Buttons

There is a plot of land in the country that contains the frame of a burnt out house. It burnt in 1938, when it was almost 200 years old; it was never repaired and was put up for sale. One day, a buyer arrived, observing the tidy value of the land dotted by the rotting house. Inspectors determined that the foundation of the house, despite its age and fire damage, could still be an appropriate base for a new home. The wreckage was bulldozed away, leaving the stone foundation and uncovering what used to be a cellar. Walking around the square that was to be his new home, the owner discovered three mounds in row. Curious, he began to dig, and cursedly, discovered graves. Due to the age of the home, a local archeologist assisted in the process of uncovering the bones. Ultimately, the age of the graves was best predicted by the tiny gold buttons that used to adorn the men’s uniforms. They were all Union soldiers, likely shot by the Confederate homeowner when they ventured onto his property.

One day, a man was stranded in a sea of endless traffic on I-66 in Virginia. The woman in the car ahead of him got a flat tire and pulled off the road. Absent anything else to do with his time than fret about the traffic, the man pulled over to help. While the woman stayed in the car with the window rolled up, he changed her tire. When he finished, he placed tools back in the trunk of the woman’s car. For some reason unbeknownst to the man, the woman got spooked and took off down the shoulder as fast as she could. The man was wearing a Levi’s jean jacket with brass buttons on the cuffs. They caught in the bumper of the woman’s car. He was dragged at least the distance of a football field before another motorist pulled his car in front of the woman’s to force her to stop. He carries the scars to this day, and never, under any circumstances, helps motorists in trouble.

One of my coworkers made a donation to the Democratic Party and in exchange, received a packet of Obama buttons. Let it be acknowledged that this individual is entirely undeserving of cool lapel flair. Much as this person gives out candy in a ploy to get people to like him, he gives out the buttons in a “favors for favors” fashion. I have received exactly zero buttons, partially because “brownnosing” is not in my vocabulary. However, I would really like a button. Not so much to wear it, but to keep it in mint condition for down the line, when it becomes a political relic. And not in the Dewey/ McGovern sense, in the Roosevelt/ Kennedy sense.

I like collecting people’s stories and locking them away in my mind like I was packing them away in an antique lacquered box. When I was a kid, I had a box like that…it was full of buttons.