When I was a little girl, my mother was the original recycler. Nothing was ever thrown
away. When I outgrew my clothes, any buttons were placed in a box, the zippers in a
bag, and the dress torn into rags and stored in the garage. The buttons would reappear
on a new article of clothing later on down the road, as would the zippers. The rags
washed the car, cleaned up after the dog, or wiped off a cabinet. Nothing was wasted.
This habit of saving buttons continued for over forty years. Eventually, she
accumulated literally thousands of them, all shapes, sizes, and colors. I asked her once
what she was going to do with so many buttons. She replied matter-of-factly, "You
never know when you're going to need a button." This was her simple philosophy. Be
prepared.
On several occasions over the years, I caught her "sorting" her buttons. She had a
drawer filled with neat rows of old flip-top cigarette boxes. In white medical tape across
the top of each box, she had labeled them: small white, large red, jumbo black, and so
forth. Lose a small green button with two holes, or a light brown one with four holes?
One quick glance and she could find an immediate replacement.
Cancer began to win the battle over her health. Several weeks prior to her death she
became completely unresponsive and unaware of her surroundings. I sat by her
bedside day and night on the small chance of her waking up just one last time. It was
then that I discovered the true value of her buttons - to her. One night in the quiet of
the room and quite out of the blue, she spoke. Only once. Only one thing.
She said softly, "Oh, I've lost my buttons."
A whirlwind of questions filled my mind. Of all things, why, during this stage of the dying
process, did those buttons seem like the only thing of importance to her? Of such
importance that it had stirred an audible response from her when nothing else had? It
was the last thing I ever heard my mother say.
Weeks after her funeral, that one statement continued to echo through my mind.
Buttons! I went to look for them in her drawer and they were no longer there. Searching
through her closet, I finally found them. They were no longer "sorted" by size and
shape, but rather all jumbled in a very large zippered bag in the top and back of her
closet. What a myriad of shapes and colors. It was quite impressive!
I sat down on the floor and opened the bag. Never had I ever seen or imagined such a
collection. The tears streamed down my face as I pulled out a handful of them and let
them sift slowly through my fingers. Mom's buttons. Mom's prized jewels. They were so
important to her that she even thought of them in the throes of death. Buttons! I still
couldn't understand. What was it that caused this magical hold on her? They were just
buttons. Sure, there were thousands of them. Sure, there were some very beautiful
ones. But of all the things in life to miss at death's door? Buttons???
As the last few buttons trickled through my fingers, I saw it. It wasn't round like the
others and it was very tiny. I picked it up gently with my fingers and just stared at it.
Shaped like a bowling pin, about a half-inch long, with two holes in the center for
thread, was a black button from my father's old bowling shirt. In the late 1950's my
father was on a bowling team. I remembered it vividly. He wore a light gray shirt with
short sleeves, black trim, a black collar and pocket and these little black bowling pin
buttons. A rush of memories and emotions flooded over me as I remembered the days
of my youth. Mother took in ironing in those days to help make ends meet. My senses
became so acute that the memories even brought back the smell of her spray starch.
Rummaging through her old bag of buttons, I found even more memories. The
orange-flowered buttons she sewed on my centennial dress for our hometown
centennial celebration. The red apple-shaped buttons she placed on my red and white
shirt in the sixth grade. Then years later I used some of those same buttons on a little
red summer dress for my own daughter. The purple rose-shaped buttons that had
adorned her favorite Sunday dress. The memories were more vivid as I sorted through
those buttons than if I had been perusing old photographs.
I sifted through this colorful assortment. My heart filled with both joy and sadness.
Suddenly I knew! This wasn't a bag of buttons. It was a treasure of memories! No
wonder she kept them for so many years. Suddenly it all made sense.
I pondered long and hard about what to do with Mom's buttons. Most of her sewing and
craft items were sold in the estate sale. But I clung to those buttons tightly. They were
too important. Finally, I knew what I had to do.
The print I found was huge. It's a beautiful print of a large floral garden. A beautiful
white gazebo stands in the center, surrounded by trees and flowers of every color of
the rainbow. Placing the print on the dining table, I began sorting buttons by color and
size. I glued white buttons over the white flowers, red ones, pink and purple, too, over
each flower grouping of that same color. The brown ones covered the walkway to the
gazebo and many green ones filled in for the leaves on the trees.
In some of the areas that I couldn't find enough buttons small enough, or of the right
size or color, I filled it in with some craft "puffy paint". The bowling pin buttons fit
perfectly on some of the tree branches, the red apples hang from the trees as if ready
to be picked and eaten.
Before this project would be complete, it needed just one more thing. I found a
photograph of Mother, trimmed her out of the picture and pasted her in the garden
standing next to the gazebo. In her hands, she now holds the floral centennial button.
The warmth I feel when I stare at this print now, of Mother in her beautiful button
garden, brings a great healing peace to my soul.
She has gone on, but she left behind a beautiful garden of memories.
If you would like to see photographs of the completed project, including close-ups for
detail, please click here. Please be patient as it may take a little time to load all of the
pictures, depending on the speed of your internet connection.
away. When I outgrew my clothes, any buttons were placed in a box, the zippers in a
bag, and the dress torn into rags and stored in the garage. The buttons would reappear
on a new article of clothing later on down the road, as would the zippers. The rags
washed the car, cleaned up after the dog, or wiped off a cabinet. Nothing was wasted.
This habit of saving buttons continued for over forty years. Eventually, she
accumulated literally thousands of them, all shapes, sizes, and colors. I asked her once
what she was going to do with so many buttons. She replied matter-of-factly, "You
never know when you're going to need a button." This was her simple philosophy. Be
prepared.
On several occasions over the years, I caught her "sorting" her buttons. She had a
drawer filled with neat rows of old flip-top cigarette boxes. In white medical tape across
the top of each box, she had labeled them: small white, large red, jumbo black, and so
forth. Lose a small green button with two holes, or a light brown one with four holes?
One quick glance and she could find an immediate replacement.
Cancer began to win the battle over her health. Several weeks prior to her death she
became completely unresponsive and unaware of her surroundings. I sat by her
bedside day and night on the small chance of her waking up just one last time. It was
then that I discovered the true value of her buttons - to her. One night in the quiet of
the room and quite out of the blue, she spoke. Only once. Only one thing.
She said softly, "Oh, I've lost my buttons."
A whirlwind of questions filled my mind. Of all things, why, during this stage of the dying
process, did those buttons seem like the only thing of importance to her? Of such
importance that it had stirred an audible response from her when nothing else had? It
was the last thing I ever heard my mother say.
Weeks after her funeral, that one statement continued to echo through my mind.
Buttons! I went to look for them in her drawer and they were no longer there. Searching
through her closet, I finally found them. They were no longer "sorted" by size and
shape, but rather all jumbled in a very large zippered bag in the top and back of her
closet. What a myriad of shapes and colors. It was quite impressive!
I sat down on the floor and opened the bag. Never had I ever seen or imagined such a
collection. The tears streamed down my face as I pulled out a handful of them and let
them sift slowly through my fingers. Mom's buttons. Mom's prized jewels. They were so
important to her that she even thought of them in the throes of death. Buttons! I still
couldn't understand. What was it that caused this magical hold on her? They were just
buttons. Sure, there were thousands of them. Sure, there were some very beautiful
ones. But of all the things in life to miss at death's door? Buttons???
As the last few buttons trickled through my fingers, I saw it. It wasn't round like the
others and it was very tiny. I picked it up gently with my fingers and just stared at it.
Shaped like a bowling pin, about a half-inch long, with two holes in the center for
thread, was a black button from my father's old bowling shirt. In the late 1950's my
father was on a bowling team. I remembered it vividly. He wore a light gray shirt with
short sleeves, black trim, a black collar and pocket and these little black bowling pin
buttons. A rush of memories and emotions flooded over me as I remembered the days
of my youth. Mother took in ironing in those days to help make ends meet. My senses
became so acute that the memories even brought back the smell of her spray starch.
Rummaging through her old bag of buttons, I found even more memories. The
orange-flowered buttons she sewed on my centennial dress for our hometown
centennial celebration. The red apple-shaped buttons she placed on my red and white
shirt in the sixth grade. Then years later I used some of those same buttons on a little
red summer dress for my own daughter. The purple rose-shaped buttons that had
adorned her favorite Sunday dress. The memories were more vivid as I sorted through
those buttons than if I had been perusing old photographs.
I sifted through this colorful assortment. My heart filled with both joy and sadness.
Suddenly I knew! This wasn't a bag of buttons. It was a treasure of memories! No
wonder she kept them for so many years. Suddenly it all made sense.
I pondered long and hard about what to do with Mom's buttons. Most of her sewing and
craft items were sold in the estate sale. But I clung to those buttons tightly. They were
too important. Finally, I knew what I had to do.
The print I found was huge. It's a beautiful print of a large floral garden. A beautiful
white gazebo stands in the center, surrounded by trees and flowers of every color of
the rainbow. Placing the print on the dining table, I began sorting buttons by color and
size. I glued white buttons over the white flowers, red ones, pink and purple, too, over
each flower grouping of that same color. The brown ones covered the walkway to the
gazebo and many green ones filled in for the leaves on the trees.
In some of the areas that I couldn't find enough buttons small enough, or of the right
size or color, I filled it in with some craft "puffy paint". The bowling pin buttons fit
perfectly on some of the tree branches, the red apples hang from the trees as if ready
to be picked and eaten.
Before this project would be complete, it needed just one more thing. I found a
photograph of Mother, trimmed her out of the picture and pasted her in the garden
standing next to the gazebo. In her hands, she now holds the floral centennial button.
The warmth I feel when I stare at this print now, of Mother in her beautiful button
garden, brings a great healing peace to my soul.
She has gone on, but she left behind a beautiful garden of memories.
If you would like to see photographs of the completed project, including close-ups for
detail, please click here. Please be patient as it may take a little time to load all of the
pictures, depending on the speed of your internet connection.
| Garden of Memories |
| © Ferna Lary Mills |
| A Christian Grief Ministry |
100's of Inspirational Grief Poems and Stories |