Furniture Consignment Gallery Blog

I've been pounding holes in the pavement lately, trying to keep the inches off my waist. Hey, I'm Italian! I like to eat. I haven't lost a pound yet, but at least there was a little less gut to suck as I was squeezing through a maze of furniture in one woman's house this week.

"Jay, help me!" she said. "I feel like I am suffocating!"

 She'd just downsized into a tidy little cottage, bringing with her a dining room set that would have been worked well in Buckingham Palace. Seriously, it was stunning, but massive. No wonder she was claustrophobic.

Clearly, the furniture had to go. So off it went to our store in Chestnut Hill.

This spring, the housing market is booming, and our phones are ringing off the hook. After years of stagnation, homeowners are trading up, down and all around with glee. And the furniture that worked so well in that four-bedroom colonial suddenly looks out of place in the seaside villa.

For us at Furniture Consignment Gallery, this is great news. Our stores are brimming with a huge variety of furniture. Some of our consignors are seasoned movers; they've measured the new house and they know that some pieces have to go. We're also getting frantic calls from some who procrastinated about their move only to realize there's no way that comfy sectional will fit the new family room.

For those of us making the rounds in the truck, this means long days, a lot of heavy lifting and, sometimes, a bit part in the general drama of life. Michelle Obama was in Boston earlier this week for a fundraiser, which snarled traffic for more than an hour on Commonwealth Avenue. Eventually, cabbies and other drivers gave up honking and got out of their cars to socialize and watch us fill the truck with furniture.

A young bride-to-be was disassembling her bachelorette apartment, preparing for her wedding - and a move to a new home a thousand miles away. "Getting married!" she told the crowd as we loaded the truck, piece by piece. "Going to Chicago!" When we were done, the crowd cheered - for her, for us, for new beginnings.

Some days, I really love this job. 

"Dad!" Robbie, my four-year-old, was tugging hard on my coat. I bent over to listen. His blue eyes still have a lot of baby in them, and they locked onto mine. "Dad," he said, urgently and loudly over the noise of the jubilant crowd on Boston's Boylston Street. "I have to go to the bafroom."  

Not now, I groaned to myself. We had a prime viewing spot right at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. My brother, JT, was running. Any minute now, he would be crossing the blue-and-yellow line. His journey to the marathon had been a long and arduous one. I really wanted to be there to cheer for him.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm starving." Cade, my thirteen-year-old, always seems to be hungry now that he's a teenager. I glanced over at my wife, Diana. Maybe we had a few minutes to find a bathroom and grab some hot dogs for our three boys. Besides, my parents were stationed a block or so down the course, also on Boylston Street. They'd alert me with a text if they saw my brother nearing the finish. Diana smiled and nodded as if to say "What can you do?"

Ten minutes later, the boys were munching happily on hot dogs we'd gotten from a vendor on Exeter Street. We were hurrying back to the finish line when suddenly we heard a massive explosion. The street shook beneath our feet. We stopped for moment, confused. Then, a second explosion "It's a bomb!" I shouted to Diana, as we grabbed the boys and started running for cover.

My brother was only a mile away from completing the marathon when the cops diverted him - and thousands of other runners - into Kenmore Square, where they frantically tried to call or text loved ones they feared had been hurt or killed. My family was one of the fortunate ones. We were shaken, but safe. My parents were sitting directly across the street from the site of the second explosion. They were unharmed, but they witnessed the carnage, which has left them deeply distressed.

I can't stop replaying that afternoon in my head. I am sure the terrorists who planned the attack would have been disappointed that we stepped away. After all, we were the target - along with all the hundreds of other families and friends celebrating a race that brings out the very best of the human spirit: courage, endurance, hope.

Our near-miss mirrored the paths of so many others.  The terrorists want us to be believe we should be punished for our way of life and for our freedoms, but the angels hovering at the finish line who were there to guide and protect so many of us, defy all of that logic. There are those who were not as lucky and we pray for their recovery. Now our job is to get back to business.

Ways to help the Recovery

Donate to the official charity of The One Fund Boston, Inc. to help the people most affected by the tragic events that occurred in Boston on April 15, 2013.

or you can support the Red Cross with blood bank replenishment.

For More info about donating blood in your area please click here.

Can't donate for personal/medical reasons? Click here for alternative ways to help the Red Cross.

Early in the morning, picking up the paper in the driveway, I saw the water bottle perched on top of a fence post by the road. Condensation was beginning to freeze on the outside. I knew he was out there in the cold, racking up the miles, training for the Boston Marathon.

On Monday, my 37-year-old brother will fulfill one of his life's goals when he strides across the blue-and-yellow starting line in Hopkinton, MA, one of 27,000 runners. At 37, he has two other goals for the marathon. He wants to finish it- and enjoy it.

For almost a year, my fence post has served as a pit stop on his journey to Hopkinton, his water bottle a daily reminder of his determination. Not so long ago, when we three brothers would race, JT always came in last. He'd stagger in eventually, groaning in pain. He was out of shape and he consumed too much of the unhealthy stuff.

All that changed two years ago. He embraced health and fitness with a newfound discipline. I ran with him recently, but turned back home, tired and footsore, at mile three. He continued merrily down the road for another seven miles. After he completed two other marathons successfully - with times of 4:54 and 4:35 - JT's running club helped him secure a coveted slot in the world's most prestigious race.

We salute JT and all the runners who will pit their will and their endurance against the challenge of running 26.2 miles. Our family will join JT today at the Runner's Expo in Boston, where he'll pick up his bib number and race instructions. Tomorrow, we'll carbo-load a pasta dinner at Mom's. On Monday, we'll be cheering when he crosses the finish line.

The marathon brings tens of thousands of runners to Boston, and we're always delighted so many stop by our stores during the weekend. (Here's the tip-off: they're wearing the blue jackets with the yellow stripes, and they're as lean as greyhounds.)

So if you are running the marathon, why not keep on going? Our Chestnut Hill store is only 6.3 miles from the course. Hanover is another 33 miles - we'll have a water stop set up for you. And Plymouth is only another 24.3 miles. Please, folks, just don't ask me to pace you, but if JT hasn't expended all of his energy maybe he will lead the charge.

 "The contractor is going to be here in an hour," she said casually. "He's ripping out the kitchen island."

I stopped dead in my tracks. "Why?" I blurted, without thinking. "It's beautiful." She had a kitchen that would be the envy of any serious cook. Hers was an island just made for kids' afternoon snacks and homework or wine-and-pizza with friends. Distressed black with red undertones, it had a rich cherry wood top.

"Don't worry," she assured me. "We're going green. We're going to re-purpose the island as a work bench in the barn." She started detailing the master plan for the new kitchen to me, excited about the cabinetry and the new stainless-steel appliances that were on order. All I could think about were the paint brushes, wrenches and nails that would be strewn across that polished island top once it was dispatched to the barn.

Renovations are good for the economy, and hers was one of many signs that things are picking up after a four-year housing slump. In another home we visited this week, an expanded master suite had hardwood floors so vast and gleaming they would have made a great bowling alley for my three boys. This home owner realized they made the room too big and was ready to begin additional alterations to further complicate or correct the problem. 

As a furniture consignment guy, I get to see a lot of homes here in Boston and its suburbs. Rarely do the new - or newly done - mansions command my attention. In a way, some of them seem as cold and lifeless as mausoleums. What gets me is something that no contractor or architect in the world can give a home: warmth.

You can't draw warmth on a blueprint. Warmth comes from a home that tells the story of the lives lived within: the kids' art framed and hung in the family room like an Old Master, the embroidered pillow you made the winter of the big snowstorm, the tiny nicks on the legs of the breakfront, a reminder of the toy trucks that got rammed into them when your son was three. You can't buy warmth, but you can achieve it.

Visit one of our three showrooms this weekend. We have a lot of beautiful furniture, once loved, that came from my kind of homes. Let us help you build some warmth in your home so that you can live a good life in it.

"Memorial Day," the woman sighed. "That's the goal."

An experienced real estate agent, she is eager to list the house, a gracious colonial in a wealthy equestrian town. She knows some young family will love it. But the road to a sale has been rocky. The sellers? Her aging parents.

Dad recently suffered a stroke. His voice, once booming with authority, is weak. He was polite, but also seemed perplexed by the project they were undertaking. Mom understood the challenge, and she was overwhelmed. In a few short weeks, she has to shrink their lives to fit into a tiny condo.

All her life, Mom had been a collector of books, silver and figurines from their travels all over the world. She also inherited some valuable furniture from her parents and grandparents. Preserving these things was her way of keeping them a part of her life.

Their daughter understood the heartbreaking dilemma: how do you part with a lifetime of treasures when every one of them holds a precious memory? How - in eight weeks - do you sift through a household that sustained a marriage and a family for fifty years?

I toured the house. There were some well-maintained classic pieces that our customers will love. But the couple needed more help than that if they were to meet their deadline of Memorial Day. I made some recommendations to them which might prove useful to you.

First, hire a professional organizer. A skilled one will help you winnow through your possessions quickly, urging you to part with unneeded items while preserving pieces that have the most meaning.

Invite three reputable personal property auctioneers to estimate the value of your unique items or collectibles. They will help you determine what will sell at auction - and for how much. Choose one to handle that for you.

Then, check with me to consign your high-end furniture. At Furniture Consignment Gallery, your pieces will be priced appropriately and stylishly displayed in one of our three showrooms. Avoid the temptation of selling it yourself on Craigslist; it can be risky and time-consuming for downsizers.

Next, hold an estate sale to sell the dishes, the small appliances, the lawn mowers, and the trinkets. When the last buyer has meandered down the driveway with your old mop, call in Goodwill. Whatever doesn't go on its truck goes in the dumpster.

Sure, it's a lot to do, but things move swiftly once you've got a plan. Remember: Memorial Day is still eight weeks away. You can do it - and you've got help.

"I'll take him!" I told the breeder. I could barely see anything in the dark, grimy basement, but I'd seen enough to know this puppy was the one. Fourteen weeks old, he was a beautiful fawn Boxer, the last of the litter. I was 23, working hard at my first job, and living in Kentucky. I learned an important lesson that day. Never go look at a puppy unless you are ready to buy one.

He was the clumsiest, goofiest, dumbest and most loyal dog on the planet. I named him Boston, after my hometown, and he joined my other dog, Captain, a cocker spaniel. Together, those two dogs were wilder than any three-year-old on a sugar-high. I couldn't leave them alone. One time I returned from a long day at work to find Boston on top of my kitchen table doing the full body wag while captain was chewing on my brand new sneaker. They destroyed the carpet in my first home. They required lots of care, food and vet. I spent more money than I imagined.

Captain had been a mistake, too. I bought him while I was in college. I used to take him with me to campus, leaving him outside the classroom with strict instructions to "stay." When class was over, I'd be lucky to catch a fleeting glimpse of his tail as he made a beeline for the sorority houses. All afternoon, the girls would lavish him with treats and attention. Smart dog: he scored more than I did.

Looking back, I wasn't ready for one dog, never mind two. I made a lot of mistakes in my 20s.

All that came back to me yesterday while I was in our showroom in Plymouth. A customer was looking at furniture for her daughter. At 23, the daughter had launched a fast-track career. In fact, she'd already bought her first condo, the mother explained proudly, and she needed a bedroom set.

There was one problem. Her daughter had fallen in love with some slick, cheaply-made furniture she'd seen in a catalog. The mother walked through our showroom, shaking her head. "I've got to get her in here!" she said. "If only I could just show her what quality looks like, maybe she'd re-consider."

No, I thought. She won't. Smart as she is, the daughter has to make a few mistakes first. She'll buy the catalog set and watch it fall apart over the next few years. When she moves into her next home, she may try to sell it - and she'll realize it depreciated faster than a pink convertible. In fact, it will be close to worthless.

But the lesson won't be. And, just like her mom, we've learned to be patient.

     Sometimes, I gotta confess, you see the damndest things when you're picking up furniture in people's homes.

      "Oh, that," said the lady of the house, waving airily at a small baggie stuffed with crisp brown leaves sitting on her coffee table. "Just ignore it," she added. "My stepson should know better than to leave his weed out where anyone can find it."
I had no interest in the baggie, but the furniture looked good, so we took it. Carrying a desk down the stairs and out the door, Matt and I almost stepping on a different plastic bag, neatly bundled, that she'd left sitting on the front stoop. "Watch out," she barked. "Dog shit!"    
      Oh, the perils of furniture pick-up. Don't get me wrong, though. I'm happy to be back in the truck. For the last few months, I've been tied to my desk working out the details of staffing and filling our new store in Plymouth, which, happily, opened to great reviews on March 1.

    Finally, now, I can get back to hunting through rough waters and green pastures for great furniture.

     What was that quote by Jack Kerouac? "Nothing behind me and everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road." We former English majors think like this when we get a few miles from home and office.  

   Our next stop was to see a retired firefighter. Her name was "Murf." If your home was ablaze, you would want her manning the hose. Built like a fireplug, she was competent and compassionate - and she knew more about furniture than me. Her father, it turns out, was a salesman for woodworking equipment. She'd spent part of her childhood visiting the big furniture factories that once dotted the landscape. Murf was witness to a great era of American furnituremaking and she didn't even know it.

     After Murf, we visited a couple of storage units, an upscale house in a country-club development, and a couple of homes in the ragged stage of renovation. The result: an action-packed day for me and my trusty travel companion Matt who was subbing in for Nick who was home with his new baby boy. Coming home, the truck was stuffed with furniture and we were stuffed with tales of the riot of humanity out there.  

    He'd gotten it right, Kerouac. Keep on rolling, he said, and "lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies."

"Quit it!" I snapped irritably without taking my eyes off the computer screen. "Ouch!" 

My Boxer had been swatting my left hip relentlessly for an hour. I was engrossed with plans for our third store. She was clearly miffed. "What about TV?" she pouted. "You and me? Our favorite shows? Homeland? Hoops? The evening news? Just us on the couch while you rub my ears and scratch my neck. What did I do wrong? Come upstairs, PLEASE!" 

For the last eight weeks, I've been poring over cash-flow projections, organizing employee schedules, and managing inventory with one big goal in mind: opening our third store. Just about every evening, I ignored my dog.  My thigh endured swat after swat of paw and nails. Eventually, I got calluses.

Normalcy.  Even the family dog knows when something is amiss, and she didn't like it. Normalcy is what we all enjoy until we get the urge to make a big change - like getting married, having a baby, starting a new job, buying a home, going off to college, launching a career or opening a new store. Normalcy is what we crave once we've made that change and got where we are going.

We finally opened the new store. Yes, we did it! We had a great open house, inviting family and friends to see what's been on our minds - and our to-do lists - for the last couple of months. We hope you visit the new showroom in Plymouth, or either of our two other stores soon. All of them are open seven days a week now. That's a big change, too. We used to be closed on Mondays.

But now we need some normalcy.

With all three stores fully staffed and packed with beautiful furniture, I finally got to sit down and click on the television. I put up my feet on an ottoman that I got from a pretty cool furniture store and rubbed my dog's soft, beautiful, floppy ears. After all the excitement of the last few months, the dog and I are ready for some normalcy.

"I will close," Ron, the manager of our store in Hanover, said nonchalantly. "I don't really care about the ribbon-cutting ceremony." Then he reached under the counter and pulled out an oversized, foot-long pair of blue plastic scissors. "By the way," he said, handing them to me, "I found these and I thought they would be great in the photographs."

Who knows where he found the scissors but he had bought and hidden them as a surprise for the ribbon-cutting when we opened our new store in Plymouth. And as for his comment that he didn't care about attending? I wasn't buying that line of manure. Being at the opening meant everything to Ron. Right then, I knew we would wait for him before we cut the ribbon.

Last Thursday, we formally opened our third store. Ron arrived just as Christa, our photographer, was documenting the event. She waved him up to the crosswalk where the red ribbon was strung from post to post. There, he joined his twin brother, Brad. Click went her camera.

Ron smiled and clapped his beaming twin on the back. We'd recruited Brad from Florida to manage the new store. This was his moment, but it was a moment largely due to his brother. Ron has been with Furniture Consignment Gallery since 2006, and year after year he has steadily grown the store in Hanover. He gave us the confidence to make this bold move. As a result, we doubled our inventory, broadened our footprint in New England, and hired his brother Brad.

Since December, Ron has quietly done all he could to ensure his brother's success. He sent some of the fine furniture in his inventory to Plymouth. On his days off, he would quietly sneak into the new store to set up the checkout counter, un-box lamps and arrange furniture.

On Thursday, we took a lot of photos. After all, it isn't every day that we have a ribbon- cutting ceremony. We'd re-arranged the group about a dozen times when I heard a sudden "Snip!" Impatient with the endless camera clicking, Collin, my ten-year-old, cut the ribbon and announced to the crowd, "Plymouth is now open for business."  

I was flooded with relief. "Thank you, Collin," I thought. Thanks for ending the anticipation and launching this new phase of our business. The twins seemed even more grateful than me. I guess they suddenly realized they were going to have a lot of fun together in this world of furniture consignment.  

So drop by our store in Plymouth. You'll find sofas from $229.99, dining sets from $349.99 and sectionals from $1,199.99. We've also got accessories for your beach house and beautiful lighting for any house on any Main Street. All our stores are celebrating. We are offering 10% off on all merchandise through Sunday. Indeed, Plymouth is open for business.