The Button Box

1
The Button Box

• Poetry Lesson
• The Button Box belonged to my Grandmother who
  thought that throwing out buttons was a terrible
  waste. When an item of clothing was ready to be
  thrown out because it was worn out, stained,
  spoilt or unfashionable, she would carefully cut
  off the buttons and put them in her box. She used
  to sew and knit lots of her families clothes so
  often the buttons would be recycled and used for
  new garments. But the best thing about the button
  box was the memories they held. A memory in each
  button. All her grandchildren on rainy days used
  to play with the button box, younger ones sorting
  them into sizes, colours, material and older ones
  making them into elaborate jewellery.

2
Follow these instructions

• Pass the button box around and ask everyone to
  take one
• Describe in a few sentences the type of garment
  the button was originally found on - be very
  specific, (i.e. type of jacket? colour?
  grubby/clean texture -wool/silk etc.)
• Where can you visualise the garment last
  being-charity shop, cupboard, over the back of a
  chair, in a suitcase, etc.?
• Who would have worn the garment last? - quickly
  write down a full name and age and then the
  detailed characterisation can begin

3
Now who did this garment belong to?

• Who was this person? What did they do on a Friday
  Night, what is the secret they've never before
  revealed? What do they dream about? When do they
  get irritable? What books are on their bedside
  cabinet?
• Lets put your character in a context e.g. in a
  pub garden, on a bus, at a very grand horse race
  (like Ascot) or waiting in a queue for fish and
  chips etc.

4
Now follow this senses exercise

• What can . see as s/he looks through the
  window of the fish and chip shop?
• See
• Hear
• Smell
• Taste
• Touch

5
Heres mine to give you an idea. My button was
from a military dress jacket.

• The frail, tired elderly gentleman signs,
• After a dull Friday evening at the Working Mens
  Club, hes waiting patiently for his regular
  battered supper,
• Trusty oak walking stick in one hand, he lightly
  fingers the cold coins resting in his equally
  tired jacket pocket.
• Since old Jock Peterson, a loyal comrade, died
  last week they said,
• Hell be the only surviving veteran left in the
  village, enduring the winter of his life.
• He watches the gloomy rain as it splashes
  relentlessly on the aging pavement,
• Shinning wheels of passing cars, divide advancing
  puddles and trickling streams momentarily.
• The weary travellers alight from the bus and
  struggle with umbrellas,
• They are returning to busy homes full of
  familiar, welcoming faces.
• Not Albert, a chilly, empty house coldly awaits
  his return,
• Only a neat stack of library books requires his
  attention.
• He listens to the lively banter of adolescent
  boys,
• Nothing better to do then prop up the Fish and
  Chip shop counter.
• When he was their age, he and others from the
  village, were standing shoulder to shoulder
  facing in dire fear, the wretched horror that is
  war,
• He thinks these playful lads dont know how lucky
  they are and thank goodness for that,
• They leave in a sudden wave of loud and good
  natured bustle.
• All is quiet apart from the sizzle of the chips
  as they jump and twist like minnows, in the
  bubbling fat,
• The mouth- watering scent of freshly battered cod
  wafts seductively around the warm shop,
• Rosy faced, Martha Bailey smiles over the counter
  and asks him whats his pleasure, (as if she
  doesnt know)