Grandmothers have button jars. They are mysterious, they are beautiful, they are magickal, but most of all, they are forbidden when one is a small child. Only when a button was needed and sewn on did the jar come out into the light, and one was allowed to touch the sparkling treasures for a while. To me, Granny's button jar is the ultimate childhood memory. As I grew older, and less likely to stuff a button into various body openings, I was reluctantly allowed access. On cold winter nights, when Granny sat with her knitting, I had the jar in my lap, running my hands through them caressingly, enjoying the silky feel of them, like solid pearls of smooth water; sometimes picking up this button or that, asking where it came from. Every memory of a lifetime was in that jar, and even the sweet musty smell of countless candlelit nights was captured inside. Of all the childhood memories, this is the one that stayed the most vivid. And the one I cried the most over when I found it hidden away in an old sewing basket, as the time came to say goodbye and Granny's belongings had to be cleared away. The button jar was never even noticed by the other relatives, nor would they have stood a chance in trying to claim it. I sat on the floor for hours, with the old dented metal jar cradled in my lab, touching, sobbing, healing, remembering.

The weeks before Granny passed on were magickal in itself. Out of the blue our beloved mailing list started to share gramma stories. And imagine, not many a gramma who did NOT have a button jar. Was it something that came with the times? In a way, re-living all these memories was a way of saying goodbye. Had I but known. When the time came to announce Granny had been called, many friends from that list grieved with me. Especially now, after so many 'do you remember when', or 'anybody ever do this with granny', and the happy memories we had shared, often times making each other cry with yet another half forgotten tidbit. But out of Granny's death and sharing those memories, the soothing idea of the button exchange was born. It is said that if one receives 99 buttons from friends, and hangs them up on a window, they make a powerful charm. The only rule in the exchange is that one must reciprocate when buttons are received. And then our wise list-mom decided we were to send three buttons, one to represent the Goddess, one to represent the God, and one to represent ourself.

Little did I know how many people would join, and how hard it is to come by buttons in these modern days. After an exausting day raiding each and every store in the vicinity of civilization, I realized, there are no buttons deserving of that name to be HAD in this part of Germany. The only few I could have developed a fondness of were so expensive, they could not even remotely be considered. Eight bucks a button? Excuse me? Where have I been the last two decades? Did I miss something here? Just when did the buttons become as expensive as the garment they were to serve?

When I returned home, admitting defeat, I looked at the button jar again, as it sat on the kitchen table. After seeing the beautiful buttons that I had already received through the exchange, layed out for review on one side of the table, and lovingly touching the old ones, I so craved for something shiny, sparkly, and new to send my beloved friends. Something that didn't look so....OLD. Would they even WANT these old things? Was there something in here to represent the Lord and the Lady as was requested? I spend the rest of the day sorting Grannies treasures. I thought, after all, they are precious to me, what does it matter that they are not so nice looking anymore. They are showing the wrinkles of life, much like Granny had her face wrinkled with laughter, for they have, each and every one of them, spent a lifetime of servitude in helping to keep us warm and happy. Will they look too shabby when they are strung up on a silky ribbon amongst their brothers and sisters from modern Wal-Marts and beautiful craft shops? Would they be the 'lil poor cousin from Germany?

The rows were getting longer, and when I was done choosing only the best, the biggest, of what was available, Granny's jar wais standing sadly to the side, bereft of it's lifelong hoarded children, only to hold the small, the wallflowers, the half forgotten, the not-quite-so-stunning. And then, after having rows of mother of pearl buttons, rows of father buttons, and rows of sorcy-substitude-buttons, and trying to think of my friends' faces so far away, trying to decide which one they might like, I am suddenly faced with a new, totally unexpected dilemma. Sending my buttons AWAY? As in, never ever seeing them again, away? Yegods, not THAT one. And definitely not the one that Granny had on her velvet winter coat. NOT the one I had on my very first jacket, the one she made for me, a red poncho with the hood lined in fur. Oh, never, these are the pearly ones on my doll's outfit, I remember how she sat one winter knitting the clothes. This one? No way, wasn't it on the blue Sunday dress she used to wear to church? Or, yes, I remember YOU, you were on Grampa's flannel shirt...ooooh, this was on his hunter's outfit, and that on his uniform. I have not seen THIS one in twenty-five years!!!! They don't even MAKE something like these anymore............

One by one, the painfully collected buttons were set aside, unable to be parted with, to not looked at again over the decades, to not keep the memories alive. When I was done, only one measly button was left on the 'to-be-sent' pile. With one laughing and one crying eye I lined the previously choosen, and then rescued buttons, up again. One mother pile, one father pile, one sorcy-to-be pile....and then I sat there and stared. And sat there. And stared. And dreamed. And remembered years and years of a happy childhood. Would Granny have minded? Surely not. Would she have been able to imagine that one day, half a century later, her buttons would be treasured enough to be send halfway across the world, to sisters and friends with a heart as big as hers, and well worthy of her treasures? Did she even know there WAS a world beyond the little place she made OUR world? A smile slowly starts on my face, as I can feel the veil thinning, and I see her smiling at me fondly, from beyond.

Almost as an afterthought, I added a fourth line of buttons. Tiny, old, faded little fabric covered ones, which she used on the down featherbeds, to keep the covers in place. I remember they popped off so easily, small babies as they were, but always were they searched for, swept up, and used again, and again. When a cover gave out, the buttons were saved and tucked away. Gosh, some of these must be 70 years old! On the overall picture of a big charm like that, they will hardly be seen between the others, but we will know they are there, adding a little loving, and keeping the balance. Much like Grandmothers :)

I know when I will finally wrap these tokens up and send them on their way to their new homes, a little part of my beloved Granny's memory will travel with them. And I hope that will make up for the scatches, the tints, the fuzziness around the edges, and give them a place regardless of their age. And part of my own heart comes travelling along with them. Fellow Witches, Druids, Pagans, whether you receive the shining bright mother of pearl button, or the one that looks like the face of a flower, the small and gleaming round ones, the smoky ones which look like the night sky, with Her peeking through the clouds, or the brown ones who, in their many shades look like the soft forrest floor (can you feel the pineneedles under your feet?), or the old scratched golden one, who, with a little fantasy looks like His brightness Himself on a humid southern summer day, or the larger swirly greyish storm clouds (you can almost smell the rain coming), the military symbol buttons from Grampa's coat when HE was a boy, the gold swirls from my dolls coat....

Every single one has a history. A life. A story. I will not be able to tell each of you where your buttons have been, what they have seen, but know that every one has been loved, and comes to you carrying that love. If you have agonized over finding, choosing, buying, digging out of forgotten drawers, the buttons you will send only a little bit like I have today, as I know you will, our 99 buttons will indeed make one powerful charm. And there is another thing I found out today. I LIKE the way the packets arrive at my house slowly. Tokens of friendship and love from around the world. Here to replace the emptiness in my heart, and to make Granny's button jar rattle with envy. As they come in, each is fondled, cooed over, smiled at, and a silent thanks send to it's previous owner (that's right before racing to the computer and sending one of these 'I got them, I GOT them' messages:), and then lined up on the kitchen table, to be smiled at 20 times a day. Only when they are complete, they will find their place on the silk ribbon and be hung up across the window, displaying each and every precious one of them. Along with a few out of the jar, just because (you didn't think I did not keep at LEAST one of each, did you?). This slow arriving gives me the pleasure of knowing every single button. Know where they came from, who chose them just for me, and who has touched them lovingly before me. A very even exchange, that.


I'm sending all my love, but, not ALL my buttons :)


© Sorceress SummerWind, July 1998, In Memory of Granny