I treated myself to a trip to the discount fabric store I passed by in Snellville. I have to say I was disappointed. They did not identify fabric content on the bolts. Nevertheless, I was able to purchase some inexpensive muslin, and I ran across to-die-for prequilted remnants. I am not sure what I will do with them. I wish I could have my sofa re-covered in them, but perhaps a jacket or tote bag? Also, they had bins of nickel-each buttons. Geez, you guessed it, I have inherited my mother's craz-o button collecting gene. She tells me all of hers are "vintage." Well, perhaps it depends on the definition of vintage. I'm pretty sure anything up through the 70s is "vintage" now. I didn't know I was being obsessive (excessive?) until I couldn't walk away from the bin with just the few large pink buttons. The more I sorted buttons, the more I fell in love with them. Did you know that running your hands through a bunch of loose buttons sounds the same as running your hands through a collection of sea shells? I doubt the fact will help you win Jeopardy. Two hundred buttons later discipline kicked in. Thank goodness! I might still be there!
I remember Mom & Dad'ns farm. Before I could read, I had two options for indoor activities: trace the flower pattern on the carpet with my finger, or play with the button tin. Perhaps many generations of family members have been content to sort and organize buttons in their preschool years, and the gene grew stronger and stronger. I don't know what Darwinian purpose you can make of it, but there it is.