So long, butterfly sewing box

How often do I actually sew something? Every couple of months. Maybe. I sew a button on. Mend a tear. Hem a pair of pants. 

So why was I so delighted when the Amazon package containing my new sewing box landed on my stoop? 

My new sewing box. It's cute and peppy - a black background printed with sewing notions: buttons, pincushions, spools of thread, thimbles, scissors. A lot cuter and peppier than the cream-colored wicker one with the butterfly design on the lid. The one my mother gave me - what? - 40 years ago. 

I have needed a new one for a few years now, ever since the closer thing-y on my old one broke. I suppose I could have figured out a fix, but in truth I was never all that wild about my old one, even though it's nicer - wicker vs. cloth covered cardboard - than my newbie. 

Maybe it was just a need to break up my covid hunkering down by ordering something online. (That is, something in addition to the new hamper - my old one was literally falling apart, shedding pieces whenever I lifted the lid. And the new tablecloth. And the cute sweater I didn't need. And the fake bittersweet to replace the dried up real stuff that you can't buy anywhere now that it's illegal as a superspreader, and now that I can't rely on my sister's supplying me with her side-of-the-road findings from Wellfleet, now that she no longer lives there.)

And maybe I just needed a change of pace - for those three or so times a year I actually find myself going to my sewing box.

Swapping out the old for the new took me a lot longer than I anticipated. 

All those buttons to sift through...

All those buttons...

All shapes, sizes, and colors. And a stroll down memory lane.

Those funky leather buttons from that periwinkle plaid sweater - the one with the pale cantelope-colored grosgrain trim. I know, I know, it sounds awful. But it was really pretty. And I loved that sweater. Which has been out of my life for decades now. 

That stamped metal button with the intricate pattern. I can almost, but not quite, picture the sweater that came from. (It'll come to me.)

I still have the black quilted jacket those buttons for the black quilted jacket go to. And the navy blue skirt I haven't worn in years. Maybe I'll need that skirt button at some point. That is, if I ever put on a skirt again. And if the skirt I put on is that navy blue one.

All that thread to go through.

White, black, navy, cream, khaki. Some of it "coat thread" strength. The basics. I'm good for life. But some of those spools of thread are colors I needed for something that color. A one-off item, no longer in my closet. But you never know. That hot pink thread might come in handy at some point.

What I can't imagine will come in handy are the dozens of tiny little safety pins I've accrued over the years. The ones that attach the little plastic baggie of spare buttons to the piece of clothing that might need a button replaced at some point. Other than attaching the little plastic baggies, what earthly good are they? No earthly good that I can think of. 

I also have a lifetime supply of needles. And a handful of needle threaders, essential at this age and eyesight.

I had two measuring tapes in my sewing box. Why? Why not! (These are cloth measuring tapes. I also have several of the metal ones, including one that's contractor caliber.)

I might use the measuring tapes at some point, but the packs of bias tape? Doubtful.

My old sewing box also contained dozens of the little sewing kits they give you in hotels. Most of them were of this variety:

Most of the were too dog-eared to donate to St. Francis House. I hate to waste, but out they went. And I do have a question: why do these little kits always include pink thread???

Some of the hotel sewing kits were fancier, stamped with the hotel name, and including more notions - a couple of buttons, maybe even a little scissors. Often one of those tiny little safety pins in brass. Apparently the branded kits are popular in Ireland, as I found kits from Ashford Castle and a few other hotels my husband and I stayed at. 

I found one very fancy - but unbranded - sewing kit, in a little plastic pouch. And the kit from the Forum Hotel in Budapest was something of an oddity. It held four colors of thread: brown, and white, red, and green. The colors of the Hungarian flag. I guess those would be useful if you were, say, at a folk festival and had to do a costume repair. 

My old butterfly sewing kit went out with the trash. I felt bad about that, feeling a bit sentimental. After all, it was from my mother. The woman who taught me how to thread a needle, sew on a button, mend a tear, hem a pair of pants. The woman who taught me that buttons were worth saving. (As kids, we loved to play with her "button box," a maroon flowered cookie tin that held hundreds of buttons. Before my mother recycled a too-worn item into rags, she cut the buttons off, using a razor blade. You never knew when those buttons would be needed. And even if you didn't end up using them to button something, you could use them to glue on to a painted tin you were going to use as a button box. Just one of the many items my mother crafted over the years to donate to school bazaars.)

I didn't put the buterfly sewing box in a trash bag. I just left it out, hoping that someone would pick it up and get some use out of it. But when I checked later in the day, it was unclaimed. The weather was cold and rainy. And maybe there was no one out and about who needed a sewing kit with a broken closer thingy.

So long, butterfly sewing box. (I kinda sorta miss you already.) Hello, cute young thing. I'm delighted to have you.