An Old Jar of Buttons

Personal History

It was nothing spectacular. It probably wasn't even noticed by most. As an eleven-year old girl of great curiosity regarding most things, I had to know where it came from, and how it came to be, and even more importantly, why it sat on the table next to my grandmother's chair, as if it had great value.

My hand reached out to pick it up, but was stopped by my grandmother's quiet voice. "That's a very special jar." she said, simply. This old jar of buttons sat on a yellowish white, hand crocheted doily that had begun to age and dull in color.

"But, grandmother, it's just full of plain old buttons." I looked at the jar more intensely, trying to see what she did. The hundreds of shiny, some dull, white, gray, black and the occasional red buttons seemed plain and without purpose. Yet, the jar had a place of importance, along with other knick knacks that were arranged in groups. I looked around the room at shabby furniture, all old, comfortable.

Her favorite chair was covered in faded florals, once red, now pink with age. Sometimes I would sit in that chair when she wasn't home, but it was not comfy, as it retained her shape and seemed to reject mine. That lumpy old chair was right at home with the dark, scratched table, dusted only by her. I can still see my grandmother in the chair snoozing, her blue-gray, white hair sticking out in all directions as if in protest of her labors. Her days began before sunrise, and after long hours of cooking at the town's cafe, she quickly sought the comfort of the chair as soon as she returned home. In the 60's she would turn on her soaps, put a small ice cold bottle of coca-cola by her and fall asleep. Before that, the radio was her lullaby.

Coming from a long line of plump, excellent cooks, my grandmother's coconut and chocolate pies were famous, as was her melt-in-your-mouth roast beef. Smooth mashed potatoes and tender fresh-from-the-garden green beans were the talk of the town and a most popular dish after church on Sundays. The cars would fly out of the parking lot to get to the little cafe on the hill, which seated about 15 people when full.

Those who weren't fast enough went for a drive or walks, or even home to change clothes, mouths watering as they waited impatiently for the coconut cream pie and roast beef plate lunch back in town.

I glanced around, taking in the porcelain, milk glass, and crocheted doilies of all sizes. The old jar of buttons seemed out of place, but there it sat, softly glowing in the lamp's light.

My grandmother picked up the jar, and opened the lid, pouring out a hand full of buttons. She placed one dull, tiny black button in my hand. "This button came off the trousers of my son, your uncle, who was killed in Korea. This large, black button came off the pants of my father, and this tiny pink button off your mother's lttle sundress I made for her, when she was 3. We were frowned upon by wearing such flashy colored buttons, so I put the pink, green and red buttons on your mother's clothes, just to cause talk." She grinned. "It was very hard to find colored buttons and some people thought any color besides white or gray or black was flirty."

She continued on, saying "This cracked button flew off my father's Sunday coat. It hit the wall as he took his coat off, and it broke in two pieces. He was old and tired, and never wore that coat again, dying soon after. We never threw anything away in those days." She sniffled a little. "All the buttons have stories. Every one of them came off of clothing that was worn by family. The stories are plain, simple, but it's our history; it's our daily life. In this old jar of buttons, no button can be added without a story, and it must come from a family member."

I looked at the jar and then at my now silent grandmother. She seemed to be far away, as she turned the jar of buttons around and around, watching them slide creating a kaleidoscope of color. It was rather hypnotic.

As youth often does, I broke the silence. "I want to add a button."

I brought my suitcase over to her and we ruffled through all the shirts and dresses I had brought from Oklahoma for the summer. All buttons seemed to be tightly attached.

"Well, let's just take one off." She pointed to a big green one near the collar of the blouse I had on. "How 'bout that one? It looks loose to me."

"It's definitely loose." I agreed.

She snapped it off and gave it to me. "You must give it a story, so it will belong in the jar."

"A story?" I stopped, not knowing where to begin. What kind of story would fit that button? It's life had been short, and my creativity at the time, shallow.

"Keep it simple," she said. "It can be: 'I add this button to the jar of family buttons, to add my history to theirs. This button came off my new blouse. I removed it for this one reason.' "

I grabbed some paper, and wrote down what she said, adding that the blouse had been purchased at Woolworth, in New Mexico.

"Ah!" grandmother exclaimed. "Now, we have a traveling button. Most of the buttons in the jar are from this same town, right here in Oklahoma; so you have the button that has traveled the furthest, with the exception of your uncle's button from his uniform he wore in North Korea."

I was proud. We plopped the button in and grandmother tilted the jar back and forth, to bury it deep. It was a big green button, surrounded in comfort from the many old tales.

We placed the jar back on the table, and the simple day continued, but I felt changed, almost rich. The day was lazy, warm and slow. Grandmother snoozed, and I sat on the porch swing, wondering what life would bring to me, and wishing I had an old jar of buttons of my own.

Today, I raise the lid of an old trunk of my father's mother, my grandmother I never knew. And there, in the folds of an old white gown, is tucked an old jar of buttons.