Button Up
by
Nettie Stadnyk
Elastic was very scarce during the war years, and so for ladies' unmentionables, the manufacturers resorted to tiny buttons and even tinier buttonholes. It was very difficult to button and unbutton with any speed. A real hazard, when I "gotta go" in a hurry. Many times my impatient plumbing did not hold up and I would need a change of below-the-belt apparel.
At age 19, I was self-conscious about the button. I felt it protruded from my hip and was noticeable through my sheer silk dress. When I ran, it rubbed uncomfortably against my arm. "'Twas a boogere!" (bugger). The flimsy material of the underwear readily released the button in the wash or with wear and tear. It was a nuisance and quite normal for me to have to sew on a button three or four times during a panty's lifetime.
One wintry Sunday, I, as a model school teacher, was in a hurry to get to church on time. Of course, I never left home without going to "tinkle-tinkle." I rushed to the moon-windowed outhouse. With difficulty I unbuttoned, but buttoning up a 3/8" disc between an elastic garterbelt and a curled-up fleece-lined undershirt, plus crumpled-up flaps of a silk blouse while holding up a bunched fully-pleated tartan skirt was impossible. Just to find the button and hole one needed a detective. I tugged! I pulled! I pulled and tugged. I swore (hush my mouth!). After much frustrated struggling, I got so irked I tore the bloody button right off and it rolled into the one-holer. No time to fish. The undies slide to my ankles. Then, half-tethered, I hobbled back to the house, took off my skirt and replaced my panties. I was late for church. Unacceptable! Unforgivable!
At this time a barn dance was held every Saturday night a couple of miles out of Roblin. The world and its wife attended regularly. Everybody got to know everybody, and was assured of a good time. On one such night, a tall, dark, handsome stranger appeared. He certainly stood out in the crowd, like a rose among the weeds. He walked up to the stage where the local band played. He leaned slightly and, with a swaggering stance, drummed his fingers on the edge of the stage to the beat of the music as he viewed the stock. He attracted the attention of every single female in the room.
"Who is he?" "Who did he come with?" In a Uke's expression, "Wow! He's a kiss and cuddle type," and "I wouldn't mind his shoes under my bed," were the female comments that permeated the atmosphere. I took note and agreed with the compliments almost lasciviously. I even dared to think, "Hopefully there'll be a Ladies' Choice dance." Suddenly an announcement came over the speaker, "Get your partners for a square dance."
My seat was a few feet from the stranger and my eyes magnetically strayed to him. The caller began, "Bow to your partner, say 'Hello,' swing her around and round you go. Promenade...etc." To most male dancers, it was a challenge and ultimate fun to swing their ladies off the floor when the four couples' arms intertwined about each other, circling as one. I was well-schooled to keep one foot planted solidly in the centre of the circle. Thus, no way would my feet fly off the floor. However, I was distracted by the stranger and, in a weak moment, I was caught off guard. My feet flew from under me. Snap! I felt my undies' button break loose. My lace trimmed panties flew off, right across the handsome face of the stranger.
The square dance ended. Hastily I snuck through the crowded dancers. At the exit door, I could clearly hear the announcement over the loudspeakers, "Would the owner of these fancy...." I dived through the door and sought the haven of the car that had brought me. My body swarmed with prickles of embarrassment. My blood pressure zoomed to a 260/100 and purpled my face as recurring thoughts caused intermittent flushes. I sat there and stewed for two and a half hours in November temperatures of --17°C.
The dance ended. My alcohol-happy driver, her girlfriend and sister arrived. They began to discuss the highlights of the evening. They burst into convulsive laughter which escalated almost to hysterics. In a square dance, some girl's underwear flew across Chris's face. Apparently Chris from Yorkton was visiting his grandparents. And no, nobody owned up to the flying underthings. The comments and witty remarks and laughter lasted the whole eight miles home. Forcefully, even I joined in the fun.
The following two Saturday nights, I spent at a show. By the third Saturday, the embarrassment began to subside and I ventured out to the barn dance. In the course of the evening, without any warning, there was Chris right in front of me. "Can I have this dance?"
"I...I...I..."
Gently he took me by the hand and raised me from the bench. "I've looked for you for the past two Saturdays," and added, "I'm like the prince with the glass slipper."