Furniture Consignment Gallery Blog

Harrodsburg, Kentucky is a sleepy town of about 9,000, except for certain times of year when the place is seized with a peculiar sports mania. That would be the winter college basketball season and the eve of the Kentucky Derby.

 

Some of the best gossip in town could be gotten at the Davis Beauty Shop. Martha Davis, the owner, was married to the basketball coach of Harrodsburg High School in Mercer County. He had a hotline to Coach Adolf Rupp of the University of Kentucky, one of the most successful coaches in the history of American college basketball.

 

So the women of the bluegrass would make their weekly pilgrimages to see Martha - with the full encouragement of their husbands. That's because the women would come home not only freshly coiffed but also fully stocked with hot tips for their husbands on horses and basketball.    

 

Now 95, Martha hasn't wielded a curling iron for a while now but she's still as elegant and indomitable as she was in her prime. Last year, she downsized and sold the classic belle of a mansion she and her husband, Coach Davis, had owned on Harrodsburg's Main Street.

 

Diana, my wife, was fortunate to get some of the beautiful furniture that graced her grandmother's home. So was Furniture Consignment Gallery. Martha entrusted us to sell some of her favorite pieces, among them an Empire chest and an antique pine rope bed.     

 

Selling furniture with a story - that's what makes the consignment business so much fun. Stop by one of our showrooms today. It's Derby Day. Martha, or as we know her, Nana sends her regards.

As the massive glacier of snow and ice recedes from our lawn, a new treasure appears every day. Surprise! Here's a single ice skate that's been missing for months. Yesterday, I found the football the boys got for Christmas, along with a partially chewed pizza box, sans pizza. Roxie, our toddler boxer, is the culprit. She considers everything in our house - and our garbage - to be her personal chew toy. Our front lawn is a graveyard of well-masticated items lying, like bleached bones, in full view of the neighborhood.

 

Thanks to Mother Nature, we had no idea the full extent of our pup's destructive instincts. Snow after snow hid the evidence. Now, we're placing bets on what might appear next during the Big Melt. I am missing my grill light er. But it's not like I need it yet. I still can't find my grill under the avalanche of snow that slid off the roof.

 

We aren't the only ones cleaning up a lot of debris after a harsh winter. One of our neighbors in town discovered a deer carcass in a snow bank. At least we haven't had to bury anything at our house.

 

At work, though, I've been tempted to get out the shovel this week. We've been witnessing a curious phenomenon in our showrooms. Suddenly, people are trying to pawn off on us the stuff they've unearthed this spring from their cellars, attics or, in some cases it seems, their snow banks.

 

We're talking faded pastel art prints from the 1970s, smelly rugs, and a couple of upholstered chairs that look like they'd served as cat scratching posts for a couple of decades. We had about ten cars show up yesterday full with crapola. Thanks for thinking of us, but no.

 

Boston is finally emerging from hibernation after a brutally harsh winter. And it isn't a pretty sight out there. So if you're looking for a place to unload the flotsam and jetsam at your home, make a beeline - for the dump. We only take the best of the best at FCG.

  Our front door whipped open, and Diana burst in, beaming. She gave me a high five. All three boys were on their way back to school. Just as we were about to break into the victory dance of the newly emancipated, we heard a small, miserable voice behind us.
       "Wrong bus." Collin, our ten-year-old, stood in the foyer. He'd ridden one block before the big kids informed him he'd gotten on the eighth-grade bus, not the fifth-grade bus. The driver ejected him promptly at the next corner. Humiliated, he'd run home. Already anxious about his first day of middle school, now he was a ball of nerves. "Thanks a lot!" he said, glaring at us.
       Earlier, Cade, our thirteen-year-old, was fuming during the short ride to his bus stop. I got the silent treatment because I won't let him upgrade to a smartphone. He believes this tragedy will ruin his year. He'll survive. At least he got on the right bus.
       The dog is sulking - and possibly sick. Even the family car is protesting the end of summer and the start of the car-pool season. Red warning lights are glowering irritably on the dashboard.
       We had one happy camper: Robbie marched off to kindergarten with a big smile. It was orientation day: his first, our third. All the moms sending off their first-borns were beaming through tears and lingering for glimpses. Diana, a veteran, exited happily, kicking her heels. 
      Transitions are tough. It's a relief to pack the kids off to school, but I'm already dreading the projects.  Build the Roman Coliseum out of Cheerios? Seriously!?! Someone in the family needs an engineering degree to get a kid through school these days.
      We're all busy. That's probably why our three showrooms are quiet this week.  But we are working hard to get ready for when you want to beautify your home for the holidays. Every store has exquisite pieces. There's a beautiful Baker dining table in Chestnut Hill, a Chippendale china cabinet in Hanover, and even a folding table with a butler tray in Plymouth.  We're ready to help you create the best holiday ever.

"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.

Her cats slithered between the chairs as we stepped through the front door. In the living room we saw a kitty jungle gym and a couple of litter boxes. A well-worn cat scratching post, like a massive cactus, was perched in one corner of the kitchen. Nick, our highly allergic truck driver, looked panic-stricken. Hives were imminent. We backed out quickly, knowing that the strong eau de feline meant her furniture wouldn't find a spot in our showroom.

 

At our next stop, we were greeted by a disdainful French Bulldog, clearly in the midst of a long aristocratic reign as Louis XIV. He made it obvious: every sofa and chair in the house was part of his kingdom.

 

Later, I got an email a good friend who recently lost his beloved dog to cancer. For years, the dog had treated the coffee table like a chew toy. We were planning to repair the table. "Let's not fix it just yet," my friend wrote in the email. Attached was a photo of his new puppy.

 

As I write this, the sweetest dog who ever lived, my boxer, is swatting at my chair looking for attention. Feeling ignored, she hops on the sofa hoping to get busted - then hugged - for a mischievous infraction of the house rules. Okay, I'm not the strictest disciplinarian when it comes to my Casey girl.

 

Yes, we love our pets. Sometimes, we spoil them in ways we'd be embarrassed to admit. But they can be hard on the furniture. You may not be able to consign anything after years of domestic bliss with your pet. But you'll probably agree with me: it's worth it.