Possibly most can relate to this family memory. Most homes seem to have something similar
*l
The BUTTON BOX.
Beth gave a contented sigh as she finished the last row of knitting on the cardigan she was making for her grandaughter Stacey. It was of course a labour of love and she was pleased that it had turned out so well. A pretty design and a lovely bright red colour, made her think it would be an ideal Christmas gift. Now all she had to do was to sew on the buttons, give it a good steam press and wrap it to be put under the tree for Christmas morning.
She reached for the card of buttons, and saw that there were only five on the card. "Bother", she said to herself "I need six,I wonder if I can find one to match from the Button Box?". The Button Box was virtually a family heirloom, having been handed down through at least three generations. A square heavy cardboard box, about eight inches square and about four inches deep, covered with an old fashioned rose patterned paper, which had worn off on the corners, It held a miscellaneous treasure of buttons, buckles, beads, pins badges and a host of other small odds and ends, tossed into the box over the years, by various members of the family, in the assumption that they may come in handy at some time or other.
As a child she could remember it, high up on the huge old fashioned kitchen dresser in the farmhouse kitchen of her grandparents farm. The kitchen always seemed to be a warm cosy haven with a huge open fireplace down one end, a gleaming black double oven stove next to it. Grandfather would wheel in large stump in the wheelbarrow and put it on the fire in the fireplace, which never went out in the wintertime. The family would gather around the large oak table in the centre of the room, laughing and chattering, as grandmother served up wonderfully home cooked, country style meals. Uncles, aunts, cousins, sisters, brothers, all shared in the simple delights of good meals, family games and long hours of good conversation in that happy atmosphere. As night fell the kerosene Aladdin lamps would be lit and under the soft light a game of cards or scrabble would occupy the time. No electricity or TV was available, yet life was just as full and happy she thought, as she left her chair to get the box.
When her grandparents had eventually retired from the farm, the Button Box had been handed down to her mother, with other odds and ends and had taken its place on the dresser in the family kitchen. Again when her own parents retired, she inherited the treasured Box and it took its place in her own kitchen
As her family had grown up she remembered that if any small item was needed the general remark was, "Have a look in the Button Box", and smiled to herself as she reached it down from the top of the kitchen dresser, where it was always kept. Over the years it's collection probably had changed several times at least, and she was always surprised at what could be found within the tangle of thread, needles and buttons. One day she promised herself, she would give it a good clean out and smiled again as she wondered how many times that same remark had been made as the box was opened.
The contents of the box glinted in the light and reflected back many colours of buckles, shiny buttons and beads. There were the chrystals,that might one day be restrung and a shiny gold button with the anchor on it, that had come from her husbands navy blazer he had loved so much. A white enamelled badge caught her eye and she picked it up to see it better. Schools Patriotic Fund was inscribed around the edge and attached to it were several small blue bars on a chain. It took her back to her own school days during the war and the tasks of fund raising for the war effort. The bars were awarded for target amounts raised but after all these years the amounts concerned could not be remembered.
She recalled how proudly that badge had been worn each morning assembly, at the small country school she attended and tried to recall the morning flag raising ceremony. How did it go now?. I love God, Honour the King and salute the Flag. Was that it?, she wondered as her hands again turned over the contents of the box. What a pity there isn't the same kind of discipline and national pride in this day and age, she thought.
A large black overcoat button caught her eye and she saw in her minds eye her father, many years before, looping heavy cotton through two holes and hooking the ends of the loops over his thumbs. He would then twirl the button on the thread, pulling it tight and make the button spin, pulling on the ends of the loop to make it spin faster and faster. She and her sisters would watch with rounded eyes, holding their breath, waiting to see if the thread would snap or if the button would really hum as it spun around and around. How many years ago was that she mused, as the button went back into the box.
Quickly her hands turned over the contents of the box once more, as the realisation came that it was getting late and the task in hand needed completing. A black glass eye gleamed in the light and a wave of nostalgia swept over her as she pictured once again Teddy, the family bear. The hook originally attached to the back of the eye had broken off and of course the eye had been replaced with a black button. The bear in it's own right had quite a history, having been given to her father when he was a small child.
In turn each of the girls in the family had nursed Teddy, spanked him when naughty and loved him intensely. Father being a country minister, provided the source for many of the experiences which the bear endured. Solemn ceremonies of christenings, being married to the cat. She grinned as she visualised herself and sisters dressed in Mothers old shoes, dresses and beads. Teddy with a tie wrapped around his neck and a curtain ring pinned to his paw and one complaining protesting cat, wrapped in a net curtain playing the role of the bride. All of them trooping down the back garden path to the cubby house, which of course became the chapel for the occasion. What simple fun they had so many years ago. Teddy was still in a box somewhere in the house, minus an ear and with a nearly severed arm, having survived another generation of children, her own family, now grown up. but hopefully she thought, one day he would be repaired and start a new life with her own grandchildren.
Deep in a reverie now, she next handled a string of pearl buttons threaded on to a piece of cotton. These had come from her own wedding dress over thirty years ago and tears came to her eyes as the thought of how they had been lovingly saved, to maybe have been used on one of her own daughters wedding dresses. Now one girl was married and happily settled and the buttons hadn't been wanted. The other daughter was overseas working. Getting on now she thought and still no romance. How I wish she would find someone nice and settle down. As she handled the buttons gently between her fingers she smiled, as remembering the frantic hunt a few weeks before the wedding and the dress hadn't been ready because the right buttons couldn't be found.
Store after store had been searched and at last success, in a little old drapers shop at a small country town way out of the city. "Here I am again" she softly sighed, "after so many many years, still hunting for buttons".
Came the big day and of course the family panic. She had always told them, she would be cool calm and collected right through, but!. First the flowers hadn't arrived and a frantic call to the florist gave the news that the order had been misplaced. After deep apologies from the proprietor, he guaranteed that they would be there in time before the photographer arrived. Then she found that everyone else had used up all the hot water and she had to have a cold shower, when she came back from that, she found the family cat curled up on her wedding dress, which was laid out on the bed in readiness for dressing. The last straw was the news that the organist had come down with the flu and a replacement was being sought.
The weather was perfect, in fact a little too perfect for late August. A heavy full satin gown with a high bodice was not exactly an ideal choice for a day with a temperature of nearly 80o on the old scale. The radio termed it a typically Indian summer day. At the time she termed it somewhat differently. Still, all had eventually turned out perfectly and the actual ceremony had gone off without a hitch. The flowers arrived at the house exactly at the same time as the photographer and the cat was banished to the back yard. A friend was found who could fill the breach left by the organist so all turned out well.
The bridesmaids looked radiant as also did the bride. A dear friend had even commented about the pearl buttons and how they really set off the bodice beautifully. The hunt for them had been well worth it after all. As she replaced them in the box once more she whispered," Maybe, one day your turn will come again".
The bottom of the box was getting cleared at this stage and nothing to this time had looked anything like the button she was seeking. Glass buttons,leather buttons, pants buttons, buttons for shirts, fancy buttons, plain ones, but not a red one to match those on the card. There was the cloth badge that Michael had so proudly earned at cubs for bush walking. It never did get sewn on to his shirt. A gold Medallion turned over in the light read, Crawfordsville Indianna Centenary 1962. I wonder what happened to those people, she thought, as it was put to one side. The two families had been pen friends for quite some years, exchanging small gifts for birthdays and Christmas. It had been interesting to exchange views and life styles and to gain a picture of how people lived in another country. They had all felt very close once, but as time went by the letters between them became fewer and fewer, until at last there were no replies receive to the letters sent overseas.
Mementos of her own families growing up were contained in the box in plenty. A pair of junior flyers wings provided the memory of when her eldest daughter had flown to Brisbane and back for the first time. Winning a huge ghastly green stuffed dinosaur at a fair and returning with it on the plane alongside of her, the hostess pinning the wings on it at the end of the flight. Michaels first watch, bought with his first weeks salary when we started work, a proud memory for him. Embroided travel patches bearing the names of places that had been visited by the family when on holiday trips. They were meant to have been sewn on to jackets or tops but somehow the task was never completed. She smiled , fondly remembering those family holidays as she handled the mementos. Names like Perth, Bunbury, Albany, Cooma Sydney, Orbost, Bairnsdale, Naracoorte and otheres were picked out as she handled the patches and added them to the growing pile on the table. Still no suitable buttons had been found and time was passing by.
By this time the pile of odds and ends on the table had gtoen signifidently and she was getting a glimpse of the bottom of the box. Knittimg needles, pins, paper clibs, strands of cotton, cards with press studs on them lay in the bottom of the box It didn’t seem very hopeful. Suddenly she spied a card wedged in a corner, picking it up she smiled happily. Just what she needed, there were six bright shiny red buttons attached to the card, Now she could finish her task..
Holding the box beneath the table she swept all the odds and ends back into the box, thinking to herself, one day Ill have to get too and give that box a real tidy out,
You certainly know how to make a grown woman tear up, don't you my friend?!? ;D A beautiful story, enjoyed every word of it and the memories it brought flooding back. Mum and I also had a button box, but ours was an old Milo tin! Time to find another tin/box I think ...
Love Rob.
xoxoxox
Reviewed by Bev
7/21/2003
Makes me cry everytime I read it. It's excellent Dad. Love you bev xoxoxox
Reviewed by Julia Mendels
7/18/2003
What a wonderful story! Beautifully crafted and brought tears to my eyes. Amazing how something simple can trigger a memory and all the other memories come flooding in. I know you will enjoy Puddles in the Road. It is the same kind of memory trip - shorter but the destination is the same.
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