I’ll have to ask her where it really came from. It was painted a minty green in the 70’s – I know that. It’s always been tucked in corners of the house, not taking up too much room but has always been the safeguarder of all things sewing. I opened a drawer the other day to find a gazillion pairs of scissors and asked if maybe she could get rid of a pair or two. “No, they are all good and they are mine.” Good to know.
As I was falling asleep the other night just around the corner from this little mini-cupboard, I thought about what was tucked in the bottom drawer. The beloved button jars. Two vintage glass peanut butter jars jammed with buttons of every shape, size and color.
Early matching game for bored youngster or a chance to count out large numbers – I remember playing with the buttons and feeling like I wanted to eat them they were so pretty.
Now I think about all the frocks they bejeweled…where are they? What happened to them after they lost some of their sparkle? Were the buttons saved when the material wore out? Were the buttons found in the vacuum cleaner bag or in corners of dark closets? Are some of these buttons hand-me-downs from a Grandmother I never knew?
Yeah, they are just buttons. A lowly tool we use a million times a day and barely think about. I learned to never take that for granted when I worked in the rehab hospital and would sit in therapies where people would have to re-learn that skill that for you is barely a blip in your brain. But it can be lost as I remember all too vividly watching Billy struggle with those “little buggers”. “How can I be such a nincompoop?”
Like arrowheads tucked into the mud…remnants of lost civilizations, I hereby commit to be the keeper of the buttons.
1eyedmonkee 