Brown's Buttons

Bobbie Brown woke up under the warm covers in her ‘89 Wilderness Explorer camp-trailer. The rooster crowed and the sun was just coming up over the horizon. It was time to get up and start the chores.

She reached next to her bedside and grabbed the sweatpants from the top of the clothes pile waiting there. Slipping them on over her bare skin while she remained under the covers, she began to come to. After dressing as much as possible under the protection of her warm blankets, she got up and started toward the kitchenette.

On the counter sat the tin coffee maker, navy blue with raised black speckles all over, already full of drinkable water and coffee grounds, ready for just this moment. She lit the pilot light on the little black stove and started the water boiling while she headed outside to complete her morning ritual.

Outside, a little to the right of her “porch” was a water spigot with a red handle. On the ground next to it stood a clear, plastic tackle box that had never once held a jig. Bobbie reached down to open it, grabbing her toothbrush and toothpaste from their respective cubbies Then, she opened the tap and began brushing her teeth in the ice-cold water that sputtered out a few seconds later. When she finished, she reached in again for the charcoal soap she’d made herself.

Bobbie made a lot of things herself. Anything she possibly could... but especially clothes. Her mom had been an extremely talented seamstress, and although she frightened her only child with her aloofness and short temper, Bobbie had learned a lot from watching her mother sew.

But she didn’t stop there. By the time she reached early adulthood, she could make all kinds of things. She found out that if she turned the basics of a skill into actions that she could perform without thinking, play became possible. She could get creative with necklines, collars, cutouts, sleeves, knots, beads, accents, embroidery, and on and on. Even though she was a farm girl by definition, she loved pretty things.

Her trailer was cozy from corner to corner. She made macrame, kept plants, made paintings, sewed curtains and storage baskets, and always tried to make something before she bought it. This came both out of nature, and necessity. She looked out for herself, as she had always done. She was all she really had.

Which is why she was so grateful for Anne-Marie. She headed to Anne-Marie’s house now, just across the gravel lot. Having bundled up and pulled on her boots, Bobbie walked to the neighboring porch, where a small bucket of leftover food lay waiting for her. She had her own bucket of food scraps, which she now dumped into the other, combining them and leaving the empty.

The lights were on in the kitchen. Bobbie knew her friend was starting the coffee and packing a lunch for Lilly, her 9-year-old daughter. Bobbie knew this because sometimes, when it was unbearably cold, she slept on the couch inside.

The camp trailer wasn’t in the best condition, but Bobbie didn’t have a lot of money for repairs right now. Still, she remained optimistic, as she always tried to do; as she did now, with a bucket of slop in her hands. Traipsing over to the pig pen in the early morning splendor, she greeted the two grunting pigs who ran toward her, almost tripping over themselves in excitement. Their oinks were cute, and she crooned to them as she dumped the slop over the fence.

Next stop was the chicken pen. She let herself into the gate and ducked down into the small wooden coop to search for eggs. She gathered eight, all in varying colors, before spreading grain on the ground outside and greeting all seven hens - and one rooster - by name.

As Bobbie crouched down to watch the birds peck their breakfast, she grounded herself in that moment. She took the time to notice the hues in the hens’ feathers, the pebbles on the ground, the feel of the morning air in her lungs. She thought about how much her life had changed in the last 6 months. To be honest, if you’d told her that losing both her parents would have had such an effect on her, she wouldn’t have believed you. They’d both ignored her for most of her life, and she’d gone through her adulthood without visiting home but twice.

“Home” was only a 15 minute’s drive away. Until the accident, she hadn’t been in a year and a half. It continued to occupy her thoughts as she made her way back to the trailer.

A few minutes later, she was sitting at her small table, with her steaming mug in one hand and her little black notebook in front of her. As she sipped her coffee, she finished up a crochet pattern that she had started last week. After that, she peeked at the measurements for the overalls she had sketched yesterday.

They were inspired by a pair her mother used to wear. Instead of metal hardware, like most overalls, this pair had two buttonholes on the bust that the straps were meant to be threaded through, staying put once knots were tied in the end. Her mother had worn them on their family vacation to the Oregon Coast when she was 10. It was one of Bobbie’s only fond memories of spending time as a family, actually spending time with each other.

Throughout the trip her parents were, uncharacteristically, careless and free. It had shocked her; she rarely saw them like that. Young Bobbie was quiet, but she had smiled inwardly. And she had absolutely beamed later that night while she lay awake in bed. She trusted only her stuffed turtle, her own creation with button eyes, with her heart’s secrets. Maybe it’ll be like this more often, she whispered to him. I don’t want to get my hopes up... but could you imagine??

Only recently had the tragic reality of this memory, and others, and their effect on who she became, started to become known to her. There were memories that she repressed for years, resurfacing almost every day since they had passed.

Today wasn’t a bad day. She remembered that vacation and how she didn’t feel safe enough to express herself. She recognized that it repeated itself many times after; her retreating even when there wasn’t actual danger, and how it had affected her relationships. But she let that realization stay there, she wasn’t doing anything about it today.

Today was auction day, and she was already on the move.

Every Saturday from March till October, there was an auction in Boise, 90 miles to the west.

After an hour’s drive, she pulled into the parking lot across from the open building, which resembled something between a warehouse, a horse stable, and a barn. Her black riding boots hit the gravel with a crunch, crowned tastefully with gray tweed socks edged in cream-colored lace, leading up to mauve-colored Carhartt pants, cropped at the ankle, straight through the calves, fitted at the thighs and waist, and topped with a cashmere sweater in a shade of merlot that could make you feel right at home.

To top off the ensemble, she donned a simple pair of silver hoops, about as big around as the chewing tobacco circle worn into the back pocket of the man walking into the building opening just now. Feeling light with excitement, she ran across the street behind him, into the barn.

Inside, a wide aisle of packed dirt stretched out in a long, straight line until it disappeared through an identical door on the opposite side. In the center of this broad-way, sat the office window and a small concessions stand. Along both walls ran a platform a couple feet higher than the ground. Every 10 feet or so, a support beam ran from ceiling to floor, effectively sectioning the space into even lots, each large enough to fit a small car. A single lot contained any number of things, from furniture, to tools, to lumber, tchotchkes, coins, mannequins, fridges, signs, bedding, and more.

It was a mixed basket, a grab-bag; a Mary Poppins purse of curious prizes. Bobbie was in heaven.

She spent the morning admiring, almost buying, bidding and being outbid, moseying in and around the crowds, craning to see behind couch cushions and around lamps. A couple hours passed without Bobbie having bought anything. She was content with watching each unique item as it was extracted, described, sold and distributed. There was plenty of excitement in just being there. Until she saw it...

She had just returned from concessions and settled back into the crowd when the auctioneer held up a wooden box that grabbed her full attention. She suddenly felt a strong pull toward the box, like there was something special about it… but the auctioneer soon put it aside with the other items it was to be sold with: some yarn, fabric scraps, a clown doll, and stained lace curtains.

As bids opened, she played it casual. Waiting a little while before she lifted her bidder number, she coolly navigated the waters of auction etiquette, and won the whole thing for just $3.

She knew this was her steal of the day. It wasn’t going to get any better than this. Unaware of how true that was, but tickled indeed, she took her bidder number directly to the office, paid her $3 tab, and headed for the car.

A minute later, she sat in the driver’s seat with her prize in her lap, ready to be opened. The box had two small, rectangle pieces on top, which Bobbie pulled up and outward, revealing a large cubby space at the bottom and tiered cubby spaces in the leaves that now fanned out to either side. In the confines of the cherry-colored cabinette were buttons of all different colors and variety. She grinned from ear to ear as she took them all in.

Reaching into the box, she began to fan them out and push them to the sides, revealing more buttons underneath. Then, her fingers brushed paper. Immediately curious, she grabbed a handful of buttons and dumped them in her lap.

What she found below made her balk for a moment. It was a little black notebook, identical to the one in her own pocket. That’s when she noticed another curiosity: a small manila envelope taped to the bottom of the box.

Unable to curb her curiosity, she set the notebook aside, freed the envelope from its resting place and opened the top flap. Pinching the sides to hold it open, she tipped it over into her hand and watched in awe as six breathtaking buttons fell into her open palm. These were special.

She recognized the look and feel of bone lining the edges. Each charmingly imperfect circle was inlaid with what she guessed were rare gemstones.

A peek in the black notebook confirmed this.

The pages were filled with sketches, item numbers, descriptions and, much to Bobbie’s surprise, dollar values. Her jaw dropped lower and lower the longer she read. Dated in the 40’s and written in lilted cursive, she learned that a few of them were worth whole dollars back then, which was astonishing for the time period.

To her absolute amazement, the bone buttons were worth one thousand dollars…

In 1940.

A quick Google search told her that today’s equivalent was over $18,000! Together with the others, she figured she was looking at $20,000! As tears started to well in her eyes, she looked down and noticed one more tiny detail: a name scrawled on the inside cover of the black notebook.

Just a last name, but one that stopped her in her tracks. But how? There on the page, in the script that now seemed increasingly familiar, was the name Girard. Her mother’s maiden name...