Furniture Consignment Gallery Blog

• Look for a reputable brand. The top furniture makers adhere to high standards, year after year. As with a BMW or a Mercedes, the styles change but you can always count on quality manufacturing. Look for premium furniture brands such as Baker, Thomasville, Ethan Allen, and Henkel Harris. As an example, all Baker sofa frames are hand-tied eight ways, insuring stability.
• Determine the original purchase price to calculate your savings on a pre-owned piece. Don’t be fooled by catalog prices, which are usually irrelevant because of sales and other promotional deals. The original buyer probably paid far less than what you see in the catalog. Remember, too, that some merchants offer special savings to “members.” Restoration Hardware gives members 25% off every item for a $100 annual fee.
• Has the manufacturer stopped making a certain item you covet? Let’s say you’re looking for some chairs to match your Ethan Allen Newport dining table or a Pennsylvania House sofa table to match your side tables. These mass-produced pieces aren’t true collectors’ items and they have depreciated over the years. But finding very specific used pieces in good condition can be a major challenge. You should worry less about saving a few more bucks and more about some other shopper snatching up your long sought-after piece.
• How well was the piece made? Ask the seller the age of the furniture, its price when new, who made it and where it was purchased. If the seller seems fuzzy on the details, walk away. Cheap no-name furniture is no bargain, especially when used. Also, look closely for signs of high-quality craftsmanship: solid wood construction, dovetail joints, and crisply sewed seams.
• Did the piece have a hard-knock life? Maybe you’re looking for a rustic dining table for your beach home and a few scratches won’t matter to you. But if a table is going to be a focal point in your formal dining room, those scratches could prove costly. Beware of sellers who suggest reupholstering or refinishing; both can be expensive and time-consuming.

At my brother’s wedding last weekend in California’s Napa Valley, we all wanted to welcome his new husband into the family. That meant introducing him to some of our childhood memories and traditions. Among the most notorious is the story of the “special plate.”

First, let me preface this by saying that my mother is nothing if not inventive. Of course, she had to be. She had three rambunctious sons to raise to manhood and she had very high standards for us. So, she had to have a lot of tricks up her sleeve. One of her most brilliant: she bought a dinner plate that didn’t match her everyday set and imbued it with a special kind of mom voodoo calling it “the special plate.”

Mom awarded use of this plate rarely. And only the most extraordinary accomplishments would compel her to lift it with great ceremony out of its place of honor and put it on the table in front of that day’s most heroic son.

Good grades or exemplary behavior were two of her favorite qualifiers. Her tactic worked on my two younger brothers. They strove hard to impress her. (Yes, we're talking admittance to the Ivy League.) They bickered over that plate like it had come to us from the Last Supper. The winner basked in glory at the dinner table.

I’d completely forgotten about the plate until I heard the story at the wedding. I was immediately filled with a sense of foreboding. I could tell my three sons were intrigued. Robbie, our eleven-year-old, made a beeline to his grandparents’ table to probe further into this fascinating bit of family history.

When he came back to our table, he looked triumphant, kind like he was an investigative reporter who’d scored some major breaking news for Fox. “Dad!” he said in a scolding, maybe even superior, tone. “You never got to eat off the special plate!”

Okay, I’ll admit it. I was totally busted by a eleven-year-old in front of everyone.

Yes, here’s a true confession. I never ate a so much as a bite off the special plate. I understood the concept. I just never quite bought into the feverish competition that so consumed my younger brothers. I just wanted to eat and play ball before it got dark.

But having discovered this tasty morsel involving his dad, Robbie was determined to probe deeply into my history of scholastic challenges. (Who needs Science and Math?) He revisited his sources at the grandparents’ table and came back with even more shocking news.

“Grandpa said that you never even made the honor roll,” Robbie announced, adding a dollop of judgement for good measure. “Not everybody gets a trophy, Dad. That’s what Grandpa says. You have to earn it.”

Now that we’re home from Napa, I get the feeling that my kids are embarrassed that I never earned the special plate. My mother promised them that that I can have the special plate the next time we visit. Honestly, I’m good, Mom. I’m over it.

But considering the trauma I’ve endured, if you want to help me on my healing journey, you could review Furniture Consignment Gallery, on Google or Yelp. I think that would help a lot.

From afar, the dark cherry table was a simple piece of furniture. But up close, it glistened with the extraordinary patina characteristic of an Eldred Wheeler. The finish whispered of hours spent in patient and uncompromising craftsmanship. An Eldred Wheeler as perfect as this is a rare find in a consignment store.

In our showroom in Natick, the woman was circling the table with barely disguised excitement. First, she demanded a measuring tape. Next, she wanted the table expanded with its three leaves. Then, she insisted on reading about the table on Eldred Wheeler’s website.

All the while, her husband sat quietly nearby, observing. Then, out of the blue, he asked, “how old are you?”

What? I was flustered by the question. I’m focused on measurements and descriptions and his energetic dynamo of a wife, and he seems to be focused on me.

“You’re 45, aren’t you?”

He nailed it. I admit I was little stunned. I certainly didn’t think I looked 45. “How did you know?” I asked.

“I’m an eye doctor,” he said bluntly. “You need glasses.”

Okay, busted. I’d been having trouble focusing on things up close. I may have been squinting at the fine print on the website. And I could have used a selfie stick to read the price tag. I’d recently gotten my first pair of glasses, but I wasn’t wearing them around the showroom yet.

This ophthalmologist wasn’t at all interested in the furniture his wife was about to buy. But he was quite concerned about the deteriorating condition of my eyes. “Eventually,” he continued enthusiastically, “your distance vision will go, too.”

Despite his cavalier disregard for my vanity, I have to admit I appreciate a customer who practices his profession with the same single-mindedness that I do mine. After ringing up the sale, I handed him his receipt and he gave me his business card. I can’t wait to let him know what I think of the furniture in his waiting room.

Spread out all over the kitchen counter when I got home last night were the results of a massive research project my son has been working on for weeks. He’d been consumed by the work. I thought he was attempting to split the atom. When he finally unveiled the fruits of his labor, complete with spreadsheets and pie charts, I was stunned.

He wants to buy a car.

My sixteen-year-old son is – God help us all – getting his driver’s license next month. He has a very clear vision of his dream car and the optional audio package that’ll pump out enough decibels to blow out the windows. He’s done all the research. His logic behind his first choice of vehicle is sound. He’s made a persuasive pitch to us, his parents.

In fact, the kid has everything but the money. Welcome to real life. Welcome to adulthood, kiddo.

He’s making an admirable effort to marshal his assets. Everything but his cell phone is up for sale. All of those pricey remote-control cars he got as birthday presents years ago? Make an offer. Buckets of Legos? Yours for cold hard cash. Used books and old sports gear are going to a resale shop.

Here’s a bittersweet lesson: the discarded toys of childhood won’t buy much more than a tank of gas. Cars require serious money. And so his financing schemes are getting kicked into high gear.

He figures his older brother might be good for a small loan. And there’s always the plan of last resort: a job! There are endless lawns to mow in the suburbs. Those lawns beckoned last year, but the kid had no interest until he was seduced by the thought of a shiny new driver’s license, four wheels and freedom.

So my son is a few thousand dollars away from cruising down the boulevard with his windows down and the music blasting. He’s pretty determined, though. You may see him this summer in one of our stores moving furniture. He’ll eventually reach his goal, in which case I advise all of you to clear the streets and buy some earplugs.

Shivering with hypothermia, I was standing in the Lake Ossipee in New Hampshire, holding a section of the boat dock and trying hard not to let my teeth chatter. My dad was taking a sledgehammer to the galvanized post that would support the dock. “Just … a…couple…more,” he gasped, breathless from the effort of trying to drill the pipe into the rocky bottom of the lake.

Ah, good times. When I was a teenager, helping my dad put the dock in the water at the lake house was the top item on the agenda every Memorial Day. As much I couldn’t wait to get out on the boat, setting up the dock was agony. After all, the ice had melted only five weeks ago.

The water was probably about 60°, and I was chest-deep by the time we got to the final section. It was hard to keep my balance. My feet kept sliding off the granite rocks into the soft mucky bottom of the lake. With both hands gripping the dock, I couldn’t swat away the black flies that buzzed around my head, tormenting me. As I said, agony.

Memorial Day is the unofficial start of summer in New England, but let’s be honest. Nothing is easy in these parts. It’s hard work getting set up for summer. Who hasn’t cracked their forehead on the bulkhead of the basement while trying to wrestle the patio furniture outside? Clean the grill? Now, there’s a mess. And the badminton net is such a tangled skein that you’re probably better off torching it in the fire pit and buying a new one.

You need a reward! So FCG is having a sale. We’re taking 15% off some merchandise to clear out the showroom now through the close of business Tuesday. As you start making those plans to entertain this summer, why not update your home? Replace those rickety kitchen chairs and that wobbly table. Say goodbye to that pizza-stained sofa in the family room. Toss that old mattress that is flatter than a pancake.

FCG is offers quality furniture with prices that are 40% to 80% off of the original retail. Our stores are full of great items. But remember: when we run a sale, the best stuff goes fast. So this weekend hit us on the way out of town instead of the way back. But if you can’t get “heah” from “theah” until after the holiday weekend, FCG will still have lots of bargains available all day Tuesday.

Just before bedtime earlier this week, Collin, our teenage son, came thundering down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “there’s a horse in our front yard!” The night was cloudy, starless and black as pitch. We couldn’t see the horse – a runaway from a nearby horse farm – until we were close enough to grasp the reins.

“Collin,” I asked after we’d helped the owner lure the animal back to his barn with a carrot. “I didn’t see that horse until we almost tripped over it. How did you ever see it from your bedroom window?” Replied Collin: “I didn’t actually see the horse. One of my friends posted a photo of it on Snapchat.”

Snapchat is a mobile app that allows you to send photos and videos that typically self-destruct after a few seconds. Hugely popular among teenagers, the app allows users to play with the images, adding text, doodles, stickers and more. Apparently, one of my son’s classmates had driven by our house earlier that night, spotted the horse grazing on our lawn and blasted out a photo to other kids in town, including Collin.

Snapchat is a modern version of the town crier, albeit for adolescents. Unbeknownst to me, the homeowner, the horse photo was popping up on cell phones all over town faster than that horse could chomp on the tender green shoots of grass on our lawn. Clever, odd or funny photos like that are a kind of social currency for teens.

Social media like will be a part of their lives in ways we couldn’t have imagined years ago. And, now, businesses like ours are getting in on the game in a big way. Of course, we don’t tend to use Snapchat. For one, its vanishing images aren’t the right platform to showcase a design esthetic.

Instagram is the hot new medium in the world of home furnishings, and we’ve jumped into it with enthusiasm. It allows us to highlight the latest design trends and showcase the kinds of inspired looks we create every day with the ever-changing inventory in our showrooms.

You’ll probably never see a horse on FCG’s Instagram, but you will get gorgeous photos of furniture that just came into our stores this week. It’s a great way to get ideas for your home. Check us out at furnitureconsignmentgalleryma.

“Oh, don’t bother,” she said airily with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You don’t need to remove your shoes.” 

Awed by the flawless sheen of her new wood floors, I’d paused at the front door to remove my shoes before venturing inside. Truth be told, the house was so exquisitely crafted and decorated that all visitors probably should be required to don a white biohazard suit before admittance. Even my socks weren’t worthy of this palace. 

Perched on the very edge of the surging Atlantic Ocean, the house was their dream home. It was so new that most of the rooms still had that that aura of design perfection that exists only in the moments between the departure of the interior designer and the arrival of family and friends. 

I was there to look at the furniture, and there was plenty to see. In the living room: European leather furniture with that intoxicating smell of new leather. There were rooms full of gorgeous bedroom furniture, and an elegantly detailed home office. 

Mostly, though, I was thinking about strategy versus serendipity. 

For this wealthy couple, the strategy was to build and furnish a palatial home for family and friends near Boston, where they’d had careers and raised a family. Then, unexpectedly, they’d gotten an unsolicited offer from someone to buy the house. And a new dream took root: a condo in the city and another home in the sun near golf courses and the placid pale green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Now, that’s serendipity. 

FCG is helping this couple shift their course. Some of their furniture will be in our showroom in Hanover. Some is destined for the store in Plymouth. And some will delight our customers in Natick. Our moving team will make multiple trips before the house is emptied. 

So if serendipity strikes, call FCG. We’ll make the transition easy for you.

I was looking over my credit-card bill when I noticed a small charge that seemed odd. Inwardly, I groaned. Was it really worth the time to call the company and haggle over such a small amount? Could I endure another cheerful but inept customer-service rep? 

I gritted my teeth and dialed the phone. 

Before I’d even gotten connected to a real person, the automated system was asking me if I’d take a survey after my call. “Dial 1 if you wish to participate,” the voice said encouragingly. I did not press 1. It seemed a little overeager. Kind of like asking your date how things were going even before pulling out of her driveway.

As it turned out, the charge was odd. I lost 15 minutes fixing it. Finally, issue resolved, I hung up – only to have the phone ring, insistently. “Thank you for calling Company ABC. We want your feedback. Please take our survey.” 

“No!” I fumed. “I already told you to leave me alone.” Moments later, a text popped up, pleading with me to take the survey. Then, I noticed a neat stack of messages piling up in my email, each one trying to nudge me back to the survey. 

All morning, I fended off the company’s survey-seeking darts, growing more irritated by the moment. Finally, after a couple of hours, the electronic thrust and parry subsided. Then, unbelievably, it started up again a week later: “This is our second attempt to reach you.” The tone was sober, maybe even a little threatening, like a bill collector.

Arrrrrggggghhhhh! 

As the owner of FCG, I care very much whether you are satisfied with your purchase or your consignment sales. We answer the phone politely when you call our stores. We do our best to answer your questions efficiently and accurately. That’s our job.

We know we’re not perfect, but we figure you’ll let us know if we’re out of line or if we made a mistake. We’ll do our best to fix it. If we did an exceptional job, review us on Google or like us on Instagram. But take my word for it. You won’t get any survey requests from FCG. Haven’t we all had enough robo-calls in our lives?

Driving 22 hours straight from Massachusetts to Florida seemed like a good idea in theory – that is, before I pulled out of the driveway in a car loaded with kids, suitcases, snacks, toys and games. Months ago, when I checked, the airlines were charging a king’s ransom for spring-break flights to Florida. And the rental car was no bargain, either.

So my wallet made the decision without any apparent concern for my sanity. We would drive 22 hours from Boston to Cape Canaveral. It seemed … heroic.

We left early in the evening. The first few hours were fun. We were excited about the adventure and buoyed by anticipation. But it didn’t take long for joy to evaporate in the cramped quarters of our SUV.

By the time we hit New Jersey, I realized I wasn’t the only budget-conscious dad in New England. There were thousands of us, grimly gripping the wheel with glazed eyes as we darted through heavy traffic in the southbound lanes of I-95. Only four hours into our odyssey, small squabbles were breaking out in the back seat.

My job was to follow the strict driving schedule that would get us to the parking lot of the Kennedy Space Center the following morning by 8 AM. The forced bathroom breaks were the worst. I felt like a prison guard, barking orders at a group of sulky inmates. “Robbie, put your shoes on! Bathroom. Let’s go,” I snarled at our ten-year-old after screeching into the only parking spot in a busy rest stop in Maryland.

“Daaaaad,” he whined. “I don’t have to go!” But my strict driving schedule didn’t allow for a potty break in Virginia. So off he hobbled, unhappily, joining the long line of other south-bound parents and kids trudging into the rest stop.

After thirteen hours, we were as jittery as rapid bats. Every comment and query coming from the back seat annoyed me. The bananas had gotten crushed. Too bad! You want water? Forget it! Turn the music up? No way! By 2 AM, I was gripping the steering wheel with steely determination, but my eyelids were drooping. I felt a bit shaky, but I don’t know whether that was exhaustion or the effect of three large cups of truck-stop coffee.

Never again, I thought grimly, wallet be damned.

Close to a state of hallucination, I pulled into the parking lot at the Kennedy Space Center, right on time. I hopped out of the car, shouting, “The Eagle has landed!” I wanted a marching-band welcome. I wanted the legendary CBS newscaster, Walter Cronkite, to take off his glasses and wipe his brow, marveling at my accomplishment by telling the world, “That was something.” Just like he did for the astronauts.

Even now, a week after my re-entry into life back home, I am still having flashbacks.

Yesterday, a scrawny couple pulled up in front of our store in a truck they’d borrowed to pick up a large dresser they’d bought. They refused to pay for delivery in order to save money. They had no moving skills, no packing materials, and no clue.

I wanted to warn them. Don’t be crazy! It’s not worth it! Pay the money! Get it delivered!

Moral of the story: Don’t let your wallet overrule your sanity.

*Images copyright of their respected owners.

Even as the flames were devouring the ancient timber roof and the soaring spire of Notre-Dame in Paris, money began pouring in to begin the monumental effort to restore the Cathedral. The French have promised that Notre-Dame, a symbol of beauty and history beloved by the world, will be restored to her fullest majesty in five years. 

Rebuilding will be an extraordinary effort. And, as with all tragedies that befall buildings and people, there will be scars. But once restored, I believe that Notre-Dame will always be as enchanting as she has been since builders laid the first stone of the Gothic jewel in 1163. 

Restoration is a big issue in the furniture business. Over the years, I’ve fielded many a question from customers on this topic. Lots of people assume that restoration will destroy the value of a piece of antique furniture. So, for want of a simple hinge, many a beautiful old cabinet remain tucked away in a dusty attic. What a loss! 

After more than a decade at the helm of FCG, the biggest consignment business in New England, I can assure you that restoration, if expertly done, will not devalue your furniture. The key, of course, is finding that expertise and artistry. 

We at FCG are happy to offer recommendations of competent restoration companies whose work we’ve seen over the years. Some repairs are done with such finesse that they are almost impossible to see with the naked eye. 

Don’t let a simple – or even a complex – repair rob you of the joy of seeing and using an heirloom piece of furniture in your home. Like Notre-Dame, these pieces are part of the fabric of life. Their scars are evidence of lives lived fully: toddlers smashing toy trucks into the legs of a table, partygoers leaving wet martini glasses on an unprotected mahogany side table, breakfront drawers yanked open in a fit of pique by a teenager who doesn’t want to set the table for family dinner. 

The Great Fire of 2019 brought Paris to its knees, weeping. But the cathedral survived the plagues of the Middle Ages, the bonfires of the French Revolution and the occupation of Paris by Hitler’s Germany. The work to repair the cathedral has already begun, and that effort will be woven into the story of Notre-Dame. 

So take a lesson from the French. Repair and cherish your heirlooms. Make your decision to fix the brokenness a part of the story of your home.

*Images copyright of their respected owners.