Pearly Pearly Gates

Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief. When we were little we would count the buttons on our clothes and whichever number we reached .. well that was who we would grow up to be. It makes absolutely no sense to me now or then. Why would a poor man, beggar man or thief have more buttons than a rich man? And tailor? Only two buttons. Really? I thought it out in my brain and decided that the poorer members of society were most probably wearing hand me down clothing so the higher number of buttons could make sense. But the tailor? Again. Only two buttons. Surely tailors had jars and drawers full of buttons they could have sewn on their clothes? My Gran was a seamstress and she had a huge array of buttons. All colours of the rainbow and sizes and shapes to satisfy any discerning customer. The big buttons that fitted perfectly on that woollen coat. (Although why we felt we needed woollen coats in Zululand where Winter was usually just a few days out of the year and the temperatures never dropped below ten degrees centigrade.) The buttons shaped like ducks or flowers that suited that seersucker dress and of course the pearly ones that finished off an outfit perfectly. I now have my own personal bottle of buttons .. not that I use them often. But they are my memory button jar. And maybe I will need that big black knobbly one for something in the future. Gran would de-button all the clothes before giving them away. Sacrilege to get rid of perfectly good buttons.

My Granpa was a Cockney man and I can imagine him dressed as the Pearly Cockney King. Not that he ever wore pearly buttons on his suits. He was quite the refined gentleman. I don't think he would have been seen dead in a pearly suit ... or tie, or belt or hat. Just not his thing. The practice of sewing pearl buttons on trousers started with Henry Croft who would sew discarded mother-of-pearl buttons down the seams of his trousers to attract attention. He was a municipal road sweeper in London. Brought up in an orphanage after his musician father died, Henry decided to raise money for the local hospitals and would parade down the streets in his home made suits of pearly beauty. When he died he had sewn seven suits and multiple belts, hats and ties etc, many of which he sold to raise money. He received medals for his efforts at collecting for charities and even met the Queen. At his funeral over 400 people dressed in mother-of-pearl laden suits and dresses walked behind his hearse. He was married and had 12 children, 11 of whom survived him. Which was a feat in itself. The child who died was a son who was killed in World War 1. I quite like those pearly suits and dresses he made famous. Quite the collectors item. Maybe even good enough to get on Antiques Roadshow? Should I start collecting those mother-of-pearl buttons so that someone can adorn my coffin with them? No, maybe not. Henry picked up the buttons while doing his job as a street sweeper .... can't say that I come across mother-of-pearl buttons on my walks around town. Lots and lots of bottle caps .... is that the modern equivalent? I prefer the mother-of-pearl buttons to the rather smelly, discarded aluminium ring tags and caps ... yuk.

My Gran would tell us this nursery rhyme that went: 'Hark hark the dogs do bark. The beggars are coming to town. Some in rags, some in jags and some in velvet gowns.' As she recited this to us I would wonder about those long discarded velvet gowns. How many buttons did they have per dress? Did someone de-button them before handing them down to the beggars? Did they have to tie string through the button holes to keep the clothes on their bodies? Or were they jagged and worn? Makes you think about that orphanage boy, Henry Croft and how he changed his life and the lives of those people in his vicinity. He counted his blessings and shared that perception with others around him. Buttons! There is a female part to the tinker, tailor rhyme .... not that well known.... but still, it says: lady, baby, gypsy, queen, silk, satin, velvet, lace. And then the end of the story is: How shall I get to Church? Coach, carriage, wheelbarrow, cart? Where shall I live? Big-house, little-house, pig-sty, barn? At the moment I think I live in a pig-sty, but that is not because of anyone's else input .. its all me and my inability to keep the dust and dirt outside and the clean and shining inside. Too much sunshine and not enough rain lately so that dust has been gathering and invading my house by the bucket load and I cannot keep ahead of it all.

I was reading a magazine article about cars. Yes, not my usual fare. Anyhow it was not about the revs or the speed, no, it was all about how messy your car is. Does your car look like a hurricane has swept through and left the contents of a landfill scattered inside your vehicle? Apparently some people who have spotless cars will apologise to passengers about the mess ... while people with messy cars will often just let their guests clean off the seat and sit down without saying a word. Once upon a time I would offer rides to children from school in Empangeni. No, I am not a weirdo ... I already had four of my own children and a dog and I felt sorry for the little ones sweating in the Zululand heat up hills and down dales. So I would pull over and say 'Jump in if you want a ride.' Nine times out of ten they would be happy to join the mayhem of the Pike family wagon. One little boy got in the car and looked at me with big eyes and said 'Your car is a mess.' I pulled over to the side of the road and said 'If you don't like it you can always walk.' He decided to stay put and endure the bits and pieces. Really our car was not that bad. I have seen much worse. There was never any left over food between the seats ... or take-away packets and discarded milk shake cups ... no tissues or dirty clothes. Just school shoes that had been kicked off willy nilly by the current occupants. There were a few books. The scriptures to read while waiting for errant children and two or three library books to be read to children who were bored while we awaited their older siblings. Not really messy at all. Just well lived in. A bottle of water ... tepid to wash off dirty faces and hands ... a cloth to clean off windows. No, to my mind there was never any mess at all. Our current car has a similar array of 'things' ... plus an umbrella or two and some recycled shopping bags. No discarded school shoes because my children are well and truly over that stage in their lives but there are still a few books and my phone, some hair ties and a brush. I still don't think my car is messy but I find myself apologising for the detritus of life that adorns and decorates my means of transport. Silly me.

The dress I am wearing at the moment has no buttons at all .... what does that say about me? And my car? What does that say about me? My Gran would say that clothes maketh a man ... oh no, that's not right, manners maketh a man or a woman. Too many people these days judge others by what they own. My car is old, my house is messy and my phone is great, but definitely not top of the line stuff. We visited friends last week and spent hours telling silly jokes that had us in fits of laughter ... yes, they were Dad jokes. Like: Eve had the first computer in the world ... she had an Apple. And car racing was first mentioned in the Bible when Moses came forth in his Triumph..... okay there are no Triumph cars on the roads these days so you definitely need to be ancient to find that one funny. We were on our way to buy our kit-set coffins and stopped off for the night with said mates. Good friends never change. You can catch up with them ten years later and they are still the same .. and still laugh at your weak jokes. True friends. They fed us, gave us a bed to sleep and it was great. They don't care that my buttons on my clothes are non-existent and that my car is festooned with the stuff of life. We are truly blessed.