Buttons

I have a turquoise linen dress with mother-of-pearl buttons all the way down the front, a short-sleeved single breasted dress somewhere between a coat dress and a sheath. I bought it at Cato on James Island when I was in graduate school at the College of Charleston and The Citadel. It looked fantastic on me with my blonde hair, blue eyes, and perpetual tan from living at the beach (Folly, East 10th) and driving a red Mustang convertible.

When I was teaching at Augusta Tech, it started losing buttons. First one or two from the bottom. No big deal, so what if I flashed a little leg when I walked; it was nearly ankle length. Then it lost one on the bodice that required a safety pin. Then it lost two in one go.

The dress moved farther and farther back in my closet. I kept it when we moved into the house on West Vineland. I brought it with me when we moved to Charlotte, and when we moved across town three years later. Finally, it came with me here, to my forever home with a loft across the street from a river. Last spring, I decided to replace the buttons.

The last time I sewed was when I failed to make a quilt out of my daughter’s old baby clothes. Before that was in 8th grade, when my friends and I took Home Economics, and the big project was making a pair of shorts. This was 1986, and we were allowed to wear shorts to school, so when we completed the project, we were supposed to wear our shorts to school. I couldn’t—the pair I made for my already-lush 14-year-old body fit my eight-year-old cousin instead of me.

I drove over the suicide bridge to the sewing store (Sew Much Fun!) and entered this strange domain of needles, patterns, thread, buttons, yarn, and fabric. I brought one of the buttons with me to make sure I got the correct diameter, but it took me a while.

The buttons were displayed like earrings on turnstiles, and I must have looked at six thousand of them before I found the right family group. In fact, I had verged on choosing a different style button altogether, nearly giving up hope that I would find what I was looking for.

I also purchased a spool of thread and a little plastic case of needles. Feeling incredibly feminine and accomplished, I climbed back in my SUV and drove home, listening to Van Halen.

The sun shone through the window over my garden tub as I perched on the bed with my purchases: needles, thread, and buttons. I had scissors and the dress there as well. I was finally going to replace these buttons and wear this fabulous linen dress that makes my eyes pop like nobody’s business.

I cut a length of thread, then did my mother’s trick of wrapping a bit of the end around my finger, rolling it off, and pulling to put an anchor knot at the end of the thread. All set. Now, all I had to do was thread the needle.

I licked the thread, then thought I lined it up with the eye. Nope. My big, clumsy paws were no more of an asset than my aging eyes. I tried again. And again. Again. I tried folding the string into a point to pass through the eye. Nope. May as well have been a dromedary.

Maybe some music would help. Allman Brothers. Barry starts ‘er off. Sometimes I feel. Ain’t that the damn truth. Like I been tied. Why won’t this thread go through the eye? Oh, sometimes. The thread should be smaller than the eye of the needle. To the whipping post. For the love of God, I will get this needle threaded . Yessirreebob. Sometimes I feel like I’m dying.

Giving up is another thing that isn’t my thing. I’d have been dead decades ago if it were. There was no way in hell this needle and thread were getting the best on me. I persevered, continued stabbing that thread at that tiny stainless steel loop over and over again. I snipped the thread for a more pristine point. Dammit, I was wearing that dress tomorrow.

Finally, I took another needle out of the snap shut case and used the point to force the thread through the eye of the other needle. Success! I got the thread through the needle, and I hoped it was long enough for all of the buttons. I wasn’t doing this for each one.

I replaced all of the missing buttons, ten total buttons on the dress, lucky seven replaced. I wore the dress to work the next day, delighted to accessorize it with earrings, a bracelet, and a scarf from the Mint Museum.

That column of turquoise linen hung in at least half a dozen closets, unwearable for the last three. The day after I heroically replaced the buttons, I wore it for the first time since I moved to North Carolina in 2015. Everyone thought it was a new dress, and I thanked people for compliments all day. When I buttoned up that dress and wore it out of the house, I carried myself better than I had in years, maybe even decades. I wore it again today.