Furniture Consignment Gallery Blog

"I live in the Pinehills."

Moments after strolling into our showroom in South Plymouth, these silver-haired ladies and gents manage to work that fact into the conversation. And why not? A Pinehills home is a status symbol for baby-boomers who have worked hard. For 30 years they commuted to and from Boston, put their children through college and endured all of the rigors of life. Living there is an achievement that demands recognition from us youngsters who are buried with everything that comes with raising a family and building a career.  

As I said to one gentleman who lives in this fine community, "you are where we want to be." To which he retorted, "No, you are where we want to be." Well, we would all like our youth back in some shape or form if we knew it would all turn out OK. If you made it to the Pinehills, then trust me, it all turned out OK.  

This vast active adult community is our new neighbor to our new showroom. So howdy, all of you former engineers, stockbrokers, stand out salesman, teachers, nurses and Docs. Now, here are a few tips from my side of the street.

If you haven't bought furniture since 1985, you might now be experiencing some sticker shock. Yes, your dining-room set was a lot less expensive back then, but so was a gallon of gas: 76 cents in 1985 vs. $3.52 this week at the Shell station in Plymouth.

So after you hit the furniture merry-go-round, and feel the pinch of a fixed income minus the real estate taxes, insurance, car payments on the Lexus, condo and greens fees; spending money on new furniture can cause some sharp internal pain. Fret not neighbor, we invite you to come on in and wander around our new showroom. We feature quality consignment furniture made by elite craftsmen. We have the brand names you trust - at a fraction of the price you will pay at the major furniture stores.

But here's the bad news. You want to consign some of the furniture that filled that four-bedroom colonial you recently sold in the suburb with the good schools? That dark pine bedroom set that seemed so chic when you were a young buck? We can't sell it for you. And the same goes for your knobby, colonial dining room set, your flame-stitch upholstered chair, and your Queen Anne cherry anything that is circa 1982. They are as outdated as a lavender leisure suit.

On the other hand, if you are a really active retiree and you've got some recently-acquired treasures that don't fit in your new "cottage," come on in. We'll serve up a great consignment deal with just a little envy on the side.

"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.

     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.

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.