Somewhere in every house there's a place we store the buttons. Few of us sew our own clothes now, but even disposable fashion thinks we will store the little plastic bag of buttons attached to almost every top.
I imagine every house used to have a button tin. Things were in shorter supply. Clothes were home-made from necessity. Buttons, thread and needles were treasured and seldom thrown out. Button tins, in their messy jumble and rattle, stored hopes and histories.
I've inherited Isobel's button tin, and today, for the first time, I felt like opening it. Isobel made her own clothes and knew how to knit, sew and copy things she liked from Vogue. It felt very personal to open the tin, knowing that she had touched and treasured these remnants of a crafty person's life.
I don't know the plans that she had for, or the just-in-case-ness of, the buttons in the tin. I recognise Isobel in the buttons though. There are the recent keepsakes in little plastic bags. Often from Sainsbury's Tu, her most frequent clothing expedition in her later years. Earlier, Marks and Spencer, Debenhams or TK Maxx would have dominated.
There are lots of shiny gold or brass buttons. Isobel loved a bit of glitz. She knitted some amazing Chanel-type jackets, and these always had proud, shiny buttons on them. A fondness for anchors. Some small ones for blouses, quite delicate.
There are chunkier toggles for heavier-weight knits. I remember an Aran jacket she knitted - belt and all. It must have taken ages. Some buckles and the finest crochet hooks I think I've seen.
There are sewing machine needles, lots of them. She gave her machine away when she felt she could no longer lift it up to the table. She wanted it to be of use to someone else.
Dressmaker's chalk and a stitch ripper. The tools of a handywoman, handed down to me.
Isobel died last year and we would be celebrating her birthday this week.
Σχόλια