So I will try to get the count back on track – it is heartwarming to see that people still proof when they read…and no, it was not a test. It was one of those subconscious thing again, I’m sure.
More of that cold autumn rain falling this morning and it remains dark, dark, dark outside. So I’m rooting around the house in search of guitars. I don’t know why I find it amazing that my life is made up of a combination of wonderments and epiphanies – a sort of edge of your seat thrill ride careening between “WOW!” and “Oh, really? That’s where that’s been all this time?” I’m not complaining. There is ample proof that I like it this way.
So this morning, into the button box. When I was a kid, the button box was a place of wonderment, all in itself. It was full of buttons that belonged to my grandmother – many of them carefully cut from coats the wool from which was used to make rag rugs and who knows what all – nothing was wasted. But by the time I was messing with them, it was pretty clear that those buttons from the 30’s and 40’s were not being used for anything other than amusing the granddaughter…come to think of it, compared to trying to amuse kids of that age now – there was power in those old buttons. I’m going to have to ponder this awhile.
The power of the button box made me buy a very special one for my own – although I would love to have my grandmother’s old cookie tin of buttons, it is long gone now. But I found, in the town where I was raised, (Poulsbo, Washington) a handmade Norwegian korge by Al Anderson that suits me down to the ground…a small shrine to the past – because in my world, the button box will always be a connection to things I loved. I just never put all of this together in my head before….