ST. LOUIS -- In 1926, George Allen Kelley was a teenager fascinated by the pilots and their aircraft at Lambert Flying Field in St. Louis.

He would hang around the field, hoping to catch a conversation or see something exciting. The big man in town causing much of the excitement was Charles Lindbergh, of course. He was working on the aircraft he planned to fly solo across the Atlantic as part of a highly anticipated competition. Lindbergh was considered a longshot, but he had won the financial backing of some St. Louis businessmen.

Kelley, who used to chat with the young pilot, was loitering at the field one day and noticed Lindbergh had left a pair of Dunlap pliers. He picked them up, figuring he had a cool souvenir if Lindbergh succeeded in his ambitious plan.

The world knows how that contest turned out for Lindbergh. But the story of the pilfered pliers became family lore for the Kelleys. George ended up becoming a plastics engineer and married Anne, and they eventually settled in St. Louis. They had one daughter, Georgia Kelley, who was born in Chicago. On a family trip to the Field Museum she met Dr. Vahid Husain Khan, an immigrant from Pakistan. He was working as a medical intern at Cook County Hospital.

They got married in 1960 and moved to London, where he continued his medical training. They had five children and eventually moved to St. Louis. Their son, Irshad, sold subscriptions for the Post-Dispatch as a side hustle while he was in college in the 80s. Two decades later, he married a young reporter starting her career at that same paper. For the past 25 years of our marriage, I’ve heard about these mythical pliers, which were passed down to him from his grandfather.

So, when I heard that the PBS hit show, “Antiques Roadshow,” was coming to town, I was intrigued by the possibility of extracting the truth from this family lore. I joined nearly 20,000 other locals in signing up for a pair of tickets to come to the event in May when they would tape their St. Louis episodes. I was not among the 2,000 lucky fans selected by the lottery. The ticket holders, and their guests, could each bring two items to be evaluated by the expert appraisers from the show.

The show’s media contact asked if I wanted to come see how the “Roadshow” magic happened. She said I could bring an item, too. I slipped the pliers in my purse and headed to Grant’s Farm, where thousands of hopefuls carried their prized possessions. How appropriate, I thought, as I walked past a golden pheasant on the farm. We were each hoping for a golden egg.

The publicist introduced me to Sam Farrell, a senior producer for the show. He asked about my item, and I mentioned it was allegedly owned by Charles Lindbergh. His eyes opened wide.

“Charles Lindbergh is everywhere,” he said. He meant, in this town, which is understandable. But he had also witnessed another piece of Lindbergh memorabilia get appraised earlier that day. He suggested I talk to Darren Winston, who specializes in books and manuscripts to find out about a very special dollar bill.

A woman brought the silver certificate currency, which her father, an amateur pilot, had purchased at a local charity fundraiser. Lindbergh had carried the dollar on his Spirit of St. Louis flight across the Atlantic and signed it for Harry Knight, one of his main St. Louis backers. He dated it and listed all the cities the bill had flown to — from San Diego to Paris and back to St. Louis. I asked Winston how he could tell the item was authentic. He said he compared the signature to other known authentic signatures of Lindbergh, and it matched. There were other details that confirmed the story.

But the group of appraisers had never seen an item like this before. To come up with an estimated value, they conferred and researched other Lindbergh collectibles that have sold.

They decided the signed dollar is worth between $20,000 to $30,000.

The woman’s father had paid $225 for it in 1972.

Imagine hearing that story while carrying a piece of Lindbergh memorabilia in your purse!

At the triage station at the event, you get assigned to one 23 different categories of appraisals, where you wait in line to hear the verdict. I was told to take my pliers to Collectibles. At that station, I met appraiser Travis Landry. I told him the backstory and handed him the worn tool.

“It’s a great story,” he said. Landry noted that the Dunlap stamp and the way the pin was pressed suggested it was from the early 20th century — lining up to the timing in the Kelley story.

Then, he asked the key questions: Did we have a photograph of Lindbergh with these pliers or a note of him gifting them to Grandpa Kelley? Was there any proof of the provenance of the pliers?

There was none.

Landry took that information and did a quick search on his tablet. In that case, he would estimate the value of the pliers at $27.

If there was solid proof that they actually belonged to Lindbergh, they might be worth around $1,500, he said.

I wondered how I would break the news to my husband, who has been talking wistfully about retirement lately.

I decided to pull the bandage off quickly. He was unfazed by the assessment. He believes the story about the pliers. He held them in his hand and said, “I’m holding something that was held by a person who was the most famous person in the world for a moment.”

That’s true, I said.

To the Kelleys and now the Khans, that’s worth more than a few bucks.

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Three episodes of “Antiques Roadshow” featuring the St. Louis event will air next year, sometime between January and May.

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