Market every Saturday. My son Shane would generally be with his father, my daughter Robin (Miss Independence) would be doing, well, God knows what, so that would leave Heather. She was always as thrilled as I was to get that early start and see what the market had to offer that day. We loved the fresh air, we loved the time together, and we oh so loved the slow pace. Our Farmer’s Market not only had the finest of fresh fruits and vegetables, but also local artisans would be showing their wares. There was an eatery that served pinto beans and cornbread.
Heather and I found ourselves in the familiar pattern of checking out the arts and crafts first, always inspired, but sadly, money was rationed too tightly for such extravagance. Next, on to the fruits and vegetables where we carefully picked what would be cooked and served to the family. We would work our way around throughout the market where the potted plants were sold. The allure of the flats of petunias, begonias, and marigolds would reel us in. Almost always, something that needed to be planted later would end up in our cart. Because money was so very tight, I would keep our future purchases mentally calculated….$3.00 for the beans, $2.00 for bananas, $4.00 for flowers..etc. Then came the fresh cut gladiolus. There they were, long stemmed, colorful, seemingly beaming with pride. Buckets of them, calling out to us.
The first time Heather and I saw them, we both fell in love. I wish that I could recall how much a dozen cost back then, I want to say maybe $6.00. Could we really afford them? Could we really afford NOT to take home such beauty and vitality? No, on both counts. Ignoring the budget, carefully, we picked out a dozen of our very first, freshly cut gladiolus. With only pennies to spare, we checked out at the register. Neither one of us could wait to get home to plant our new flowers, snap our green beans, and pull out the vase from under the kitchen sink and place our beautiful freshly cut flowers in the center of our Freedom Table.
That season Heather and I made it a point to visit the Farmer’s Market every Saturday until it closed for the winter. We filled the front porch with colorful hanging baskets in the summer, and in the fall, mums and pumpkins populated our surroundings.
But always, no matter what the budget, a dozen of freshly cut gladiolus stood proudly on that silly little green kitchen table. That image became my symbol of hope, of new beginnings, fresh starts, and faith that everything was going to be just fine.
So, in the end, I have learned to fill your soul with what makes you happy. Be good to yourself, and always, always, keep a vase handy.
Peace,
Cat Corrier
