1996
Digging up my
treasure tin
Forty-nine years after burying the OXO
treasure tins in the back garden of our home on Gwavas Estate, I was packing,
getting ready to move to my new work in the U.S. I was returning to Colorado,
to work, again, with David Hawkins.
When I was thinking about what to take
and what to leave home, my precious amber was uppermost in my mind. Looking at
it as it sat in its OXO tin, I remembered the other OXO tin I had buried years
ago. I telephoned my brother, Jimmie, and asked if he remembered digging the
deep hole close to the gooseberry bushes in our home in Newlyn. He did. “C’mon down before you leave. Let’s go and
see who lives there. Let’s see if we can dig up the tins.”
A couple of days later, we drove up the
very steep Paul Hill towards Gwavas Estate, swapping tales of what we could
remember about our childhood. Jimmie recalled going to Bejown Woods before
school and collecting the rabbits Dad might have caught in his snares. He told
me about the flatfish and bass that Dad caught in his spiller he baited and set
on Larrigan Beach.
We knocked, nervously, on the blue front
door. A minute or two passed, and, just as we were going to knock again, a very
old lady peeked out through the window and shouted: “Yes? What do you want? Can I help you?”
Very, very
politely, we explained who we were. “We
lived here. Ages ago. We lived here,
with Grandma Paull, Mum and Dad, and Charles.”
The old lady
opened the door wide. “You’re Charley Paull’s sons? And Hazel’s? Your
dad’s long gone, ain’t he? I’m sorry. He
was a nice man. On them buses a long, long time. My ‘usband worked there with
him, you know. He’s gone, too. Almost twenty years. Come in, come in. Sit down,
sit down, I’ll make us a cup of char.”
We sat in the front room and chatted as
she made us a pot of tea. “I moved in
here when you left to go to Penzance. That’s a long, long time ago. My kids
have grown and gone. Take milk, do ‘ee?”
As she poured us each a cup of strong
tea, we told her about the treasure tins
that we buried before we moved to Penzance. Smiling, she said, “Oh, go and dig! See what you can find. Never
done any gardening since George went. Just grass out there. Do you remember
where you dug the hole?” Near them bushes? Well, go and see. There’s a spade
near the backdoor. Take it.”
She took us to the back garden. We
looked at each other – where, oh, where, did we bury those tins? We dug, and
dug, and, dug. Three holes were dug and filled in, and then, we struck
treasure.
Well, treasure tins, to be exact! Three wet, sticky, rusty, very old, red
OXO tins. It was a magical, magical moment.
Before we pried
them open, I held my breath. I asked Jimmie if he could remember what he’d put
inside his tin. “Nope. Treasure, I
suppose.” he said, smiling. With growing excitement and anticipation, we
forced them open, eager to see what was inside.
I was surprised
- and touched - by what my OXO treasure
tin contained. I had forgotten about my mother’s farthing, Grandad Paull’s
marble, and part of his broken pipe. I’d forgotten about the seashell, the
garden snail-shell, and the very small yet beautiful wishing rock I found on the beach at Lariggan.
I took out each
piece, cradling it in the palm of my hand.
Poignant
memories of childhood flooded through my head. I could see my mum and dad
stepping over the beach pebbles. I could hear my mum tell us it was time for
some bread and treacle. I could hear and smell the salty sea. I could taste the
chicken. Tears ran down my face.
It was a very moving experience; as
moving, I’m sure, as when we buried the tins in 1949.
It’s now 2013. I have my OXO treasure tin in front of me, and my
precious amber and petrified wood in my pocket – with a wishing rock, of course.
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