One woman's trashy treasure addiction

Addiction. The word conjures up any number of mental images, most likely one involving an emaciated form hunched tightly against time, awaiting the next fix of whatever substance the user has submitted himself to for what is no longer possible ...instant gratification. Yep, that's about right.

I've always considered myself an addictive personality. If I like something, I don't want just some, I want it all and I want it, for the most part, now. Lucky for me, considering where I live, I am rather good, trained, one might say, at keeping my wants few and simple. Though there have been a few times...taking sushi for example.

I used to always and I mean ALWAYS have sushi for my birthday. It didn't matter if it was with friends and family or by myself, if it was a boat or two pieces (ok, it was never just two pieces), but it was my own little law of my own little universe. Then I moved to St. Croix, where, at the time, sushi was only available two nights a week, neither of which, in those days, ever seemed to be my birthday. I would fly to other islands, just to eat sushi on my birthday...I've gotten over that but you're getting the idea here, I'd hope.

I, as ever, digress, because where I was going was to write about was chaney. Chaney, the shards of china found on beaches and plantations in the US Virgin Islands, among other places, is a combination of the words china and money. I've heard versions where it was actually used for currancy and versions where it was something children played with, pretending it was money. Older West Indians have told me both. I don't really care which is true (or what the true spelling is, cheney or chaney, take your pick, I used both). What I do care about is how many older local people have been open and delighted to speak with me when they see me prowling around for chaney in the water guts, by-ways and beaches around St. Croix.

In trying to remember what first got me interested in chaney I can only remember what keeps me interested. One aspect is the history: plates, cups, mugs, urns broken through carelessness or time and tossed away, to be washed down mountains through rills and gullies to the sea, or just being buried and resurfacing in heavy rains. Another is the variety and beauty. Many times, in a shard only half inch by half inch I have found amazing pictures that must have been painted with a one haired brush. I've found castles and horses and humans, bays and flowers and birds, trees and creatures and whimsical patterns of fancy. Some are glazed, some are not. Some have patterns on both sides. Blue is the most common color, black the most rare (at least for me). And then there is just the pure surprise of it. How often do we get the chance to deliberately set ourselves up for a joyous surprise and be fairly assured it will happen? Though as I've said often, I'm easily entertained. And quite gladly so, fortunately.

There is a very common pattern that has an edging of blue or green, a feathering on the rim of the piece. But while I probably have 20 or more examples of this, rarely are they the same. Some are ridged into the pattern, some are flat. Some have swirls, some are almost an inch long, some barely a suggestion of the pattern. I've found other sorts of patterns miles apart, that surely belonged to the same set of dinnerware. Were sisters from England given the same sets of china, living on different plantations?

One morning, when I lived on St. Croix, I met a man who was an expert in antique china. I had just gotten back from a chaney walk and carefully dumped my little bag of treasures. He identified at least a dozen patterns, some English, some Chinese and the approximate years they were made. It just made my addiction stronger (if not my memory).

I was constantly looking for chaney...walking to the store, picking up laundry, standing talking with friends in the street. What fed this is that I very often found it, right at my feet. I'd bend over and come back up with a small shard in my hand in triumph and wonder. If someone was with me, they always had one of two responses, whether spoken aloud or not. "Wow! That is very neat!" or "What the hell is she picking up broken stuff for...weird!" It didn't matter to me...as with most addicts, we may pretend to be interested in your opinion of our habits but it's only for the sake of form. We know who we are.

When I moved to Culebra I was pretty stunned to realize there was not any significant amount of chaney to be found here. Ok, there really isn't any to be found here, though I've heard some tell me it exists. I haven't seen it though, so I don't believe it. There ARE some good pottery shards I've seen in the museum here, but that's different...it doesn't matter how it's different, it is. Trust me.

What is an addict to do? I have a friend who used to call me every time it rained on St. Croix. He thought it was great fun to torment me with tales of chaney just boiling up in his yard, filling up yet more boxes of treasure (and he didn't lie, I've been in his yard and it does refresh itself after every rain...sickening!) Hearing me sob and whine became eventually tiresome, even to him, and he stopped after a few months...or years. I've blocked it out, frankly. He ended up getting married; karma - it's the law.

These days, I just hold chaney and the hunting in my mind like a favorite meal memory... something that can be repeated but only rarely and preciously. When I get back to St. Croix, I know my haunts and usually last about 10 minutes before I'm excusing myself to slide on down the street, eyes to the ground, smile on my lips. What will I find? Will I find someone else looking?

This time I ran into a friend (standing in what is somewhat charmingly called a watergut..and translates to a ditch) who hunts for everything above and below water that might be old. A friend is one thing to run into (I was very happy to bring one along with me from Culebra, who is now as addicted as I am)...but sometimes it's not a friend.

Over years of looking in strange places for cheney, I've run into a few fairly wild men, living in the bush, who let me know I should come no farther. I never dropped my cheney, but I might have lost a few drops of bodily fluids...looking up and seeing, in the dimness of towering bush, a very black form with wild hair, one hand flat up in the universal 'stop' position and and in the other, a large machete. I respectfully pivoted on one flip flop and hie'd meself home.

These days, the solitude and reward of the game is going the way of glass milk bottles. Increasingly popular for jewelry and other design uses, more and more people are looking, some are even being paid, which strikes me as a low form of pimping (for the payer; for the hunter - hey, a job's a job these days) but maybe I'm a little biased. Nah, I don't think so.

Chaney is as old buried as it is new found, so there is no ending here. I know there is more out there, just out of sight, and on another day I'll be back to St. Croix for more.