Condition! Condition! Condition!

We like to watch Antiques Roadshow on public television. Like most folks, we think that somewhere, hidden in a closet, the attic or garage, lurks an item so valuable it will support us in our old age. I suspect that the show's attraction is 40 percent Education, 60 percent Greed.

But I get riled occasionally. It goes something like this. Maybe the fat appraiser with the moustache will pick up an old toy, fondle it, turn it over, scrutinize it and then say: "If this toy were in better shape it would be worth something."

Never mind that the teddy bear's ear still harbors a trace of grandfather's DNA where long ago, as a small child, he gummed it in frustration.

Or maybe a wind-up mechanical racing car supplied weeks of diverting play during a long Michigan winter to a lonely, sick child who couldn't play outside - until it lost its wheel.

To add insult to injury there's the matter of the "original box." Most of the boxes I remember from childhood toys were sleazy, badly made - never intended to last longer than it took to carry the purchase from the shelf of the store to the check-out counter. Packaging was in its infancy. An efficient parent got rid of clutter.

But in the perverse antiques game, not only were you not supposed to play with a toy. You should never even have opened the box.

I remember a "rubber" baby doll, a gift from Santa when I was four or five years old. I named it for my new cousin Jerry. To me, it was always a boy, and nobody ever tried to point out proof to the contrary. My mother played along with the game. She knitted Jerry little blue sweaters, she made him overalls. It was the only doll I ever cared much about; I constantly dressed, undressed, bathed, swaddled Jerry in a blanket and took him to bed with me.

Many years later I came home from college to help my parents clean out the big house where we had lived for 18 years. In a jumbled toy box I came across Jerry. His rubber head had caved in, his little cheeks were cracked. He was hopeless. The only kind thing to do was to send him out with the rest of the trash. I gave him a kiss and tucked him into his body bag. Loved to death by a careless child, the doll was worthless. But in my memories, that remains the most valuable doll in the world.

Viewers of Antiques Roadshow come away with the feeling that if only they had never played with their toys, they'd be wealthier and smarter today.

Now that Christmas is approaching, you are probably thinking about toys for your grandchildren. Here's what you should do. Go down to the store, buy a Rapunzel Barbie (I hear it's the hot item this year). Take her home, put her under the tree. On Christmas morning, when your granddaughter shouts with glee at how wonderful the new toy is, just snatch it away and say, "I'm taking this toy away from you. If you are really good for 40 years, I'll give it back."

The kid will think you're the most marvelous grandmother on earth.

Not.

This copyrighted column is the intellectual property of Virginia Cornell.
For permission to reproduce it in part or in whole please contact: vcornell@manifestpub.com. Inquiries from newspapers and newsletters are welcomed.