Button, Button . . .Who's got a Button?

I have a fascination with buttons. I think it's partly my Oma's fault. My first memories of my intimate introduction to these little treasures are of sitting on the floor in the living room at Oma's house while my mom had coffee. I was given a large glass jar, the kind that dill pickles used to come in. It was filled with buttons of all shapes and sizes. I think the idea was for me to thread the buttons onto string, thus improving concentration and dexterity in a toddler.

However, I had different ideas. Instead, I sorted the buttons. First, I sorted them by color. Then I sorted them by size. I divided them into shank and no-shank; I divided them into two holes versus four. Then I put them all back in the jar and started over.

Today I buy buttons for no reason other than they tickle something inside of me. Usually, crafters buy notions for an intended purpose. I have scores and scores of buttons that I have no idea what I will use them for. For now, they sit in a series of antique Ball blue glass jars on a shelf in my studio. For now, this is their sole purpose.

To just look interesting and hold all kinds of possibilities.

And that's okay by me.

lazy Sundays are meant for . . .

. . . breakfasts with the family.

Sunday mornings are rather slow paced at our place. They usually involve sleeping in until I hear the soft tinkling sound of a teaspoon stirring in a teacup. Regardless of how deep my sleep, believe me, my eyes pop open at that distinctive sound in the upstairs kitchen. This is usually accompanied by the smell of maple bacon. Upstairs, my dad is busy making buttermilk pancakes, fluffy scrambled eggs and the a-fore mentioned maple bacon. My nephew is already seated and waiting at the table. With my mom, the four of us enjoy our weekly “Papa’s Sunday Breakfast”.

After breakfast (in which my nephew has been known to tuck away 8 pancakes, 4 strips of bacon, 3 scrambles eggs and 2 cups of tea . . .he’s 11 and I think BOTH his legs are hollow), mom and I will make our journey to the living room to sit in the bay window and knit and crochet (she knits, I crochet) or take our mugs of tea and a stack of cookbooks out into the garden. We are accompanied by the sound of my nephew practicing his cello and song birds. “Papa” heads downstairs to his chair and to watch the Sunday game.

The busier the work week, the more I enjoy and appreciate my lazy Sunday mornings.