Other Stuff at The Antiques Roadshow
People are often surprised when they hear you have to enter a lottery to get tickets for the Antiques Roadshow. The Public Television program, based on the original British version, premiered in 1997. Currently, the show entertains five million viewers weekly.
At the end of winter, when the producers announce the venues the roadshow will visit in the summer, true fans have been known to enter the lottery and, if their names are drawn, plan entire vacations around the schedule. You can look at it this way: There are those who willingly stand in long lines for Space Mountain at Disneyworld, but others, like me, are far happier to wait an hour for Noel Barret to congratulate them for taking such good care of a wind-up Mickey Mouse toy from 1930. And you have the original box, too?
Antiques Roadshow has taught us not to repaint or refinish Grandma's highboy chest and to move the paintings away from fireplace smoke and sun damage. The experts have schooled us in the world of reproductions and taught us how to remove a drawer and look for signs of age or fakery.
In the Jane Wheel mysteries I wrote, amateur sleuth and picker Jane pines for the television experts; she longs to dazzle them with a stoneware face jug or an art deco Bakelite bracelet. She and her friend, Tim, fantasize that if they had children together they could name them Patina and Veneer.
I lost count of how many times I entered the lottery for Antiques Roadshow tickets. Surely I'd get tickets in my own town, Chicago. No. Indiana? Ohio? No. No.
I hesitated to apply for cities beyond a driving distance of 3-4 hours. Flying to the West Coast wouldn't make sense, would it? Whatever beloved object I brought to the Keno brothers or David Rago would likely not be appraised at an amount that would match the travel expenses I'd accrue chasing down the Roadshow so, pragmatically, I stuck with drive-able venues.
Until last year.
Last winter, AR ( as we true fans call it ) announced it would make a stop at Old Sturbridge Village in Sturbridge, MA, as part of its 2023 tour. My daughter and her family live in New Hampshire. I texted my son-in-law Adar to ask the driving distance door-to-door.
"About an hour or so," he said. "Why?"
Adar is my partner in crime. When they lived nearby, he and I spent happy Saturdays standing in line at estate sales and rummage sales. He loved rugs and art, but could spot the winners in clothes, kitchenware--just about anything. I could spot good American art pottery across a crowded room. One of my proudest moments in rummage was looking under a table where an out-of-reach box held a jumble of flowerpots and crockery.
"Adar, can you crawl in and reach that vase--only the rim is showing--there in the back?"
Obliging and limber, Adar crouched under the table and carefully removed what I had pointed out.
Just glimpsing the rim, I knew it was something. Sure enough, it was a pink Rookwood pottery vase dated 1923. Not a chip or a fleabite. The young woman behind the counter could hardly hide her smirk when she shrugged and priced it at ten cents.
It wasn't my best find, but it was one of my most remarkable since I had spotted it buried in the junk. And Adar was my witness. When I retold my picker's tale of glory, when I referenced the incident in one of the mystery novels I wrote, I didn't need to embellish or emphasize that it had really happened. Adar could back me up.
Adar has skills as well. He can spot a rug across a crowded room and offer a low price in such a kind and respectful manner that the seller begins by shaking his head but by the end of the conversation, after Adar has assured him that he'll probably get full price because surely it's worth that and thanks him for even considering his offer, the seller is chasing him across the room because he wants Adar, someone who appreciates the rug to have it. At half-price.
All that to say, we make a good team.
"Adar, if I win the lottery for two tickets, will you go with me? I'll fly in the night before, we'll go, and I'll fly home the next day."
This deal presented no problem to daughter Nora. She despises the Roadshow. The first few notes of the theme song sends her running from the room. She would cross her fingers that I'd get tickets so I could visit, but Adar and I could go off to Sturbridge with our treasures guilt-free, with her blessing.
I'm sure you've figured out by now that, this time, I won the lottery. Two tickets with an entry time of 1PM. The tickets emphasized that you had to bring at least one object, but no more than two.
I chose small treasures to pack in my carryon. Verve, a French art magazine from the 1930s in mint condition, and a necklace of giant turquoise beads that had belonged to my mother-in-law. Would I meet Kevin Zavian in jewelry?
Adar knew the worth of his rug collection and didn't want to haul anything heavy, so asked his mother for recommendations. She brought him a collection of large silver spoons that had belonged to her grandmother and a hand-carved folk art whistle. Would Ken Farmer be at the folk art table?
The line for "triage," where experts stamp your passport-like brochure with the stations you should visit for your appraisals, snaked along the entrance to Old Sturbridge Village that was, of course, closed to the public. Despite the wait and the heat and getting poked in the eyes with the brims of the large sun hats most of us wore, we were a happy lot. People shared their treasures, their excitement. There were those who had been to several Roadshows.
"Oh yeah, I've traveled to four. I try for tickets every year," one person was telling one of the Roadshow volunteers walking the line. The volunteer admitted she hadn't gotten tickets and so volunteered, just so she could experience the show.
"Most of us volunteering are lottery losers," she said cheerfully. "But it's just so wonderful to be here."
I've never been at any event where the volunteers looked happier.
Triage sent us to Silver, Folk Art, Books and Jewelry. We scouted the lines and stuck together so we could hear each other's appraisals.
We didn't meet any of the big name Roadshow stars. Not a Keno in sight. But we spent a happy few minutes talking to knowledgeable, enthusiastic experts who admired our objects. Christopher Barber knew everything about Adar's spoons and identified the makers and years from the marks, dazzling us with the history. Value? Only about $10-$12 per spoon.
"Use them," he said. "They're beautiful. Don't keep them in a drawer.”
The folk art whistle wasn't valuable, but the appraiser thought it was "cool," as did we.
My Verve might be worth $500 at auction since it was Volume 4 and someone might want to complete a collection.
My turquoise necklace, for which I had my mother-in-law's original receipt, was a winner. The gumball-sized beads are statement-making, gorgeous and easily weigh four pounds.
"Your mother-in-law overpaid when she bought them, but you're in good shape," he
said. “Maybe $5000-$6000? Do you wear them?"
I shook my head. "Too heavy," I said.
"Start working out, build up your neck muscles, and wear them," he said. "They're stunning. Don't keep them in a drawer!"
The line for the Feedback Booth, where visitors are filmed holding up their objects and talking about their experiences, clips that may or may not be used when the show is aired, was the longest we'd seen since triage.
We skipped it and headed to the car. We felt no need to announce to the world it had been a wonderful day. We announced it to each other. It was one of those adventures that lived up to its anticipation. We had spent the day with warm, friendly people who generously shared their passions of history and collecting. We had worn our big hats and weren't sunburnt. We had worn comfortable walking shoes, so weren't exhausted. I put on my necklace in the car. All we wanted now was a cold drink and, maybe some ice cream.
We could eat it with silver spoons.
