Sure that I’m closing in on making a one-armed to-do list after two solid weekends at home with a debilitating case of tennis elbow that has left me mostly on the couch, I decided I could clean out a bedside drawer with one hand. This is where I found a bunch of—more than 100—buttons. Most were still in their tiny envelopes. You know the ones used to secure button travel from the store where you purchased a new garment into your home closet, where they hang until the first wear forces them to be removed. Usually then dropped into a box or the garbage or in my case, the bottom drawer of my bedside table. They are not useful there, but after several found their way to this particular space, it became their place. Like squatters. The more of them there are, the easier it is for them to stay.
So, I start looking at the buttons and removing them from their solo lives in mini plastic bags and envelopes, to join a commune and become part of a collection. I realize I have started something that will not be finished quickly and I begin to sort by color, then size, then style. Wait, do buttons have styles? I think of my Mom, and then immediately (or it may have been simultaneously) my Grandmom. I cannot decide if I think of one because of the other. I know it’s important to sort the two holes from the four holes but I don’t know why.
All of this sorting brings my small sewing box from the top shelf of the closet, where it lives undisturbed most of the year until I pull it down for thread to replace a button that needs reattaching, but in those cases, I still have the button, I’m just looking for thread. Ironic.
I find more buttons in the sewing box, which I think to myself is a smart place for buttons and I must have thought this already at some point before settling on the bedside drawer.
Next, I find myself meticulously placing glass head straight pins back into their specific wheel, one by one. Not minding the time it takes, actually enjoying the preciseness of the task and the satisfaction that comes from filling the wheel, one pin at a time—my Mom, for sure. Then I go back to sorting the buttons. Mind you, I don’t need these buttons but I cannot simply toss them—my Grandmom, for sure.
