THINK (^) | BELONGINGS
O
ne rainy afternoon, when my
mother wanted to work, she first
int roduced me to her but ton
box: a n enor mous, st urdy old
Black Magic box with a lustrous, deep red
r ibbon t ied a round t he lid. Inside were
hundreds of buttons of all shapes, sizes and
colours; a treasure trove to curious eyes.
I was enchanted by a tiny, white button
with a black Scottie dog on that had been
snipped from one of my baby cardigans – a
link to a past I couldn’t remember. That first
afternoon, I spent a happy couple of hours
playing with the buttons; making up stories
and patterns all across the table top. The
sparkly diamond round button was ‘The
Princess’; the large, jet-black toggle buttons
were her guards; this big, square, purple one
was the wicked wizard, and so on.
Thinking about the tactile pleasure of
running my hands through the rivers of
buttons makes me happy. There were teeny
tiny pearlescent ones, big, wooden duff le
coat ones, jewel-like red and gold ones and
intricate silver ones from some long-
forgotten uniform. The button box and I
shared many happy hours over the years and
some unhappy ones, too. One day, in a fit of
temper over some childhood injustice, I took
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my mother’s dressmaking scissors and cut
through the silky red ribbon – an action I
immediately regretted.
For a little girl who spent a lot of time in
her room, the buttons opened up a whole
world of make-believe. I had my favourites:
t he delicate pin k ones shaped like t iny
f lowers, a set of three ball-shaped clear
buttons with a heart etched on the front and,
most of all, the original Scottie dog.
Years went by and I forgot about the
but ton box. I lef t school, went to un iversit y,
married and had a family of my own.
In time, I also acquired my own button jar
- far more functional, and full of practical,
not pretty, buttons. Then last week I went to
pick my daughter up from a day at her
grandparents’ and there it was: the battered
Black Magic box, sitting on the coffee table,
smaller than I remembered but otherwise
the same, right down to the ruined ribbon (I
still felt guilty...). And how all the memories
ca me f looding back when my daughter ra n
up to me, a beautiful beam on her face, and
proudly showed me her favourite button: a
small, white one with a black Scottie dog on.
My mother’s button box
by Jacquie Waterfield
WHAT I TREASURE