We sprang out of bed even before the alarm. Diana raced to the kitchen, started the coffee and tossed the cereal bowls onto the table. Upstairs, I slathered my face with shaving cream while singing a tune. I nicked myself a couple of times, but, still, I knew it was going to be a great day.
I was full of adrenaline, as excited as I'd been for my first day of college, my first job interview, the day we acquired Furniture Consignment Gallery. 
I didn't need any coffee, but what the heck, we were ready to live dangerously. Diana grinned as she slid a hot cup of java across the table to me. Our eyes locked in a conspiratorial gaze.
"We need to focus -" she said. "We can't screw this up," I blurted out at the same time.
"Those kids are going back to school," we agreed. "Today!" We exchanged a high five for good luck.
Moments later, the boys straggled into the kitchen. Soon, the French toast was flying from griddle to plate. Sure, there was some whining, a few mild curses mumbled under the breath, and the occasional hostile stare from the offspring. But in record time, the boys were fed and out the door. They looked like a trio of turtles trudging down the driveway with their bulging backpacks strapped to their backs.
Son #1 was on the bus at 6:55 a.m. Son #2 left at 7:05, and #3 at 7:25.
"See you later!" I sang, waving goodbye as the last bus rumbled down the road. Then, I broke into an impromptu and utterly joyful "moon walk" back to the house.
With three boys ages 7 to 15, summer had seemed to last forever. I'd had three long months of repeating myself, louder and louder, to break through the sound barrier of their headphones. (Favorite phrase of the oldest, repeated endlessly: "Huh?")
Then there were all those last-minute excursions with friends. "Dad, we're going to the golfing range... the ice cream shop ... the pool ... the mall." That was followed by "Can you drive? Can you drive? Can you drive?"
When I wasn't a chauffeur, I felt like the clean-up crew trailing after a three-ring circus. I spent the summer turning off lights in empty rooms, flushing unflushed toilets, emptying full bins of trash and clearing a path through the sports gear into the house. I was ready for this moment.
Diana gave the boys a sneak peek at their afternoon snack as they walked out the door. She'd baked them a cake. On it, in fresh frosting, she'd written the words GO TO SCHOOL.
Freedom! It's wonderful. If the school nurse calls, I'm not answering.
Topics:
family,
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MA,
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plymouth Furniture,
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We always fought over the top bunk. In fact, I usually started the fight. I was the oldest of the three boys in my family. So my dibs meant the top bunk was somehow more desirable than the bottom. In reality, I didn't want the top bunk. Too hot up there. But conceding it to my brother gave me the imperial mantle of peacekeeper. And then, of course, he owed me one.
The bunks were in our camp on Lake Ossipee in New Hampshire. My parents wanted a place where their sons could run wild in the summers. My dad wasn't about to spend his hard-earned money on furniture for three rambunctious boys who were barely housebroken. So he made those beds.
Frucci men, by nature, are not exactly patient or exacting craftsmen. My dad picked up a couple of pine boards at the lumberyard, shoved them through a circular saw and drilled a couple of holes for bolts. It probably took all of an hour.
"File these," he said and without any more instruction he handed the boards off to me. I took a metal file to the rough edges. Then we stained the wood and assembled the beds. Voila! We boys had something infinitely valuable to fight over for year to come.
I slept well in that bunk. I laughed a lot with my brothers. We raised all kinds of Cain. I remember the cool lake breeze and the water lapping against the rocks. When my parents sold that camp years later, the new owners insisted on keeping those rough-hewn beds. Probably knew there was good kid magic in those old bunks.
Among the many things I learned from that experience was that furniture has to be functional. People needed a place to eat, sit, work and sleep. Our bunks were sturdy, safe and, best of all from my dad's point of view, cheap.
If you're looking for bunks - or any kind of kid furniture built to survive major shenanigans - skip the lumberyard. Stop by one of our three showrooms. You will find the good stuff, made well, at the best prices at Furniture Consignment Gallery.
Topics:
bunk bed,
new hampshire,
store,
consignment,
boston,
chestnut hill,
Furniture Consignment,
Furniture,
Hanover,
bed,
plymouth,
children,
childhood,
brother,
craftsmanship,
beds,
lake ossipee,
brothers,
bro
She was stunned. She was just putting the finishing touches on a redecorating project. Window sheers had been ordered but hadn't been installed. And now she was packing up and moving.
Only a few weeks ago, someone had lobbed an unsolicited offer to buy her home for a price she couldn't resist. The house had been a sanctuary after a hard divorce. She loved the long gated driveway and the peaceful gardens. Her three girls had lived like princesses there, riding a social merry-go-round through childhood and adolescence.
The girls left for college. Now, the brick mansion seemed to echo with loneliness. Selling hadn't been on her to-do list this spring, but the unexpected offer held out the happy promise of a new adventure.
So she called Furniture Consignment Gallery.
Mitchell Gold had just delivered a living room set. She admitted I was the first to ever sit on the sofa. That, too, went into our truck.Within days, we were at the house filling our truck with treasures including an EJ Victor china cabinet and an extraordinary console table by Dessin Fournir.
I asked where was she going. She said she had a temporary apartment, but no firm plans. "Where do you think I would like to live?" she asked. Our moving guys started tossing out ideas: Hingham, Duxbury, Marblehead, Manchester-by-the-Sea.
"When you guys are finished," she mused, "I think I'll go for a drive." She's traveling light. No baggage. That's the best way to start an adventure.
Topics:
divorce,
redecorating,
packing light,
mitchell gold,
consignment,
boston,
MA,
chestnut hill,
Furniture Consignment,
Furniture,
Hanover,
plymouth,
children,
moving,
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dessin fourir,
ej victor
"Hey, Jay!" one of the other dads hollered at me from the other side of the ballpark as our sons were finishing up soccer practice. "Looking forward to the party!" I nodded, grinned and waved back at the guy trying not to look totally confused. "Party?" I thought. "What party?"
Ten minutes later, I found out. Parked in my driveway was a truck. Two men were hauling a massive inflatable bouncing house into my backyard. Yes, we apparently were having a party. Robbie, our youngest, was turning seven. His buddies were coming to our house to celebrate. All of them.
Inviting 20 seven-year-old boys to a backyard birthday party is sheer lunacy. There are no carrot sticks on the menu, just pure sugar bombs. Add an arsenal of plastic weaponry and you've got an incendiary mix. You'd have less damage from a horde of Mongols.
Other parents - that is, the ones who value their homes - outsource these kinds of events. They rent an indestructible party palace for the afternoon. That's so the joint can be hosed down and, if necessary, rebuilt after the party.
Whose idea was this wingding anyway? Diana, my wife, looked remarkably cheerful for someone about to be overrun by munchkins with inflatable pickaxes. "Jay," she insisted. "It'll be fun!"
What actually happened was two hours of utter mayhem. Like an invading force of troop carriers, SUVs pulled up in front of our house at precisely 4 p.m. Out spilled an army of howling kids. The party instantly devolved into a battle scene. Their parents stood at the perimeter - wine and beer in hand - watching in shock.
Robbie's older brother, Cade, had been enlisted as a kind of bouncer to keep the peace. At 15, he is six feet tall and 190 pounds, but he was no match for a swarm of seven-year-olds. They attacked and beat him into submission with their axes. I could hear muffled cries for help, but I wasn't about to risk the fury of the mob.
Considering the battlefield wounds, we probably should have had a MASH Unit. One boy ran up to his mom with blood running down his lip. "Mom," he said breathlessly. "Can you hold my tooth?" He dropped the tiny pearl into her hand and raced back into action.
When the party was over, I surveyed the yard and tallied the damage. They came, they ate, they conquered. One tooth was extracted. A lawn chair had been twisted into a pretzel. The flowerbeds were shredded. No casualties. All in all, according to Robbie, it was a pretty good party. Would have been better if Cade had suffered a little more, but overall -- pretty good.
Topics:
consignors,
hoard,
axes,
consignment,
boston,
child,
MA,
chestnut hill,
massachusetts,
newton,
Furniture Consignment,
Furniture,
Hanover,
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attack,
party
In my home, we have a new puppy! After mourning the loss of our beloved dog a few weeks ago, we just adopted Roxie, a reverse brindle boxer with white socks on her feet. Nine weeks old, she's playful and inquisitive, exactly what we needed.
Having a puppy in the house brings out the mischief in all of us. Roxie is going to be a big dog, so we bought a big crate for her. A couple of times this week, I've come home to find our five-year-old locked in the crate. "Dad," he would plead with a sheepish half-grin, "get me outta here!" When he'd crawled into the crate to cuddle the puppy, his two older brothers pounced on the chance to bolt the door.
Kids love to tease each other and hide in secret places. Like puppies, they have an irresistible urge to play - but they are often unaware of the risks. That's why we want to alert you to a potential danger you may have in your home: the hope chest.
From the 1920s until the late 1960s, hope chests were a treasured gift. In it, young women would store needlework, linens and even baby clothing in anticipation of marriage. Lane's hope chests were among the most popular. They were airtight with robust locks, perfect for preserving heirloom items.
But that meant they also were the most dangerous. Two children recently suffocated to death in a Lane Hope Chest in Franklin, MA. Once the lid closes on these well-made chests, they cannot be opened from the inside. Since 2003, seven children have died in accidents involving hope chests.
Most antique and consignment stores are aware of the dangers and have removed the locks, but there are millions of old hope chests still in use in homes with locks intact. Removing the lock is easy. As a public service, we've created a "how to" video to show you how to do it. Lane also is offering safer replacement locks for free.
So please, watch the video and spread the word. If you have a hope chest or know of someone who does - even if it is tucked away in a corner of the attic - remove the lock. You could save a life.
Lane Form to order new Child Safe Lock: Here
Topics:
home,
1980s,
life,
tutorial,
lane,
hope chest,
death,
consignment,
boston,
Furniture Consignment Hanover,
Furniture Consignment Newton,
chestnut hill,
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Hanover,
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1980s Furniture,
plymouth,
1940s Furniture,
children,
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how to
Despite the arctic cold, we're starting to see a predictable harbinger of spring. Realtors and home-staging professionals are flocking to our showrooms. They're hunting for furniture and accessories to update the homes they hope to sell in the next few months.
Some 40% of home sales occur between March and June. Homeowners are busy prepping for that brief window of opportunity. The smartest ones know that clever staging can boost the selling price significantly.
Staging is an art. And since we work with some of the best in Boston, I can offer some of their secrets:
First, update your lighting. Cheap fixtures and lamps from the 1970s are a big turn-off for buyers. So are cracked or stained lampshades. New lamps and shades bring immediate warmth and style into a home - and that's a purchase that won't put a big dent in your wallet. Our showrooms offer lots of choices from classic to trendy.
Put things in scale. Homeowners often roll out a rug that is too small for the room. Maybe it was a quality hand-me-down from a relative or they got a bargain at the rug store, and they figured that something on a bare floor was better than nothing. News flash: a small rug in a big room is like a postage stamp on a lawn. It shrinks the room visually. We have rugs in all sizes. If you don't find what you need in our stores, then softly gleaming hardwood floors are a better bet.
De-clutter. Pack up the dust-collecting tchotchkes. Nothing says Grandma like an army of Hummels. That could be a turn-off to the thirtysomethings looking for a chic nest in which to start their families. Also, take a hard look at your furniture. If potential buyers have to hold their breath to squeeze around a king-size mattress in the master bedroom, you've got a problem. Get rid of furniture that overpowers a room.
One last tip: beware the curse of IKEA. We've all committed a few sins in the name of frugality. Say you bought some particleboard furniture a few years ago. You hauled the box home and assembled it yourself. Now, you're selling your house. Keep in mind that nothing depreciates an upscale home faster than cheap furniture. Just a few quality pieces -- bought on consignment - would reinforce the concept of quality in your home.
Topics:
real estate,
home,
delivery,
change,
life,
staging,
lamps,
lamp,
consignment,
boston,
Interior Design,
Antique furniture,
chestnut hill,
pick up,
Furniture,
Hanover,
customers,
plymouth,
children,
audience,
target,
kids,
moving,
spring break,
designers,
rug
Clipboard in hand, I watched our four guys in blue shirts extract a big haul of furniture from a home in Scituate, a picturesque seaport town on the south shore of Boston. Like powerful ants, they raced up and down stairs for hours carrying six rooms of heavy pieces out of the house and into our truck.
Not so long ago, I was doing the hoisting myself with the help of a part-time high-school kid. Back then, all we had was a trailer hitched to the back of a pretty battered SUV. Now, I'm the guy with the clipboard. We've got two decent trucks and blue polo shirts with our company logo.
We've come a long way in eight years.
Our consignors are moving back to London. He'd moved here back in the 1980s to manage a project for Gillette. Originally, the assignment was to last for no more than sixteen months. He and his wife stayed 27 years in Boston.
Their children and grandchildren are firmly planted now in American soil, but this recent retiree and his wife are going back to England. They know they'll be crossing the pond a lot in years to come, but even after decades, home has a powerful pull.
They'd bought new furniture three years ago after a flood, and most of it is in perfect condition. On a hot afternoon in mid-August, we packed it up and brought it all to our store in Plymouth.
Life takes us to unexpected places by indirect routes. Most of the time, we are traveling without a map. All we really have is an internal compass. What is next for you? For us at FCG? For the ex-pats going back to England?
Stop by one of our three stores this weekend. There are countless family histories written in the furniture in our showroom. Imagine yours coming to life with some of these beautiful pieces.
Topics:
home,
delivery,
change,
life,
consignment,
boston,
chestnut hill,
pick up,
Furniture,
Hanover,
customers,
plymouth,
children,
audience,
target,
kids,
moving,
spring break
After the big two-day, tax-free furniture sale last weekend, Diana and I were exhausted. We closed up the store, looked at each other and realized we were thinking the same exact thought: Let's go to the beach!
Sunday night offered perfect weather night for a barbecue on the beach. As the sky darkened and dozens of bright meteors streaked overhead, we blackened some burgers on the grill and roasted marshmallows with our three boys. Just as we were settling in for a night of quiet stargazing, four cars roared up. Out poured twenty college kids.
They cranked up the music, opened a cooler of beer and lit a fire. With skills finely honed by spring break, they managed to construct a party scene in seconds - or so it seemed to me. Suddenly, our peaceful evening with the kids seemed in contrast, well, boring.
"How did we get here?" I asked Diana, looking enviously towards the party. "We used to be over there." I mean, it didn't seem that long ago. We were carefree. We had a dozen friends who could dance in the sand all night without worrying about work on Monday. Now, we have a business, a mortgage, three kids.
Diana glanced at me with an unmistakable expression. It said, wordlessly: "You are such a dumbass."
"They're over there, Jay, trying to figure out how to get over here," she observed, turning to watch our three boys chasing each other across the beach. "And with whom."
I laughed. I knew she was right, but I wanted to yell to them, "Stay over there!" In a few hours, I would be back to work trying to figure out how to arrange 50 plus deliveries from the weekend sale, answering e-mails, registering kids for fall sports and hollering at them to finish their summer reading.
Then, an older couple strolled by both of our campfires, chuckling at the awkward antics of the teenagers, then nodding genially at us. They looked content. Our stage in life is a lot of work, but as the kids ran back to our fire, shivering with beach towels, I know that we will remember these times as the good old days.
Topics:
delivery,
change,
life,
tax free,
consignment,
boston,
chestnut hill,
pick up,
Furniture,
Hanover,
customers,
plymouth,
children,
audience,
target,
kids,
moving,
beach,
spring break
"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.
Topics:
family,
auction,
sale,
consignment,
boston,
MA,
chestnut hill,
Antique,
massachusetts,
newton,
Furniture,
Hanover,
plymouth,
children,
sentimental,
value,
auctioneer,
estate
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.
Topics:
pong,
boston,
child,
chestnut hill,
table tennis,
Living Room,
Furniture Consignment,
Furniture,
Ping pong,
children,
brookline,
Adventure
