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.

In 1944, as war raged across Europe and the Pacific, Joline Anderson married Robert Wright in a borrowed gown with a bouquet of flowers nipped from her mother's backyard. For something old, the couple had an heirloom ring. Something new was a wedding gift from a friend and furniture maker: a Salem chest.

  For sixty years, that mahogany chest held the treasures of a long and happy marriage: baby booties, poodle skirts, cashmere cardigans, prayer books, postcards from the kids, photos of the grand-kids. It was one of the most special pieces in our showroom for the few days that we had it.

   Consigned by a family member who, sadly, didn't have room for it in his home, the chest seemed to whisper the secrets of lives well lived in homes well loved. There's magic in knowing the history of that chest.

     Indeed, stories are important. When I was in high school, I used to keep a journal. It was full of adolescence angst, alternately heartbreaking and hilarious when you read it twenty years later. I got a little lazy about writing when I went to college. Entries were terse and infrequent -I was majoring in English and channeling Hemingway - but there is one telling item written when I was a sophomore:

"I met a girl named Dianna today. She was pretty and nice." 

I may have spelled her name wrong, but I got the relevant facts right. She was pretty - and nice enough to marry me four years later.

    To some, it would seem silly to write down fleeting thoughts about our cars, our clothing, our furniture, our homes. But these are the details that illuminate our lives. Who doesn't remember their first car with all its loveable dents? Or that sofa that you managed to squeeze into your first apartment? Or the dining room table where you hosted your first Christmas dinner? All the nicks and scratches tell their own stories, often about the best days of our lives but, sometimes, about the worst days, too.

     We witness many a reflective moment with our consignors when they are turning over to us the furniture they've enjoyed for years. They'll tap a desk or a dresser gently with a far-away look in their eyes and relive a memory before entrusting it to our care.    

    So on the next rainy day, take a moment and jot down the history of some of your most prized possessions.  Even if it seems silly now, your story may have meaning for someone who may someday own that piece. Your words will enrich somebody's life - if only the consignment guy who opens a drawer and finds your note on a yellowed piece of paper.