My Grandma’s second storey flat had a communal courtyard equipped with rotary style washing lines. It was a square, recessed plot contained by a short cement wall built barely higher than that of a curb. As with all childhood memories, (likely because of our smaller stature and limited life experiences), I recall being impressed that this seemingly large courtyard was part of my Gran’s property — how grand that she had access to such a space, designed solely as the place to hang her wet washing.
Hanging clothes out to dry, whether by preference or necessity, does however require good timing in relation to the weather, and this timing is especially challenging in the northeast of England to successfully coincide putting the “washer on” whilst having no rain in the forecast.
If I dip back into the recesses of my brain, my memory would suggest there was 4 permanent rotary washing lines standing upright in a sea of pebbles spread throughout the area of the courtyard. The purpose of the pebbles would have been to facilitate appropriate drainage to prevent a wet, muddy, slippery surface, given the English weather and the frequent use and access to the lines by the flat occupants.
If I was being minded by Gran and it was a day without rain, she’d take advantage of the opportunity to do a load of laundry. She would unload the wet clothes from the washer into a laundry basket, plop her peg bag on top of the pile, and carry the basket down the stairs and walk over to the courtyard.
I’d be following closely behind her, down the stairs and out to the courtyard carrying the biscuit tin. It wasn’t always the same biscuit tin — the tin container varied in pattern and colour dependent on the selection of assorted biscuits it contained. But the type of biscuit wasn’t important to me, as my biscuit tin didn’t contain biscuits, it was the vessel to carry my gemstones.
That I was impressed by my Gran’s communal courtyard washing line courtyard was less about its size but more about the pebbles. Those drainage pebbles would be described today as common beach pebbles that had been tumbled in the ocean waves becoming round and smooth over time. The pebbles ranged in colours and shades of those colours and some even contained veins of other minerals streaking through the surface.
For me those pebbles were archaeological discoveries, precious gemstones and undiscovered mineral resources. I recall my diligence, sifting through the pebbles while Gran hung her washing, and my discerning selection of bypassing those pebbles that weren’t as smooth or were bleak in colour in search for something more extraordinary. Then, upon finding that perfect pebble and having the validation from Gran of my exceptional gemologist skills, I’d add it to my collection, plopping it into the biscuit tin.
After my visits on laundry day, she never (as you likely would have expected) emptied the pebbles back out into the courtyard and instead my “curated gemstone cabinet”, or really what was the shelf in Gran’s cupboard where my biscuit tins were stored, began to accumulate.
My gemologist career ended prematurely when I was eight years old and my family moved from England to landlocked Ontario, Canada. Shortly thereafter, Gran moved from her flat with the courtyard to a retirement bungalow. I never asked about the fate of the biscuit tins, knowing even as a child that they would have needed to be discarded in her move.
After that, I didn’t really give them much more thought to my collection of gemstones in those biscuit tins, until thirty-two years later when I moved to Nova Scotia. Once again, in my life I was living in close proximity to the Atlantic Ocean and promptly my pursuit of perfect pebbles was rekindled.
We have beautiful beaches in this Province and I tend to spend the majority of my time at our beaches walking along the shore, only interrupting my steps to crouch down and inspect something the waves brought in. I always have pockets in my pants and extra ziplock bags in those pockets optimistic that after a good walk they are bulging and laden with treasures from the beach.
I’ve since exchanged biscuit tins for glass jars, because not only are biscuit tins hard to find in Canada, my waist line would remind me that you can only have empty biscuit tins after eating all the biscuits! I have also expanded on my pebble collection and have themed glass jars filled with: sea glass; shells paired with sand dollars; fossils and pottery; translucent smooth white pebbles; smooth black round pebbles; speckled pebbles; and the like.
Although the majority of my beachcombing takes place in Nova Scotia, I never miss a chance to have a long walk on a beach on my international travels and fill my pockets with whatever natural object the tide brought in. Because for this gemologist, the treasure was never about the value of object but the memory of how it was collected.
(This one is for Gran, RIP, 1920 - 2007, may your cupboard be always full of biscuit tins full of biscuits.
