The Buttonholer

I fumbled through Grandma's old sweaters, recounting all the time we spent in her cramped mildewy sewing room, her teaching me, and later, our working on projects together into the wee hours. A few short shifts materialized, clunky a-line sweaters, with huge round plastic buttons from the 1930's; it was a wonder they were still there. Sadness went through me like a wave, as I embraced them, which were like sagging flags heralding grandma’s life of hard work and suffering during the Depression, then World War II. Would she be displeased if I gave them away? I had no idea what to do, as they smelled like the basement, but were precious antiques just the same. So, into the laundry basin they went, with cold water and wool-lite, just as Grandma practiced and preached! I had to laugh at her dedication to hand-washing delicates well into the 1980's, so out of respect, honored her treasured process, maybe even a religious rite. The cold water splashed up renewing my energy. Suddenly, a small beige carving tumbled out from one of the loosely knit pockets, into the sink.

A small defiant fist emerged from the water, on the end of a cone shape, all fashioned from the same material, as I recalled the lesson in buttonholing. The end of the cone was to create the "eye" of buttonhole. The hand is clenched, so well defined and so tiny. The tiny treasure wound up in a sweater pocket instead of the sewing box, and I instantly knew why.

As a teen, I asked if it were made of ivory, as it resembled the keys on the piano, lightly striated vertically and a yellowed white, kind of like a tooth, but the color of bamboo shoots. My grandmother evaded the question, hesitating, but then trailed off, "I supposed so..." and then shooed me with her pointy finger, directed me to finishing the skirt I was excited to complete and wear to a special school function. It had a side slit that could be high or low depending how many buttons were fastened, a real show stopper with tan legs and a crop top, or nerdy scholars' garb, if paired with drab tights and a bulky sweater. It was so cool! I could leave the house "conservative," then convert it to a sexy look later! Genius!

The thick cotton fabric was testing me as it fought back against the conical carving. As one was pierced and completed it dawned on me I would be at this until 9 or even 10 o’clock on a school night. Still, excited, I kept going. "Grandma, who made this?" "Umm, ah, my Grandfather," she said sheepishly. The discomfort was palpable, so I continued to work in a sticky silence, but could not resist. "Did men in the olden days like making sewing tools for their wives?" She became angry, "How should I know?" she snapped, then withdrew a bit, turning sharply from me, “I’m going to make us a snack," and left abruptly, her steps up the old stairway initially vigorous, then deteriorating in frequency with labored breath sounds, at the top. I felt bad taxing her patience, but what could it be? I was asking simple questions, bored with the silent room, annoyed by her grouchy demeanor, trying to finish my sewing.

“Are you trying to flood the place?” My sister sounded hauntingly like grandma. “Remember the rule was to only fill it a few inches from the bottom!” She shut off the spigot of the sink with the sweaters now swimming in it. “You’re wasting water!” she mimicked one of grandma’s familiar rants. I am stunned, clutching the buttonholer, “Geez, I found this buttonholer and was thinking of the night she told me where it came from, and my reaction. It’s no wonder she hid it in her sweater. “El, it’s just a piece of plastic; let me throw it out!” “NO!” I snatched it back as if a precious stone. “If you believe what grandma said, you would want to get rid of it anyhow, it’s probably haunted!” “Let me think about this. It is disrespectful to toss it, maybe worse to keep it. I must think.” "If you’re going to get emotional over a crappy piece of plastic, we’ll never get this place cleared out.” I begged, “Please don’t tell Dad; he will be angry.” “Yes he will!” she snapped. “We don’t have time to hand-wash sweaters or agonize over a trinket. Please! If I see it again, I’m telling Dad! Get with it!” As she stormed out in her “I’m making a point” huff, I gazed at this small object of debate, which evoked wonder, as vast as any ocean.

“Snack’s ready!” grandma sang as she jingled the tiny bell she kept in her kitchen. I was grateful for the break after having stabbed all the holes in my skirt for over 10 buttons. It was going to be fabulous, but I was exhausted. A coke with blueberry pie! Yes! I gobbled it all down and we retired back to the basement, so I could resume the work on my masterpiece, and she could set her hair in pin curls and finger waves, as she had done since the 1920’s. The blue Dippity-Doo jar fumes wafted up, rejuvenating me, along with the sugary bolus of the snack. The tiny buttonholer sat in the middle of my skirt, begging more questions. I pinched it at its point, to show it, holding it up, asking finally, “Please tell me about your grandpa, and how he made this. It is so precious!”

Grandma hung her head muttering, “It is not ivory, it’s human bone. My grandfather fought in the civil war and was imprisoned by the Confederates in Andersonville prison, where they starved the soldiers to death. He picked up the bone off the floor and carved it for his wife. Most of the prisoners died, but he made it home.” Horror washed over me as I just ate a snack with the busy little hands that worked deftly with human remains to make a mere skirt. My eyes shot wide open and I wanted to vomit. I stammered but nothing came out.

Grandma went on, “In the old days we worked with what we had, and grandpa survived by occupying himself in the prison, to take his mind off him dying. He didn’t do anything wrong! He DIDN’T!!” She snatched the buttonholer from my upheld hand as I froze in shock! I protested, “Don’t we have to give it to a graveyard or a museum?” “It’s too late. The soldier is long gone. No harm is done! Let it be! My grandfather was a hero!” I ran out, clutching the skirt, left undone. Later, I decided to hand stitch the buttonholes by hand in my room, perhaps as penance for using the buttonholer, and did not return to the sewing room for months thereafter. No one spoke if it again.

I cannot judge the actions of those suffering in a prison camp during a terrible war, but with today’s technology, may have wanted to find whom the bone belonged to. Would this item honor the soldier’s family, or would they be mortified? We shall never know. My sister told my father, and he confiscated it, claiming the story was “hogwash,” and that it was a cattle bone. Yet, the prisoners at Andersonville were not fed anything other than bread provided by a kindly priest.