Button, Button, who's got the button?

Button, Button, who's got the button? Funny how such a small item can have so many memories attached to it. A button jar, generations old, tells so many takes. I love buttons and chose them for my 137 days. I dumped the buttons out on the table my father made two generations ago, and asked my grand darlings to chose 137. An hour later they each had piles and smiles but we were no closer to my task being complete. They were engrossed. 
My grandmother and mother were both seamstresses. My grandmother, Maude, ( seriously Maude Mugford a beautiful but severe woman of many talents but not gentleness or grace ) was a young widow ( as I became years later ) and supported herself by sewing. Wedding gowns to men's suits, she could make them all - perfectly.
My own mother spend each night of the first week of school every year making me a dress for the next day. One night she fell asleep hemming my skirt and woke with the needle almost to her closed eye. But my dress was done in time.
They tried to teach me but neither of them was patient with my clumsy attempts and after ripping out seams over and over I declared in my preteen voice that "since you are so good at it you do it " and gave up = much to their relief.
And still, I see the button jar and my heart swells with fond memories of dresses and skirts, doll clothes and coats. Gramma's, Mom's and mine. ( I was the only girl child in a house full of boys )
I bought a sewing machine last Christmas time in Italy for my military son and his family and spent time teaching my granddaughter how to sew. I was amazed at how much I actually know how to do. Not perfectly for certain, but "good enough" and good enough to make memories for the generation ahead. I'll take it - and pass the button jar on when the time comes.