TV's Treasure Hunt

For the loyal viewers of PBS's Antiques Roadshow, spring cleaning will just have to wait. Really, what's a little clutter when that rickety sideboard or dusty cup-and-saucer set might be your ticket to paradise?

By now, tales from this televised traveling carnival of collectibles, where folks have their cherished trinkets and ancestral hand-me-downs professionally appraised, are legendary. There's Claire Wiegand-Beckmann, the retired New Jersey schoolteacher whose beloved wooden table, bought for $25 in 1965, turned out to be a John Seymour masterpiece that eventually fetched close to $500,000 at a Sotheby's auction. Or the Houston man who learned that although his oil painting of the Titanic, purchased in England decades ago, was worthless, the menu pasted on the back was an original from a last meal on the ship, worth close to $100,000. (It had been owned by the son of a surviving crew member. The doomed dined on grilled mutton chops.)

Now in its third season, which kicked off in late January, Roadshow (Mondays, 8 p.m. E.T.) has become the top-rated weekly program on public television, overtaking Barney and such staples as This Old House and Nova. A knock-off of a long-running British show, it's being propelled by a booming interest in collectibles and Americana, from Beanie Babies to 18th century furniture, and the growth of the Internet, where surfers flock to online auction sites such as eBay and Auction Universe. In a nation full of junk keepers, Roadshow is sending its 10 million viewers rummaging through their attics in the belief that "you could find a sleeper." So says appraiser Leigh Keno, who, along with twin brother Leslie, has become a celebrity from his appearances.

Even though it's built on the dullest of premises, Roadshow makes for strangely addictive television. Led by Chris Jussel, an affable former New York City gallery owner, it's an unabashedly folksy blend of game show and art-history lecture. Jussel thinks the show has helped democratize the cloistered antiques world while "giving people an opportunity to touch their past." Each week he journeys to a new city, where he gives a quick tour of historical sights and museums. (This summer, when the show's episodes are taped, he'll be hitting Tampa, Fla.; Baltimore, Md.; Des Moines, Iowa; and Providence, R.I., among others.)

While playing host to a revolving cast of appraisers, always happy for a little free publicity, Jussel sets up shop for one day in an arena large enough to handle the crush of 10,000 faithful, many of whom line up the night before, with overflowing shopping bags and boxes in tow. In Phoenix, Ariz., two years ago, the crowds were so big that the fire marshal shut the doors before noon. Once inside, everyone gets two items appraised for free, but only 15 to 20 visitors, those with the most interesting pieces and accompanying stories to tell, make it on the air.

For entertainment value, it's hard to beat the looks of amazement (or disappointment) on people's faces as they eagerly listen to the experts' verdicts. "It's the drama of it," says executive producer Aida Moreno. "Every few minutes there's a new cliffhanger." Consider Marcelyn Carroll, who appeared at the Roadshow in San Francisco last year. After lugging in an old wooden headpiece that had been in her son's house for a decade, she was "dumbfounded" to learn that it was actually an 18th century Alaskan Eskimo hunting helmet that could be worth $70,000.

Could be, of course, are the key words. Just as with any antiques appraisal, there's no guarantee of what an item will fetch on the open market. Dealers have been known to downplay value, in effect using their knowledge to separate you from a higher potential profit. Let the seller beware. Moreno says appraisers aren't allowed to solicit business on the floor, and are asked to give very conservative estimates.

Some of the show's more intriguing moments occur when the experts spot a clever fake, a growing hazard in collectibles. (Antiques are rare, goes the old saw, but they're making more every day.) Some customers, like Bruce Miller of Horseheads, N.Y., simply won't accept the judgment. "I didn't fall off a turnip truck yesterday," argues Miller, who attended a show in Rochester only to be told that his three Revolutionary War powder-horn rifles were phony. "I'm not putting a whole lot of faith in it."

Maybe it's a function of an aging population that's getting more sentimental--or just more greedy--but collection mania is helping bid up prices at packed yard sales and mammoth flea markets all across the country. In Portland, Ore., this past weekend, some 18,000 people turned out for a collectibles show at which 1960s shag carpet and Formica kitchen tables reigned as kitsch treasures. "You used to be able to pick up $20,000 items for $25 at garage sales," says Chris Palmer, who stages the mart and 10 others like it in the West. "But sellers are a lot smarter now."

On the other hand, at last summer's annual Highway 127 Yard Sale, which stretches 450 miles from Kentucky to parts of Alabama, a bargain hunter paid $3 for a plain old rock. "It is unreal," says Lois Richards, a resident of Jamestown, Tenn., who rents her front yard to a few of the 3,000 Highway 127 vendors each year. "People will buy anything." And as the Roadshow proves, there's no shortage of junk in the attic to sell them.