Buttons were my jewels of childhood. When I was sick, my grandmother would give me her button box to keep me occupied. I'd match the buttons, count them, and pick out the ones I thought were the prettiest. Even before I started writing, I'd tell myself very improbably stories about the buttons: the wooden ones once belonged to Robin Hood, the military brass buttons had come from General Grant's uniform jacket, the rhinestone buttons had fallen off from Grace Kelly's wedding gown, etc. Often I'd pretend to be a pirate with a chest of treasures and hide the button box somewhere in my room so I could draw a map to it.
When my grandmother passed away my mother asked us what we wanted of hers as a remembrance. My sisters both asked for her jewelry; I asked for her button box. Although it doesn't look like much, to this day it's one of my most prized possessions:
I'm writing this post on my grandmother's birthday. It's been forty-one years since she died, and I still miss her, but I'm also grateful. If not for her buttons I think I might never have discovered all the stories inside me, waiting to be told. Love you, Gran.
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When my dad died, I was asked if I wanted any of his belongings. I asked for his shoe shine box. For as long as I could remember, every night he would shine his shoes for the next day. Shining shoes was his first job when he was seven years old after his dad had died. It's just an ordinary box, but it still has his brushes and leather paste. When I see it, I'm reminded of his humble beginnings and his work ethic.