Some of my stories - beginning with Story One - Collecting wishing rocks

Looking for Wishing Rocks

Me, Grandma Paull, Mum, Dad, and my two brothers, Jimmie and Charles, lived near the sea. Our small council house in Gwavas Estate overlooked Newlyn Harbour, 

Lariggan Beach, and the beautiful Mounts Bay.

Family walks, either to the country lanes or down the steep hill to the nearby seaside, in the spring, summer, and autumn, were the highlight of my childhood. Sometimes, after the Sunday meat and potato pasty dinner, washed down with a cup of hot, steaming tea, Mum would put a snack in her big bag and the family would put on its wellies and head for Lariggan Beach. 

If the tide was out, we’d first look to see what had been washed up on the beach, then stare into the rock pools, hoping to see a tiny red and blue crab scuttling under the dark brown weed.

Then, we’d collect some smooth pebbles.

We’d look for those shaped like a heart, or, even better, those with a vein of milky-white quartz running through them.

They were special.

Mum said they were special because they were wishing rocks. 

Finding a wishing rock made me feel good.  I’d pick it up, hold it in my hand, and slowly wrap my fingers around it. When the pebble felt warm, I closed my eyes and thought about someone very dear to me…………and then send that person a very special wish.

Then, slowly, with a smile, I uncurled my fingers, knowing that a special person, somewhere, suddenly felt a warm shiver down the spine, just as he or she got my loving thoughts. 

Of course, I always sent my very best wishes to my mum and to my dad.  J

We gave Mum the best wishing rocks we found and she put them in a tin in her big bag.

Later, when we were home tucking into bread and treacle sandwiches, Mum put the very, very best wishing rocks in a old, cracked green glass jar that stood on the mantle piece. The others were taken back to the beach the next time we went  for an afternoon walk.

I kept the first one I ever found in a small oxo tin. Each day I rubbed it, squeezed it and sent really big wishes.

As the years went by and I grew up, as opportunities and challenges came my way, I have wished and wished and wished – always clutching my favorite wishing rock from lariggan Beach.

Sometimes it really works…………….

     

           

         A wishing rock

‘Finding your own wishing rock makes you feel dead good.

You spot it, you pick it up and let it rest it comfortably in the palm of your hand.

Then, you slowly wrap your fingers around it and squeeze really tight.

When your fingers warm the pebble, close your eyes.

Squeeze your wishing rock as tight as you can - then send a wish to someone very special in your life.

Relax, open your fingers and let your wish go.

Someone, somewhere, then feels a warm shiver down the spine, just as that lucky person gets your wish.

When the wish had been sent, put your wishing rock into a wishing rock tin and keep it safe.

Forever.’

       

My magical amber

The second week of May, 1947, after a long winter illness, I started going to school.

Newlyn Infant School for Boys and Girls, a small Cornish granite building tucked away at the bottom of Trevarveneth Street, overlooked the beautiful but busy Newlyn Harbor.

Grandma Paull took me to school first thing in the morning, and, as she handed me my lunchtime snack, told me she’d be there for me at the end of the day.

The school’s headmistress was Miss Elaine Harvey. I was in her class, joining a room full of boys and girls, some of whom had started school in January.

“Ah,” she said, when she saw me coming through the door, “so you’re Jimmie Paull’s brother, Johnny, Johnny Paull. Welcome to school. Your ma tells me you been ill. Better now? Good. And, you can read a bit. That true, Johnny Paull? How many words can you read?” “Yes, Miss,” I replied, indeed I could. “Just a bit. Just a few words.”

 “Good, good.” she said. Grey haired and bespectacled, Miss Harvey had a sharp, high-pitched voice and I knew right away she was strict. She pointed to the back of the classroom, and told me to sit in the only desk still empty, the one next to Alan Tredinnick. As I sat down on the wooden chair, my feet hardly touched the floor. Miss Harvey turned to the class and introduced me. “This is Johnny Paull. His brother, Jimmie, was in this class a long time ago. I hope, you, Johnny Paull,” she said, staring straight at me, “behave better than he did.”

Everyone laughed. “OK. That’s enough, “ said Miss Harvey, “quiet down, everybody. That’s ENOUGH talking for one day.”

Miss Harvey began the day, for my benefit, I think, by going over the class rules. If anyone got into trouble for talking too much, fiddling with something under the desk, spitting out the mid-morning’s dose of cod liver oil, eating his OXO cubes in class, or leaving his desk without permission, then, she said, they were in for it.

As Miss Harvey talked, she kept looking at the thick blue wooden stick that lay conspicuously in the middle of her desk. She picked up a storybook and began to read aloud, reminding everyone to listen carefully. Then, suddenly, she barked loudly: “ Stephens. Billy Stephens! You’re not listening to me. Again! Come out here. NOW!” Billy walked slowly towards Miss Harvey. “C’mon,” she said, “Now, hold out your hand. Turn your hand upside down. I want to see the BACK of your hand. NOW!”

Miss Harvey picked up the blue stick, gripped it tightly, stared hard at the boy, and pretended to strike him hard on his knuckles. Then, she grabbed hold of the other hand. “If you talk again, that’s where and how I’ll hit you next time. Now, go and sit down.”

Ouch! Everyone in class winced as Billy Stephens grimaced, bit his lips, and wiped three big tears dripping down his cheeks. No one, especially Billy Stephens, misbehaved for the rest of the day as we focused on reading and basic number exercises. Well, not so Miss Harvey could see, anyway.

Just before playtime, everyone stood in line, taking turns to swallow a spoonful of sticky cod liver oil, quickly followed by a swig of orange juice.

At lunchtime, I opened the paper bag that Grandma had given me. Inside was an OXO tin, filled with four small meat cubes that I quickly sucked and swallowed before going out into the yard to play.

At half past three, Grandma Paull was waiting for me near the school gates, and I told her right away about Billy Stephens almost getting whacked on his knuckles. “Well,” she said, “Billy must have deserved it. You go to school to listen and to learn, so, let that be a warning to you.”

 “Yes, Grandma,” I replied, deciding then that I wouldn’t tell Mum and Dad about poor Billy Stephens nearly being whacked on the hand, just in case they said the same thing to me.

The next day was a repeat of the first day and was repeated the following days. I soon learned the routines and the expectations.

In almost total silence, Miss Harvey told us to be quiet, taught us how to read, how to write, and how to add and subtract. 

There was one day, though, that was different. On the day of my fifth birthday, Monday, July 14, a week before we broke up for the summer holiday, I was really surprised when my dad, not my grandma, met me at the end of the school day. Dad had never picked me up from school before.

He was in his driver’s uniform so I knew he’d come straight from work. My stomach turned over – was something wrong? Was Grandma ill?

Standing by the iron fence, Dad smiled when he saw some of the kids rush out of the school yard, up to the street corner, and turn and slide down back towards school, skidding on the cobble road, sending up a stream of yellow sparks from their hob-nailed boots. He took my hand and we walked together in the afternoon sun towards the harbor.

Dad said we were going hunting for pebbles on Lariggan Beach.

Just my dad and me. Pebbling. On Lariggan Beach. After school. On my birthday. Could it get any better than that? I felt so special, and knew in my bones that something magical was about to happen. It was, after all, my 5^th birthday treat.

And what a memorable lifetime treat it turned out to be.

We walked hand in hand on the cobbled street to The Fradgan, past Uncle Steve and Aunty Flo Green’s white cottage, past the tall icehouse towering over the small inner harbor, and crossed over to the open fish market. We reached the small stone bridge by the Fisherman’s Institute at the end of Newlyn pier, where the Coombe River runs into the sea. We leaned over and saw the swans and the seagulls dipping their heads into the refreshing, bubbling blend of fresh and salt water. Grabbing Dad’s hand again, we walked around the corner by the Austin and Morris Garage onto the seafront, then down the six smooth, worn, granite steps, onto the beach.

The sky was bright blue, and the sun a shimmering yellow. St. Michael’s Mount, way off in the distance, looked very majestic, its fairy-tale castle catching the late afternoon sun setting behind the Mousehole granite cliffs. The tide was out and the smooth, black and grey and white pebbles were wet and shiny. As the greeny-blue water lapped back and forth, herring gulls squawked and squabbled as they looked for food scraps. As we stepped over the pebbles, avoiding the slimy brown and yellow strips of seaweed. Dad reached in his pocket and brought out two of his OLD HOLBORN tobacco tins.

 “Here,” he said, giving me one, “take this and fill it. Just wishing rocks, mind you.” With a broad smile and a knowing twinkle in his eye, he said, “Bet I fill mine first.” [1]

The competition was on. We walked along the seashore, stepping over the brown sticky seaweed, and we looked and we touched and we talked and we collected. The beach pebbles were so endearing, small, round, smooth, and warmed by the afternoon sun.

Soon my tin was full of wishing rocks and heart-shaped pebbles that I wanted to take home to show Mum and my brother. I wanted to tell them I filled my tin before Dad filled his.

Just as we were leaving, I spotted something different. There, lying with all the other pebbles was a bright yellow object. It didn’t look like any of the other pebbles. It was so different, more like a small slice of pineapple.

Whatever was it? It stared up at me, wanting, I felt, badly to be picked up, wanting to be touched and admired. By me! And that’s what I did. I bent over, touched it, picked it up, and held it in the palm of my hand. It was lighter than a pebble. It was a magical moment. Wide-eyed, I showed my dad. Because I knew he knew everything, I asked: “What’s this, Dad?”  He looked down at it, smiled, and then, half-closing his eyes, frowned. Dad had no idea what I’d found. “Dunno. Never seen that before. Good, though, in’t it?”

I thought that was really funny, because I knew he had seen everything there was to see. I couldn’t believe that Dad had never ever seen anything like the yellow stone before – and he’d been to the beach over a thousand times in his life. But Dad did know it was different, and, therefore, very, very special. “Take it home, “ he said,  “and show your ma. She might know.”

I stared at my orangey-yellow, rock-like, magical find. It looked soft. Not wanting to scratch it, I wrapped it up in my white hanky and put it in the other pocket – it didn’t seem right to put such a special rock in the OLD HOLBORN tin with the other pebbles I’d found.

Dad took my hand and we made our way back up Chywoone Hill. As I walked up the very steep hill, I kept feeling the Old Holborn tin in one pocket, and checking the lumpy hanky in the other. I KNEW I’d found something very special. I KNEW it was lying on the beach waiting for me to come along and find it. It was something that I KNEW belonged just to me – and would, forever. I KNEW it was a special day. I was excited! My discovery made my head glow.

When we reached 17, Trevarveneth Crescent, I skipped up the back garden path, past the three gooseberry bushes (one for Jimmie, one for Charles, and one for me), pushed opened the glass door, and ran straight into the kitchen. Mum and Grandma were standing by the white enameled cooker, waiting for the kettle to boil. Charles was sleeping in Mum’s arms. Jimmie was tucking into a jam sandwich. Beside myself with excitement, I shouted, “Mum, Mum, Grandma, Jicky, I beat Dad. Filled my tin first. see what I found. It’s brilliant.”

I took out my OLD HOLBORN tin and showed them what I’d collected on the beach. ‘And look at this,” I said, as I unwrapped my hanky. I knew then by the look on Jimmie’s, Mum’s and Grandma’s faces that the yellow rock I had found was special. And I found it on my birthday, too.

“Where’d you find THAT? Dad, where’d he find that? Did you give it to him?” Jimmie asked. Dad shook hid head. “’E found it.”

“What a birthday surprise.” said Grandma. Mum looked at it again, sitting in the palm of my hand. “THAT beautiful yellow rock was waiting for yo, Johnny,” she said, “just for you. It’s a treasure. A real treasure. Put it in one of your OXO treasure tins, Johnny, and keep it there, forever. Forever. You hear me? Forever and a day.” I squeezed my treasure tightly in my hand and took it into the kitchen. I had never held such treasure before. I turned on the hot water tap and washed off the grainy sand with hand soap, dried my special rock with newspaper, stroked it, and looked at it again.

I put it on the dinner table, next to my birthday tea treats - the big blue and white plate of bread splits, a jar of jam, Cornish cream, treacle, and yellow saffron buns.  “What is that, Dad?” asked my brother, Jimmie, again, looking at Mum and Dad. Jimmie picked it up and stroked the yellow pebble. Mum and Dad shook their heads and said they didn’t know, but, as Mum explained, the yellow discovery was something very, very special. Beside himself with curiosity, Jimmie exclaimed,  “T’ain’t heavy. Ain’t a pebble, is it, Mum? I ain’t never found one like that.” “Don’t say ‘ain’t’, Jimmie, please.” Mum said. “Don’t worry. You’ll find one next time we go pebbling. Just have to keep looking.”

Dad’s story, when we settled down after my birthday tea, was about his Dad working in the tin mine in St. Just, digging in tunnels deep down under the blue sea. “Bet he never found a yellow rock like yours, Johnny,” he said. “Found good stuff, though.”

When I went upstairs to bed, I put the treasure into an OXO tin, slipped it under my pillow, curled my fingers around it, and, slept with a smile on my face. I fell asleep. What a birthday it had been.

As I dressed in the morning, I put the small OXO tin inside a in my left-hand trouser pocket, next to my favorite small seashell, to take to school to show my teacher, Miss Harvey.

Dad reminded me as I went out the door with Grandma. “Got your yellow rock for your teacher, Johnny? Don’t forget it. You know what your ma said. Got your dinner, them OXO cubes, too?”

I couldn’t wait to get to school to show Miss Harvey. Even before all the boys sat in their seats, I was standing by her tall desk, the OXO treasure tin in my hand, spluttering, “Miss Harvey, Miss Harvey, see what I found! I found it on the beach, after school, yesterday. You know, next to the harbor wall. I found it on Lariggan. Went there with my dad. You know, when the tide was out, when you can see what the tide brought in.”  

Every word came out in a rush.

As Miss Harvey looked inside my scratched OXO tin, her eyes widened! It wasn’t, apparently a rock at all. It was ancient fossilized tree resin, and, she said, it was called amber. Miss Harvey knew that amber was millions of years old and came from the inside of trees.

Resin? Fossilized? Amber? Ancient? What beautiful words, I thought. I rolled the words around in my head. Resin. Fossilized. Amber, amber.

Miss Harvey held my beautiful amber in her hand, smiled, looked down at me through her glasses that balanced on the end of her sharp nose, and said loudly, so everyone in class could hear, that it had come from a far-off country. It had probably been washed ashore after a long, long trip in the sea. “And Johnny Paull was lucky enough to find it.”

Miss Harvey held my golden amber in her hand, smiled, looked down at me through her wire glasses that balanced on the end of her sharp nose, and said loudly, so everyone in class could hear, “THIS is amber…..it’s fossil tree sap………it’s been washed ashore after a long, long trip in the sea. Johnny Paull found it.” Miss Harvey handed the amber back to me and then wrote the word A M B E R on the board. “Show it to everyone, pass it around.” Miss Harvey said. “Share it – that’s what scientists do. And, Johnny Paull, you’re a real scientist!”

What’s a scientist, I wondered? Is that something dead good? I turned a little red as I faced everyone in the room. As I held out my hand and showed the class, everyone stopped chattering. They were curious and wanted to see what I had found. I handed it to Johnny Hoskins. Almost immediately, Edgar James hissed, “Pass it ‘ere, boyo. Quick. Lemme see!”

“Quiet, everyone, quiet!” Miss Harvey said, turning to me, “Johnny Paull, why don’t you draw a picture of your amber? Here, here’s some white paper. Use this. Don’t just draw the amber, draw the other beach pebbles, too. Just as you remember. Can you see them in your head?”

Closing my eyes, I remembered just how the amber looked when I saw it lying on the beach with all the other pebbles. I couldn’t wait to grab some yellow, black and brown crayons from the big biscuit tin lying on her desk.

My head glowed. It was on fire. I was a scientist – whatever that meant! That was it. I was hooked. I’ve been a scientist - and a treasure tin collector - ever since, thanks to my mum and dad and my teacher.

I proudly turned to face everyone in the room. As I held out my hand and showed the class, everyone stopped chattering. They really wanted to see what I had found. Johnny Hoskins put up his hand and asked: “Where’d you find that, Johnny Paull?” I looked at him and told him: “Down at Lariggan, Johnny, you know, when the tide’s out,” I answered. “You’ve been, ain’t you? Stacks of pebbles everywhere, you know.”

“Course I have.” he said,  “Been every day. Ain’t never seen one of those yellow things, though. I’m going there. I’m goin’ to get one of them. Wos it close to the harbor wall, Johnny?”

He looked around. “After school. Les go. Anyone goin’ wiv me?” Four boys quickly put up their hands. “We’ll come!”

Miss Harvey, sternly, told the class to be quiet, “OK. Fun’s over. Back to work.” She turned to me and handed me some white paper. “Johnny Paull, why don’t you draw a picture of your amber? Use this. Don’t just draw the amber, draw the other beach pebbles, too. Just as you remember. Can you see them in your head?”

Closing my eyes, I tried to remember just how the amber looked when I saw it lying with all the other pebbles. Yes, there it was. I could see it in my head.

When I’d finished my drawing I showed it to Miss Harvey. I could tell she liked it. “Good drawing. Good color, Johnny Paull.”

Quickly, she glued the picture onto some black paper, then taped it to the wall close to my desk, and wrote my name and the date underneath. Wow! It felt so good to see my picture on display so that everyone in class could see it – a teaching lesson I was to remember time and time again much later when I worked as a teacher with young children.

As I was drawing another picture of one of my wishing rocks, Miss Harvey came next to me and, with a broad smile, said, very emphatically so that everyone could hear, ”Keep it, Johnny Paull. The amber. And that wishing rock! They’re wonderful. Keep them. Keep the amber. Keep it in your oxo tin and save it. Save it forever. And, you, Johnny Hoskins, go and find your own. Go and find your own amber on the beach, the next time you’re there.”

When playtime came, everyone wanted to see and touch the beautiful, yellow amber. Roger Symons said loudly, and with a note of frustration, he’d been down to Lariggan a million times. “Ain’t never found anything like that. Let me touch it, go on, let me touch it. Wish I found it.”

I told him, and Johnny Hoskins, in a secretive whisper, that I was going to save the amber forever, safely, in a treasure tin, just as Miss Harvey told me. “Wassat?” asked Johnny. “Wos a treshure tin?”

“Come over ‘ere,” I said, “I’ll show you.”

I took my OXO tin out of my pocket and told him my mum said if you

keep things in a tin, they’re safe, just the same way as pirates kept their treasure.

At first, he wasn’t impressed. “That ain’t no treshure tin – it’s an old OXO tin. Got plenty of them at my ‘ouse. But, I can make ‘em into treshure tins, right?” He giggled. “That’s funny. Makin’ treshure tins. And I can use my dad’s ciggy tins, and his baccy tins, right? Don’t matter which, right? Your dad gits you his baccy tins, right?”

That evening, that’s what he did when his parents were reading the newspaper, showing me the very next day his own treasure tin, filled with golden-yellow banded snail shells. “I’m gonna find some amber – these shells are just keepin’ my tin warm ‘til I do. Good, though, ain’t they? ’Olidays next week. Tide’s out in the afternoon, too. Stacks of time to find amber. Bet I’ll find a bagful.”

He didn’t. Johnny searched and searched Lariggan Beach but never found a piece of amber. Neither did I. He did, though, find some dead good wishing rocks.

In September, when school reopened after the summer holidays, I took my amber to school and, standing in front of the class, told Miss Harvey that I hadn’t lost it. Johnny Hoskins put up his hand and told Miss Harvey that he hadn’t found any amber. “And I’ve searched the beach a million times. Sure you found that amber thingy down there?” he asked.

He turned to the class.  “Johnny Paull’s dead lucky.”

For well over 60 years, from my very special 5^th birthday day, the smooth, yellow treasure, my amber, resides in the OXO tin.

It’s a big part of my life. Sometimes, the precious, magical amber’s in my right-hand trouser pocket, sometimes in the left.

I touch it a million times a day – just to make sure that it’s still there, just to make me feel good. I touch it and I remind myself of that magical birthday all those years ago.

The next thing I took to school, though, didn’t bring the same reaction from Miss Harvey.

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[1] I have that tin to this day. I’ve had it for 65 years. It’s in the cabinet in my study.