Button

Such a simple thing, sewing a button back on the item it fell off of. Simple, if you can find the button again. I know I saved it, set it aside. The question is, where did I put it?

It’s not distinctive but it’s large. It secured the epaulet of my raincoat. A raised-rimmed edge, a nondescript, faux tortoiseshell grayish-brownish body, with four holes. I set it aside one day hoping to sew it on in good time. Then time passed.

I looked in the most likely spots: near my sewing machine, in the jewelry box, and even on the end table in the living room. It could be hiding anywhere. A niggling memory taunts me, a tactile sensation of my fingers tracing the rigid rim, looking for some identification. Though I had saved it and put it aside, I couldn’t remember where the button came from–but it was important to save it for when I would remember.

So I go out in my London Fog with epaulet flapping, visible in my periphery. A semaphore signalling that things get lost in my existence, things are not perfect and sometimes stay awry. It bothers me when I think about it. I want things orderly, in neat compartments. But alas, the lost/found button compartment isn’t where it should be, where it could be, once I sort through the clutter.

In the end sometimes existence teeters on the apex of clutter, misplaced items, and broken thread. If I could find the button again, would I make time to sew it on? Would I search for the strong, thick button thread or do a fast job with what’s on hand? Or, would I push it off another day because it’s not raining today and I’m not wearing that raincoat with its semaphore epaulet flagging its not-so-secret message that I’m so lame I can’t even sew on a button?

What’s the dialogue that I’ll play in my head? Lamebrain? Procrastinator? Dummy? Why is that thought even there? What is going on? The button fell off. End of story. Yeah, I’d like it to be otherwise, but it’s not the end of the world. A floppy epaulet isn’t making me any colder and it’s not allowing more rain on my body than otherwise. So it flaps and flops and reminds me that the button is hiding somewhere in my home. At least I had the presence of mind to retrieve it and put it aside… even though I can’t find it. This time. When I remembered to look. When I had the thick button thread at the ready.

It’s simply a neutral fact that a button fell off, I put it aside but didn’t replace it yet. A button is a button is a button. Fact, not value statement.

It’ll keep.

Ramadan Hours

Ramadan commenced on Thursday, June 18, and will end on Friday, July 17. No grand commercial barrage accompanies Ramadan in the USA quite unlike the December holidays. The only evidence I’ve seen of it was this modest sign posted inside the fabric shop’s window:

Due to Ramadan
Store Hour
Mon – Fri
9.30 AM to 6.30 PM
Sat 10 AM to 6 PM
Sun 11 AM to 5 PM

I was hot. The turbaned shopkeepers greeted me with smiles and went on conversing in an Asian language I didn’t recognize (why I think I’ve an ear for languages is another story). The store was not icily air conditioned, unfortunately for me, but the men didn’t seem bothered. Although it was one of the hottest days we’ve had, they showed no discomfort. I, on the other hand, patted my face with a drooping tissue. When Ramadan occurs in the hottest months of the year, the fast must be a sure sign of devotion!

As a sewist (the latest term for someone who sews), I let my fingers do the looking. Every bolt of fabric, every roll of upholstery begs to be smoothed, pinched, and petted. Some fabrics, sirens like velvet, call out louder. “Hello fingers,” velvet croons. Others desire to be admired under different light conditions. Brocades, silks from China, and dichroic fabrics that appear to change color depending upon the incident light beg to be wiggled. I like to hold my hand under sheer materials, observing  its outline.

“The Garment Worker” by Beyond My Ken – Own work. Licensed under GFDL via Wikipedia.

I thought the Garment District would have Jewish shopkeepers, reminiscent of the famous statue of a tailor, “The Garment Worker” by Judith Weller at 555 Seventh Avenue. Not so. The majority of stores I entered on 39th Street were populated by Asian men, many wearing turbans. When did this happen?

I picked up a bolt of 45-inch wide stretch fabric with rainbow metallic threads. Yum. They hovered while I scanned my smartphone, trying to mentally calculate the yardage I’d need for an outfit while trying to Google a half-remembered pattern I sewed 22 years ago. I switched to a 60-inch wide roll of Indian embroidered cotton eyelet.  “Three-and-a-half yards,” I confidently said while not feeling so confident. At least the wider yardage will give me some leeway.

The shopkeeper calmly measured out the fabric while I dreamt of the creations I could make. I haggled for “$5 worth” of a coordinating rayon. I haven’t measured what he assured me was a greater length than I would have gotten for the quoted price per yard.

My purchases in hand, I headed to The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf for an icy coffee confection. Decaf, but with whipped cream. I followed no Ramadan restrictions and golly, I was hot.