The gender-neutral old mannequin appeared to be wearing an inflated velvet Elvis painting. A pair of used men’s briefs apparently from Humpty Dumpty was stretched on display--this Fruit of the Loom had long since wilted. My wife and I had taken a few steps into this Palm Springs thrift store when we realized that “Two Old Maids’ Treasures” was a misnomer, unless you had lost all of your senses. It smelled like an ill-kept nursing home and the unexpected faded whites abbreviated our stay. The next "second-hand" store was the opposite—with window displays of $3,000 sequin dresses for $500, or for rent. Fur coats for a few bucks. Ostrich-skin shoes and briefcases for the price of an Applebee’s lunch. However, neither of us leans in such fine clothing and accessory directions. If Carhart’s produced a neck tie, and John Deere a pair of dress shoes, I’d probably be as happy as Hillary watching Barrack and Bush miscues. Our friends had encouraged us “to be sure to shop at the Palm Springs' second-hand stores—they’re amazing.” Well, used underwear might qualify as unique; a drab footnote on the realities of those trapped in poverty, but it’s not an amazing stop during a vacation. And buying a dress that could be sold to feed an entire village in Ensenada is another situation altogether. In my previous job we had to wear such things as we entertained Europe’s elite, and I realize there’s a place for such things. Nonetheless, my idea of great deals at thrift stores is finding some barely-used pinpoint cotton shirts for $5, a signed picture by John Quincy Adams for $20, or incunabula (early printed books from around 1500) for a few hundred dollars. One of the best towns for such buys is Romeo, Michigan. Besides the town’s quaint atmosphere accented by a picturesque ice cream parlor and French bakery, it’s lined with darling homes and yard sales that look as organized as the Truman Show. A robust but well-appointed cedar birdfeeder stands outside our kitchen window—a Romeo treasure. As I reflect on thrift stores, second-hand sales and the like, the reality is that some of us shop them for entertainment, and some out of necessity. What turned my stomach a bit in Palm Springs likely was a real treasure for some oversized disenfranchised man, and what seemed ridiculously opulent and still over-priced may have been just the thing for someone to remain employed or at ease in a work or in-law situation. We all have our journeys that help define “treasure.”

Any great “treasure” finds? Unique places to find them? Comments?

The razing of my boss’s new 25,000 square-feet, five-story mansion reminded me how temporary material things are. It stood for only a decade on a sand dune along Lake Michigan, just south of Grand Haven. For $57,000, a demolition crew leveled an impressive structure that looked like a seven-story glass crystal from passing boats. It had been an architectural masterpiece.

I recall my final interview in the lofty great room, being somewhat distracted by the 30-foot window’s view of the lake, and the appearance of a disguised theater in a nearby convertible wall. The host was gregarious, greeted me at the elevator near a Rembrandt, and offered me a cheap cup of coffee in a Walt Disney mug he pulled from the dishwasher.

At the end of the interview he asked if I had any questions, and I’m sure my question was rather trite—“I’m a bit curious, why did a religious man like yourself build your house upon the sand?” His answer was rather straightforward and flowed easily, “Because I could. I figured out a way to do it.” And, it appeared he had, until a crack appeared in a foundation pylon a year after his death. His pleasant and down-to-earth widow had already moved to one of their other estates and didn’t want to be liable for anything. Instead of selling it, turning it into a museum, or leasing it for vacations, she razed it.

A few years earlier they did the same thing with a long wooden walkway they built for the neighborhood to access the lake through their property—which stretched for a mile of beach front. During the dedication of that architectural beauty a neighbor slipped slightly and jokingly said, “Rats, if I’d have gotten hurt I could have sued.” After a quick consultation with a lawyer (who happened to hear the comment), a few hours later hundreds of yards of treated lumber were dismantled.

During my time running their foundation we also built an underground museum, another amazing building feat. We entertained some of the world’s most amazing scholars, editors, writers and financiers there—hidden beneath a tennis court. Our home was through the woods at the end of Beech Hill drive, the only cul-de-sac anywhere near his estate. Most nights we’d see various cars come near our drive and take pictures of the little bit of the mansion peeking through the trees, the helicopter pad. From Asian tourists to Floridians, people seemed to find his unmarked home. Our otherwise substantial 5,000 square-foot home looked rather plebeian in the shadow of such a structure. It was a bit strange the other day to drive down the sleepy lane. No tourists. No cameras. No mansion. The local homes took on a larger look, and the laws of nature had reclaimed its skyline.

It’s easy to cast judgment on others’ spending choices without knowing the full story, such as the real worries of lawsuits. But it’s not too difficult to learn that no matter how formidable some of our creations appear, they’re temporary. I’ve helped uncover a massive fourth-century monastery in Wadi Natrun Egypt, and part of Greece’s main athletic cities—both lost for centuries to the elements and to human conflict. The entire civilization of the Minoans and the Myceneans (of Homeric Troy lore) were completely lost—and rendered as Homer’s fiction—until Schliemann and Evans found massive treasures and cities on Crete, mainland Greece and at the Hellespont. Even the famed city of Alexandria was lost to the sea, and the expansive Egyptian capital of Armana to the desert. (This was once home to the famed Nefertiti.) All but one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World is gone. Only the much duller pyramids remain, no longer with their glimmering limestone cover, treasures and priests.

Nearly every civilization has had its great builders, brilliant business minds, philanthropists, and/or politicians. From the once glimmering four Persian capitals to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and even the great Solomonic Temple, their buildings have fallen from use and often boast few if any tangible reminders.

Somewhat of an irony is that although the underground museum closed, leaving remarkable woodwork and underground climate controlled vaults to mundane storage purposes, the artifacts once contained there will likely outlive many great buildings for centuries more. The patrons have since built the imposing Byzantine Church in Orlando, Florida (at the theme park called The Holy Land Experience). This allows millions more to see these astonishing artifacts and manuscripts than had they remained in their Michigan home. The irony is that what they’ve preserved for the world—pieces of papyrus and leather—have already outlived many great civilizations along with reinforced concrete, bronze staircases and great rooms.

What do you think? What buildings have you found amazing? Ill-conceived? Or, are there ones that once stood that you’d like to see again?

My personal guide while in China was named “Rocky.” Yes, after Balboa. He was muscular with a Jackie Chan jaw and sense of humor. Throughout our days in Guangzhou (Canton) he asked a bucket of questions about Sylvester Stallone. Of course, he wanted to know if I knew him. “Could you get me his autography?” “Is he as popular there as in China?” “What is your favorite picture of him (his was in his wallet)?” “Favorite movie?” Along with a senior colleague, we were there at the invitation of its governor. There were places we could go, “tourist money” we had to use, and a designated place to stay—the luxurious White Swan hotel. Our attendants were extremely tall Chinese women with high cheekbones (the “Anglican” look, like Connie Chung) and exceptional young men with great English skills. I wondered throughout our stay what the “real” China was like. I managed to walk a few blocks unattended to a lesser market street, adjacent to an actual residential area. An impoverished dull oppressive atmosphere seemed to hover--like the dark fog flowing from J. R. R. Tolkien’s Mordor (the “Black Land”). I purchased a meal at a bland café and communicated with a few weathered but graceful faces. Two days prior I was standing in line at the Hong Kong McDonalds when I spotted two young Americans that seemed to be veterans from China. They were dressed in drab-hued clothes and lacked any sense of Western fashion. Indeed, they were on break from teaching English in Chinese schools up the Pearl River (that runs through Guangzhou). I shared, “My colleague and I are headed to Guangzhou. If you had two days off in Guangzhou, what would you do?” Without missing a beat the fellow replied, “Go to Hong Kong.” I suppose within the week I understood their comment. The grandeur of China depicted in landscape paintings and Western books was not to be found in the throes of polluted survival among the six million residents of that port along the Pearl. While being pampered at the White Swan was an experience, it wasn’t the experience I had hoped for. Rather, it was eating the scrawny chicken butchered before the meal, looking into the weathered souls of noble country folks in town for market day. It was a particular conversation with Rocky about his dreams, and his views of America. I wasn’t after luxury, but the reality of a century of Communism. As we headed to the train the sea of laundry hanging from endless grey high rise apartments reminded me that I had indeed caught the glimpse of an errant political philosophy. I had published chapters on Chinese history, but seeing the face of oppression in the faces of fellow humans, and the front of Communism on the crumbling fronts of squalor, I could silently tip my hat anew to Jefferson, Madison, Franklin and the rest of America’s founders.

What lessons have you learned during your travels? Have you found places that did not match their billing? And, others that have exceeded your expectations? Have you come to appreciate America more through a foreign trip?

Not all colleges are created equal, but most have equally noble charges. And regardless of their facilities and faculty, there are students pursuing dreams. When you find those special places where the faculty and trustees have been true to mission, and where there's a healthy sense of self, you have indeed found a special place. Although I've had the privilege of speaking on some remarkable campuses, from pristine Colgate on the sleepy New York hillside and the University of San Diego's 90210 mountaintop view to grand campuses like Texas A & M and Ann Arbor's U of M, it's the campuses of my personal journey that grab my attention here. Having been raised by parents without high school diplomas, and facing the cycle of poverty, I've witnessed the miraculous benefits of education. The following is written with the campuses of my own degrees in mind, plus Azusa Pacific University where I learned the value of teaching. My journey started at Indiana Wesleyan University, one of the nation's current sensational stories in the academy. Also Wheaton College (IL) and Miami University (OH). I've been blessed to have taught at three of these schools and giving guest lectures at the fourth. As you read, think of a campus or school from your journey, and a teacher or professor that invested in your life. And, feel free to share this with them. Two of the above campuses have used this with their full faculty, and my prayer is that it serves many others well. No college has all the answers, but all colleges should help students to find them--and we can celebrate with thousands of professors in the process of doing so. You'll likely forget my name in time, but not the teacher that comes to mind as you read further, and the campus or classroom where those special moments occurred. The following is entitled:

SPECIAL FACES IN SPECIAL PLACES -- Reflections from the Local Classroom (This appears as "Ode to the College: From the Eyes of a Teacher" in Why I Teach, McGraw-Hill, 2008, pp. 41-42).

My chosen lot is the classroom, and I share this gift with you. The molding of minds and lives in this honorable arena is a vocation I cherish, a position for which I am thankful, and a task for which I humbly exhaust myself. During this the prime of my life I expend myself on your students. The unbridled boasting, the buildings, the endowments, the media attention, the political leverage—all energies that I cannot expend, but that I have observed so often with a warmed heart.Oh, I am a teacher, and for me there is no higher calling.

But if I were a beggar, I would plead for an ear. I would not seek gifts for I would be the giver. With feeble words and dusty pen I would convey some thoughts which crossed this busy but laconic mind. Countless lives have been enriched in your halls, and generations more will realize fulfillment. I have witnessed sincerity in your mission. There exists a passion in your cause. Oh, if I were a beggar I would shout until given audience, and I would proclaim unabashedly my observations of the school from the alley—from a less than common perspective.

If I were a celebrity, I would use my name to further your cause. Embracing your gifted leaders, I would pose before the masses. My benefits would facilitate the realization of dreams through you. My face would appear internationally with your name, and I would not grow weary in well doing on your behalf. Oh, if I were famous I would be indelibly linked with your purpose—and I would be honored.

If I were a politician, I would cast many votes on your behalf. You have served as a beacon of hope during these overcast times. You have maintained high standards while still facilitating the growth of many who are disadvantaged. You understand these perilous days with few open doors. While institutions struggle, you thrive. Instead of gasping for air you are inexhaustible. Your future as manifest in your graduates has never been brighter. Oh, If I were a politician I would walk many miles for causes like yours and could rest with the satisfaction of accomplishment.

If I were a wealthy man, I would build you a building—not just a common structure, but a palatial one with majestic arches and the finest craftsmanship. This hall would beam in its glory like a city on a hill, a trophy on the horizon, a lighthouse for many a journey. This benefactor’s priorities would be in stone. I have observed your wise trustees and likewise I would calculate well my gifts. Oh, if I were of means I would invest in your students and beyond.

If I were a great athlete or musician, I would train in the prolonged solstice of your stars. With your athletes and coaches I would run with my head high. And sitting amongst your ensembles there would appear a proud glow not soon eclipsed when the curtains fell. I would passionately seek the students’ level of confidence, and I would be a better competitor for doing so. As success may come my way, I would mention you. I would take you and to the world. Oh, If I had world class talent I would run the race and make you the prize. And with eyes fixed on heaven I would sing before millions while holding your hand.

In reality I have little means but give what I can. I lack the acumen for politics, but calculate what votes I have. My face is ordinary at best, but I do applaud celebrities that represent you. I have leaden feet and an untrained voice, but occasionally I manage to limp and hum alongside your patient students. I am fortunate to earn a living other than begging, but in a sense, I have here begged for an ear.Whoever makes his or her priority a first-rate cause has a sound resolve.

What teacher or campus comes to mind? Your thoughts?

There’s a bouffant angel at Beauty by Bellamy. I wouldn’t kid ya now—it’s hanging right next to strings of beads straight from Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In. And if you peek behind them you’ll find an exercise room from the Jetson’s—full of square padded “exercise beds” that allegedly shook the fat off many local women. Well, they did from 1982-92 for $2.50 an hour. I couldn’t help but notice their wear and tear—but the vinyl upholstery was still Armor-All clean. I imagined a room full of loud middle-aged women tuned in to a few Mauds, Phyllis Dillers and Oprah-types all cackling the day away as they sat in machines still marked “thigh,” “buttock,” “shoulder” and other assorted body parts.

The owner, Ann (Del Greco) Bellamy, might be 75, but she’s every bit of 35 inside. Her accent is thicker than frozen cheese and amazingly still native to Rhode Island—though her business is about to celebrate its 50th anniversary in Marion, Indiana (July 30, 4:00-6:30 pm). I hope to catch the celebration and kiss the bouffant angel in the window, and the classy owner center stage. She’s a hoot, refreshingly genuine. A silhouette of a stunning 1940’s teen beauty. A stern sense of self, as if John Madden got trapped in an undersized Italian Barbie. I asked if she was stubborn, “No, Jerree.e. Nah, I’m not stubborn—I just want things the way I want them and that’s that.” She told me the brown hippy beads had been there since opening, even though her associates repeatedly ask to remove them. “Many kids have played with them beads.” And, some of those kids are now great grand grandparents. And Ann can relate—as she invested the last 25 years following the love of her life, her three grandchildren that all have GQ physics and faces with magnetic but respectful personalities. Her shop, and the others that once stood in surrounding cities, allowed her “boys” a permanence that few today realize. She was always there, either at their many games or cutting hair. In some ways an Italian version of the lady on Staten Island, but in other ways she’s like George Carlin with a filter. Yes, she’s an amazing woman—with some customers who have been regulars for 40 years. Imagine the conversations, the free candid counseling, the laughs, and all while being primped. She’s a very tall 5’, and by her own admission is in great shape—“with good legs and body. . . I don’t even take an aspirin. When the good Lord calls me I’ll probably be standing at my beauty chair.”

If you stop by her elegant sprawling shop, take a left and crawl or vibrate over the exercise beds and stand before another of her life’s treats—a signed poster of her nephew kicking a football. Al Del Greco’s foot is blessed with the same competitive bloodline that fueled Ann through decades of business deals and family thrills.

Yeah, in many ways Ann is all business, matter of fact, no nonsense. But in others she’s feisty in a funny way. After watching Martha Stewart play a joke, Ann did the same—running through her shop with catsup on her arm.

She’s managed alone for the past 25 years, but remains good friends with her x, the “handsome sailor from Indiana” that won her heart in Rhode Island at age 23. “Dave can do anything . . . and that man has been very good to me. Life has been good to Dave and me both, but it’s hard work this business is.” She reminisced how they started the shop in her bathroom in the same house where she still lives--adjoined to the shop.

Dave and Ann had one daughter, “a perfect child . . . after all, it’s quality not quantity!” April (Preusz) has worked with her mom as a nail technician for 23 years (and Carol Clark for 40!). And April is the poster PTO mother with a will to make a difference. If she’s like her youthful mother, which hints say so, she’ll be dependable if not predictable for a few decades to come. Ann was pretty straightforward about –“yeah, some day it’ll all be April’s—she’s really good ya know.”

On Monday night I suppose Ann will still be playing her favorites, “860 WMRI—love them oldies.” And queen of 37th street for 50 years, we love you. In her small loud Italian way, Ann Bellamy has provided stability for three generations for folks in south Marion. No, it’s not Italy or Rhode Island, but it’s home—a place she’s invested her life’s energies and energized many lives.

Leaving her shop this week I paused to look at myself, wandering if my grandchildren will find dependable patterns and familiar family staircases—to know where to stop for a chat and to chat when they stop. Next year I celebrate my 50th, but as Catherine Marshal wrote about her husband, Peter, it’s not one’s duration in life that matters, but one’s donation.

Are there places in your neighborhood that were fixtures? And do you know any Ann’s? Also, perhaps I’ll see some of you Monday night on 37th street (July 30th). Be sure to kiss the bouffant angel.