Furniture Consignment Gallery Blog

"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.

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.