A Blog by Gail Cushman
I had a button fall off a brand-new shirt this week. Now, that might not seem critical in your life, but it took its toll on me. I had just bought the shirt, and it came with three extra buttons attached to a separate card. I tossed them, because I have never, never, lost a button off a shirt, at least that I can remember. 78 years, no buttons lost. It’s a world record, maybe.
My mother had a button box that grew buttons, and none of them ever withered and died. The button box must have expanded because when she died, it held thousands of buttons of all shapes and sizes, except of course, the one you needed. As a child, whenever she sewed a garment for me, she would look in her button box, trying to match several options, but they never quite matched, so she would buy a new button card from the Emmett Variety Store, always with a couple extras which would go into the button box. When she passed, I inherited the button box, and all its contents, which was substantial. If it had been silver dollars, or even quarters, well, let me tell you, I would be sitting pretty. By this time, I had my own button supply, almost double the size of my mother’s. My brothers obviously didn’t want my mother’s button box because their wives had inherited button boxes from their mothers.
I kept the button box in a safe place, just in case the house was broken into or caught on fire. I knew exactly where my buttons were and could rescue them from disaster. I kept a flashlight next to the button box so I could peruse the size, color, shape, and texture of any needed button. One time I needed an extra button. I almost found a matching button. Same shape and size, but the color was green and I needed pale blue. Dang. So close, but yet so far.
So back to my story. I lost a button off my new blouse that I bought in Boise, but I’m here in Montana and buttons just don’t grow on trees, or even in stores. It’s white, shiny, two holes, not that complicated, I thought. But, a blouse without all its buttons is just like going bare-beamed and buck-naked. Someone is sure to notice. I considered the options: Toss it, use safety pins, buy a new blouse? Cut off all the buttons and drive to Billings and find a button store and replace every last one of them. Remove all the buttons and stick the blouse in the back of my closet so one of my kids could question why their mother had a buttonless blouse? I would become an instant legend. The question is, what do you do with a blouse without the right number of buttons? I checked the trash for the button card, but Cowboy had already taken it to the dump.
Wine was the answer. I poured a glass of wine and sat down to watch my favorite news shows. There it was, my wayward button lying on the end table. Hurray! I could sew it on right away.
“Cowboy, I found my button! It was right here all the time.” Boy, was he relieved, “Now, all I need is a needle,” I said, “Do we have one?”
Cowboy has about every tool and gadget that anyone could ask for, so finding a needle in one of his six secret drawers that holds everything not assigned to one of his 19 tool boxes should be a piece of cake. He was pretty definite, “Miss Gail, my mother gave me everything I would need for any sewing emergency, I know I’ve got one around here someplace.” Everything but a needle.
It’s morning and I’m on my way to the sewing store. Fingers crossed.
Gail is a freelance writer living in Columbus, Montana. Check out all her books and blogs at Gailcushman.com.
