I call it a hall tree. It’s an antique piece of furniture with hooks for coats, a lovely mirror, and two umbrella stands — each with a tin plate to catch the drips. My husband surprised me with it one Christmas morning more than 30 years ago, and I’ve loved it every day since.

Yesterday, I casually mentioned that I’m thinking about painting it. Let’s just say Harold, a quiet man who usually thinks my decorating ideas are inspired, was not thrilled.

He pointed out that it’s an English piece from the 1850s. It must be worth a fortune by now. Painting it, he warned, would destroy its value. He knows this because we watch “Antiques Roadshow.” It’s the patina, he said. The original steel hooks. The tin plates that were once painted black — paint that’s now mostly peeled away, revealing more than a century’s worth of rust.

I countered that we’ve outgrown it. Sure, the hooks are handy, but I can’t remember the last time anyone came into this house with a wet umbrella looking for a proper place to let it drip dry. And the thing is unreasonably small for the space it occupies now.

I’d like to repurpose it — maybe turn it into something whimsical and useful in another part of the house. I’m thinking plants. The tin trays would be perfect for that. I see possibilities.

This isn’t our first go-round with the myth that old stuff equals future wealth. Turns out, just because it’s old doesn’t mean it can be turned into cash.

You may recall (and only because I can’t seem to stop bringing it up), we moved from California — where we lived for 47 years — to a new life in Colorado. The prep for that move? A nightmare. I’m an accumulator. Sorting through nearly five decades of stuff was overwhelming. The idea was to sell everything we didn’t use or find incredibly beautiful. That was tough enough. But the reality that no one wanted our stuff — or the things we inherited from our parents — was even worse.

I was genuinely unprepared for that and, for a while, unwilling to accept it.

Take our service-for-eight set of 55-year-old, barely used English bone china. Every piece in pristine condition. Platinum banding. Completer pieces. Surely, it was worth something. Nope. I tried to give it away. No one wanted it — not even our kids. Replacements, Ltd., offered to take it off my hands, but the cost to ship it there was more than what they’d pay for it.

I couldn’t even bring myself to dump it at the back door of the Salvation Army. So I packed it up, paid to store it, then paid again to move it to our new home — where it now sits, taking up prime real estate in the buffet.

I’m still grappling with the truth: No one wants our stuff.

If we keep this hall tree as is just because it’s old and “valuable,” we’re not preserving history — we’re just passing the buck to our kids. And forgive the morbidity, but they’re not going to want this thing after our funerals any more than they want it now. Which is not at all.

Dining room sets, end tables, armoires — what they now call “brown furniture” — have become furniture non grata. Antiques are antiquated. Great-Aunt Helen’s mahogany sideboard is basically worthless.

Even on “Antiques Roadshow,” the appraisers have started correcting old valuations. Prices for certain period pieces have dropped so much, the reruns now flash updated, lower estimates onscreen.

And if you think your grown kids will gladly accept your parents’ treasures out of sentimentality, brace yourself. Most of what our parents owned was mass-produced. It’s out of style and doesn’t hold value. There’s no thriving market for it.

Honestly, I doubt I could get $50 for this hall tree on Craigslist.

So why not paint it? Why not reinvent it so it looks like it belongs in our home — not just something we’re babysitting for another generation?

That’s my argument.