It is longer than I expected, a little over two pages, typed. But... here it goes. I've titled it "The Button Box."
I am a bit of a hoarder.
Not in the “OhmyGod your house should be condemned!” sort of way, but I
definitely hold on to stuff. I save
cards people have given me, my daughter’s art, writing, and grade sheets,
pictures not in frames, shoes I just can’t give up yet, pens, books, etc. If it has value and meaning to me, I’m
holding on to it. I can’t help it… and
I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.
This weekend, I was cleaning and reorganizing my sewing
room. For the last three years, my niece
was living in it, and most of my stuff was completely inaccessible. The only things I really had any access to
were my beads and paper crafts. And
yarn. That is mostly because these were
things I stored in places other than her room.
My niece moved out in March, so my old sewing room is free again. Whee!!!
We’ve cleaned it, fumigated it (teenagers…ugh!!), and now
I’m in the process of rearranging, organizing, and transferring my scattered
supplies back into the room. I am also
integrating the massive inheritance my mother left me: all of her sewing room.
Mom’s sewing room was huge.
I don’t know the actual dimensions, but it was about half the size of my
classroom, which is pretty generous. One
long wall was lined with metal and plywood shelves used in garages to store Big
Stuff, like holiday decorations, tools, manly stuff. Mom’s were filled with large plastic bins
with lids that fold together with linked flaps, kind of like when you fold your
hands. There were three of these bins
per shelf, and four shelves per rack.
Five of these racks lined one wall, and a sixth one occupied another
wall, along with two large white melamine cabinets packed with fabric. Most of these bins contained fabric, although
a few contained trims and laces. Some
contained dolls and doll furniture, accessories, etc.
She had two large bookcases full of books, magazines, and
countless binders of patterns, ideas, magazine articles, paper dolls, craft
instructions, sewing tips, etc. Another
large bookcase, on top of a 6’ table, was stacked with cards and cards of lace,
trims, and ribbons. She had multiple
plastic storage carts with drawers filled with small silk flowers, vintage
flowers, tiny doll accessories, buttons, ribbons, more trims, feathers, small
dolls, you name it.
It took me multiple trips over the course of a year to go
through it and decide what to keep and what to donate or toss. The local library received multiple stacks of
books on various crafts and hobbies.
Local churches who make quilts for hospitals and charities received so
many boxes of fabric, I’m sure they struggled with where to store them! And what a heyday for those ladies as they
went through all those fabrics! I know
mom would have enjoyed seeing their excitement as they opened and went through
all the treasures within those boxes.
So rebuilding my sewing room has its pleasures, as
well. And much sadness, as bringing my
mother’s things into my home means that she is really gone. It reminds me of better, happier days, when
mom and I would work on sewing doll dresses for some event, listening and
singing to show tunes (Andrew Lloyd Webber being a favorite), talking about
some subject (favorite topics included history, celebrities, books we were
reading, and family stuff), listening to talk radio and chatting about issues,
all while our nimble fingers created pretty little things for collectors. We’d go out for lunch if it was summertime or
the weekend (when we teachers have some free time), combining lunch with an
opportunity to go to the fabric or craft store.
As I was moving little storage boxes of buttons and beads to
a temporary spot on a shelf, I lifted a small metal lunchbox-style case that
was rather heavy. I’d forgotten what I’d
put in there, and gave it a shake. The
resulting soft rattle told me it was full of buttons. The rattle was a familiar one, a reassuring
sound.
It’s amazing how much certain sounds can bring back
memories. Whenever I hear “Funky Town”
or anything from Billy Joel’s “Glass Houses”, I’m instantly transported to the
basement of our old house, sitting on a tall wooden stool, listening to music
and chatting with my dad while he made stained glass panels. The sound of a hatchet thumping through a
chunk of wood to chop kindling brings the smell of pine and canvas to mind, of
camping in my childhood. The gurgle of
coffee brewing in a pot is a homey sound to me, recalling the times we spent
with my grandmother in her mobile home in San Diego, waiting impatiently for
our turn to be served our own slice of her special French Toast, a rich,
crispy, old-fashioned battered bread fried in a sizzling iron skillet.
I didn’t think much about the sound of the buttons in their
round, lunchbox-type tin. But after I
turned off the light that night and settled in to sleep, my brain began
wandering, as it usually does. That
heavy box of buttons brought to mind my mother’s button box, and wondering
where it is now. Sometime last year, not
long after mom died, my dad called me to ask me where it would be in the sewing
room. I suggested it was in one of those
large plastic bins on top of a rack nearest the end of the wall, where mom kept
old sewing supplies and such. He called
me back to say he’d found it. I don’t
remember why it was important to him. And
I don’t know what he has done with it since then.
Thinking about that button box brought back sensory images
of struggling to pop the lid off the button tin, and how I used to love to dig
my hands into the shallow sea of buttons inside, the feel of cool plastic,
metal, glass and shell slipping over my fingers. The box was a round, old-fashioned metal tin,
about the size of a dinner plate. It had
a sort of nubbly texture, a slightly rough crazed metal lacquer peculiar to
tins made in the early 20th century, darkened by use over time. It probably was originally designed for
cookies or biscuits. The buttons inside
represented a wide variety of fastenings, with plain, dull brown and black
buttons, glass fancy-cut ones, tiny shoe buttons, creamy white mother-of-pearl
shirt buttons, and all of them in various sizes, some larger than an inch. There were buttons held together on long
safety pins, buttons of woven leather strips, black buttons with metal shanks,
metal buttons with nautical or militaristic emblems on them, and even buckles
of various sizes and materials, all comingled with a detritus of chipped-off
bits, dust, shreds of thread, and a few straight pins that sometimes poked your
fingers if you weren’t careful as you rummaged through the box.
How we used to play with those buttons! On a rainy day, they were “coins” while playing
dress-up, loading up old velvet bags to go “shopping” in the basement. They were employed as game pieces when we
were missing a checker or pawn. Sometimes I’d use them as plates and dishes
for my dolls. I would take them out and
organize them just to see how many of each kind were in there, and then get
bored because there were so many. My
brother and sister and I each played with them.
When my sister grew up, her kids played with the buttons, too. I’ve heard them talk about Grandma’s button
box fondly, which always made me smile, remembering the same pleasures as a
child.
Over time, the number of buttons in the box diminished. I’m sure each kid who played with them
ferreted away their favorites for various uses, perhaps because it was a
special or pretty one. Maybe it felt
good to rub a thumb over its smoothness or unusual texture. Perhaps they got used for a craft project, or
to fix a garment or two. Or maybe the
buttons reminded them of mom/grandma and good times.
My button box is considerably smaller, about the size of a
dessert plate, and the buttons in it aren’t so old and cool as mom’s, mostly leftovers
from various projects, with a handful of extra buttons that come with shirts
sometimes, but I like to think that it’s carrying on that legacy. Ella hasn’t wanted to explore it, but… I
haven’t had a sewing room for three years, and she probably doesn’t even know
it exists. Once I get the room in
working order, though, she’ll be in there plenty of times. She, too, likes to make things, and to spend
time with me while doing that. We like
to listen to music or audiobooks while we work, and to chat, of course. She wants me to teach her how to do various
crafts, and I’m looking forward to sharing with her the things my mother taught
me, and the Zen-like pleasure that comes from making something with your
hands.
And, at some point in time, she may need a button.
