Furniture Consignment Gallery Blog

As I trundled into the gym last Monday, I heard a familiar voice call out, "You're welcome, Jay!" The place is always mobbed in January and February, as everyone does penance for the holidays. So I couldn't actually see who was hollering at me, but I knew the voice. "Thanks, Jim!" I hollered back. That's been our weekly ritual for years.

Every Monday, I go to the gym. That's largely because of some wise advice from Jim, a retired retail executive who has been a kindly counselor to me for years. Jim knows well the demands of managing a fast-growing business. He insisted from the start that I take a day off every week. So our stores have always been closed on Mondays.

Jim was right. I needed a day off. For the last seven years, I've been a jack-of-all-trades. I answered the phone and drove the truck. I picked up furniture. Back at the store, I sold furniture - then jumped in the truck and delivered it. When things were quiet in the showroom, I paid the bills, managed the books and swept the snow off the front steps.

But things change. Furniture Consignment Gallery has grown. Soon, we'll have three stores with many more customers and big challenges. But we also have a strong infrastructure now. We've developed dedicated and experienced staffers like Ron, Jeff, Sam, Christa, Matt, Nick, Judy, Theresa, Denise and Brad who share our vision. They do their jobs well and I trust them to take care of our customers.

So starting this Monday, Presidents' Day, February 18th, Furniture Consignment Gallery will be open seven days a week. That means we won't see any more disappointed shoppers circling the empty parking lot in Hanover after tugging on our locked doors on Mondays. They'll find our doors open and our showroom filled with quality furniture, art and accessories. So will the folks in Chestnut Hill. And our newest store in Plymouth also will be open seven days a week starting March 1.

As for me, I'm still planning on going to the gym on Mondays. I'm working off the holiday pounds one bench press at a time. And I know Jim will approve.

This American beauty danced into our Hanover Furniture Consignment showroom a few weeks ago. The inlaid veneer work on this table is exquisite and the size and height are unique in its styling. So many coffee tables have turned into mamouth beasts with storage compartments and hefty shelving. Sure they serve a purpose, but this table is a very fine piece of furniture. The Councill Craftsman name brand also boosts the value of the piece. The name says that it is handcrafted in America, made from America's finest woods from our beutiful forests. The Councill name also tells you that special care was given to this piece in the production process. That was properly finished and constructed. Councill Craftsman is a name brand that we can trust when we are fortunate to sell it when it comes into our Furniture Consignment showrooms. In general, it is the name brand that gives a reproduction piece value. The name brand lets you know that the piece will hold its value in the event of a future sale.

This inlaid cocktail table is $1,299.99

You can find beautiful, high end, name brand furniture like this Councill Craftsman cocktail table in either of our two locations in Hanover, MA or Newton, MA. We also have a new showroom that we will be opening on March 1, 2013 in S. Plymouth,MA

Just days before Christmas, the ping pong table went on sale. I couldn't resist. So I bought it and hid it from my wife and boys in the garage.

What fun this will be, I thought, giddy with anticipation. Best gift ever! We'll spend hours playing together, laughing together, hugging, high-fiving our victories. Everyone knows that ping pong is the Elmer's glue of family bonding.

On Christmas Eve, with the boys tucked in bed, I raced to the garage. My wife stood at the front door, skeptical. My last-minute no-list shopping expeditions have been known to be problematic. Every year, I set off like a 17th century explorer: armed, determined and dangerous. She never knew what I would drag home.

As I rolled the table up to the house, it looked more and more like an enormous mastodon. We could hardly squeeze it through the door. Suddenly, I realized with a crushing sense of doom, we'd never wrestle this baby down into the basement.

"Brilliant," my wife snarled.

Fortunately, I've got furniture-moving expertise. And our family room was full of furniture - pretty much all of it unnecessary in my view! I tipped the sofa on its side, rolled a chair around the corner, and flipped the ottoman into another room. When the dust settled, I'd created a sports arena with the table in the center.

Christmas morning arrived, and there were shrieks of joy from the boys. We picked up our paddles and the battle began. Outside, snow flurries whipped around the house. Inside, ping pong balls bounced off the walls.

When grandparents, and uncles arrived, they had to suck in their bellies to squeeze around the furniture stacked by the front door. A crowd gathered around the table. Merrily, we fought for ping pong supremacy. My wife even managed to forgive me - that is, until a ball splashed into the pan of gravy bubbling on the stove.  

And then it hit me. Maybe I wasn't the only fool who brought home a gift so large it required us to empty the house of furniture. So if you, like me, got swept up in the holiday spirit and you need to sell off your furniture to accommodate a new ping pong table ... well, Furniture Consignment Gallery is here to help.

But as for your fuming spouse, you're on your own.

His big hand had been toughened by years of hard work. He was in construction, and he'd seen his fair share of hard times. A homebuilder on the South Shore, he was hoping to sell off the furniture that had graced a model home in a development he'd started in 2007.

Back then, he had big ambitions. His houses were lavished with granite, marble and exotic woods. Like most everyone else in the boom years, his buyers were giddy on easy money. They borrowed big to buy, and his upscale community was abuzz with all the signs of new wealth. Landscapers tended tidy lawns, and driveways were filled with shiny SUVs.

Then came the crash.

Almost overnight, a number of homeowners lost their jobs - and their ability to make payments on those big mortgages. Realtors' signs popped up all over the development. Desperate, owners were selling their homes for less than they paid.

With the market in tatters, the builder walked away from the development. He finally sold the model home and stored its furniture in a half-empty office building he owned not far away.

Recovery starts with a glimmer of hope. Business is picking up for one of the tenants in his building, and the fellow wants to expand. So the furniture has to go to make room for the growing company, the builder explained to me.  

We were happy to help. There were some nice pieces with nary a scratch on them. Even more encouraging is the thought that the economy may be inching out of the hole it's been in since 2009. Let's hope my new friend and his expanding tenant are leading indicators.

I've been watching holiday shoppers in our showroom this week and it isn't a pretty sight. They wander in grumbling to themselves looking vaguely disoriented - like astronauts who made a rocky landing on an alien planet.

"Where am I?" they're mumbling. "Why am I here?" 

To anyone who's suffering the gift-giving blues, I'd like to offer some cheerful advice: You can do it. We can help.

Okay, so I'm paraphrasing the motto of a big home-improvement store. But we've scored a couple of victories here.

One young woman was on the hunt for a gift for her mom who spent the summer helping her set up her first apartment. How to thank her? She knew her mother loved fine furniture, and she was thrilled to find a tiger maple candlestick table, crafted by the famed cabinetmaker Eldred Wheeler. She skipped out the door, hugging her purchase.

A construction worker dashed in on his lunch break to buy a coffee table his wife had fallen in love with last weekend. Another woman was overjoyed to find a bronze sculpture of a cowboy clinging to a wildly bucking horse, a museum-quality replica of a Frederic Remington. Her husband was a passionate collector of Western memorabilia. She left the store beaming.

Let's be honest. It's hard to buy something special for those who mean the most to us. Thoughtful just isn't enough. We're looking for starry-eyed wonder when they open the package.

In the end, the room was utterly transformed. All it took was six weeks of hard labor - and a flash of creative genius. 

   This fall, Diana Frucci is one of 35 designers participating in the showhouse sponsored by the Junior League of Boston. Each designer was assigned a room in the Potter Estate in Newton, a rambling Victorian built in 1867.

     Diana's assignment was a challenge. A century ago, the "Lexington" room likely had been unhappy quarters for a servant. Dark, dingy and claustrophobic, it required a heart-thumping hike up three flights of stairs. Sunlight struggled through a grimy window. Squeezed into the room's tiny closet, oddly, was a sink.

     Over the last few weeks, though, Diana worked her magic on the place. She envisioned the room as a cozy hideaway for a busy family's au pair. She covered walls and ceiling in a dramatic cobalt-blue damask wallpaper.

     For furniture, she raided the two showrooms of Furniture Consignment Gallery. She took a gleaming Biedermeijer chest for elegant storage and a velvet wingback chair, which beckons the weary visitor to rest.

     Beside the bed is a bold piece of art: a painting of a bare-chested and muscular man in a swimsuit. (Maybe the nanny is actually a ... manny?)

     And as for that awkward closet, Diana came up with an inspired solution. She gave it a splash of color, painting the walls a vivid poison green and wrapping the sink in a sophisticated geometric print. Then, she filled the basin with orchids.
     If you design it, they will come - and they will fall in love with it. That's Diana's dream.An estimated 10,000 will visit the Potter Estate over the next six weeks, according to the Junior League, and they'll be looking for decorating moxie. (For tickets and more information, check out jlboston.org) After all, a showhouse is showbiz. Instead of greasepaint and glitter, this is a performance done in fabric and furniture, paper and paint.
     Attendees should all make that climb to the attic to spend a few moments in a very special place designed by Diana Frucci. They won't be disappointed.

Photos

See more photos at our Facebook Page Here.

Her cats slithered between the chairs as we stepped through the front door. In the living room we saw a kitty jungle gym and a couple of litter boxes. A well-worn cat scratching post, like a massive cactus, was perched in one corner of the kitchen. Nick, our highly allergic truck driver, looked panic-stricken. Hives were imminent. We backed out quickly, knowing that the strong eau de feline meant her furniture wouldn't find a spot in our showroom.

At our next stop, we were greeted by a disdainful French Bulldog, clearly in the midst of a long aristocratic reign as Louis XIV. He made it obvious: every sofa and chair in the house was part of his kingdom.

Later, I got an email a good friend who recently lost his beloved dog to cancer. For years, the dog had treated the coffee table like a chew toy. We were planning to repair the table. "Let's not fix it just yet," my friend wrote in the email. Attached was a photo of his new puppy.

As I write this, the sweetest dog who ever lived, my boxer, is swatting at my chair looking for attention. Feeling ignored, she hops on the sofa hoping to get busted - then hugged - for a mischievous infraction of the house rules. Okay, I'm not the strictest disciplinarian when it comes to my Casey girl.

Yes, we love our pets. Sometimes, we spoil them in ways we'd be embarrassed to admit. But they can be hard on the furniture. You may not be able to consign anything after years of domestic bliss with your pet. But you'll probably agree with me: it's worth it.

Closing up the other night, I checked every corner of the store. As always, our showroom has seen a lot of traffic, and I've found everything from balled-up tissues to my own business card - with trample marks - on the floor.  But I can always count on finding at least one item that will make me smile.

After a busy day, I always find remnants of lollipops scattered around the store. A blue wrapper in one corner. A red one under a dresser. Here, a well-gnawed white stick. You wouldn't think I'd like picking up trash every night. The truth is, I'm O.K. with it.

That's because lollipops changed this business.

Seven years ago, Diana and I bought Furniture Consignment Gallery from the couple who started the business. They'd had some good years, but they had grown weary of the grind of moving furniture, and they wanted to move onto the next phase in their life. To us, it seemed, they'd also tired of the challenges of retail.

The showroom was littered with signs, none of them friendly. "Don't Touch Me" was stuck on a topiary. "No Strollers" greeted shoppers at the bottom of the stairs. "Keep Children in Hand" was taped to the front door. Tacked in the stairwell: "No Food or Drink."

On our first day as new owners, Diana gathered up all the signs. Stopping in to say goodbye, the former owners were appalled. "What if someone spills coffee on a white sofa?" the woman demanded. "What if someone trips on the stairs carrying a stroller?" her husband asked.

"Well," I offered, a bit hesitantly. "We think you were missing a market."

"Really?" the woman huffed. "Which one?"

"Moms with kids," I said.  

The next day, Diana filled a bowl with lollipops for our customers. By the end of the week, it was empty. We filled it again. A few weeks later, we got a bigger bowl.

After seven years, I can offer the Federal Reserve a reliable new indicator of business growth: lollipops. The faster we go through candy, the higher our sales.

As it turns out, moms with kids aren't the only ones who love a sweet treat while shopping. So do newlyweds. And twentysomethings furnishing their first apartment, "empty nesters" outfitting the new townhouse. And even the seasoned business man who was unraveling a root beer flavored pop. He was asking me why we seemed to be doing well in this difficult economy.

I gave him a dum dum answer.

So, stop by anytime. We promise to keep the showroom stocked with quality furniture - and the candy bowl filled with lollipops. Try to throw your wrappers away, but if one sifts through your fingers and hits the floor while you are admiring a glistening mahogany chest of drawers; I won't mind picking it up at the end of the day. Really.

     Our once-a-year sale requires all hands on deck, so we were pretty happy when an old friend stopped by the showroom to help. Jim is a former corporate executive who suffered a brain aneurysm, and a heart attack eight years ago. His health problems cost him some cognitive ability, but he hasn't lost his confidence, his talent for leadership or his sense of humor.

      All of those were in evidence when a customer decided to buy a beautiful hand-planed barn board table. She drove to our showroom from her home in Connecticut, prepared to haul home her treasure. She brought a U-haul - and her dad. Both father and daughter were concerned that the trailer's worn-out shocks would mean a bumpy ride and, ultimately, a damaged table.

     Jim came to the rescue. Rummaging around our storage room, he found a case of paper towels and a half-dozen rolls of duct tape. "This might do the trick!" he announced, "Oh, and Jay," he added, "I'm going to need a saw."

     A saw? Near this spectacular table? My heart seized up for a minute, but I decided to trust him.

     An hour later, the table was secure in the trailer - and packed so carefully it could withstand a collision with a Hummer. First, the table was swathed in bubble wrap. Then, Jim constructed a crate using scrap wood. Placing the table into the crate, he used rolls of paper towels to act as shock absorbers. He topped it off with a tarp in case of rain.

     Father and daughter honked to say good-bye as they pulled out of the parking lot, happy with their treasure and with the innovative packing that insured they'd get the table home without a scratch.
     Jim is one lucky guy to have survived a health whammy. And we're lucky, too. He came out of it with his big heart - and his creativity - intact. Thanks to him, our customer will be serving dinners on the table of her dreams for years to come.