Furniture Consignment Gallery Blog

Yesterday, a truck filled with furniture left our loading dock and set off on a journey that will take it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. First stop: New Jersey, where a homeowner is waiting eagerly for a set of chairs. Next: North Carolina, where an aspiring writer is getting a desk for her home office. Final destination is Louisiana, where a woman is finishing off a decorating project with an Ethan Allen cabinet she found - by searching online - at Furniture Consignment Gallery.

The Internet has made us all next-door neighbors. Buying consignment furniture online is commonplace now and, at FCG, we are seeing more and more of it. So for those readers who don't live in our home state of Massachusetts, here's a primer on how to get those great bargains you see on our website.

 

First, remember our furniture sells quickly. If you see an item you love, call immediately. We'll give you an honest appraisal of its condition. We'll also let you know if the piece is worth shipping. A Pottery Barn twin bed is about $400 new. We've got one for $250. But if you live in Arkansas, that wouldn't make sense because of shipping costs.

 

On the other hand, we have a set of Kindle chairs that sells new for about $10,000. Our price: $3,000. Now, that's a good buy. In other words, buying and shipping is a smart option when you are investing in high-end furniture.

 

For far-flung buyers, FCG can recommend a reputable and reasonably priced shipper. We've had years of experience with this shipper. We feel confident in our recommendation. You may find others who will ship for less, but we don't take responsibility for delays or damage en route.

 

Buying is easy. All it takes is a phone call. We accept all major credit cards, and we'll hold your furniture until the shipping company picks it up. You pay the shipper directly when the piece arrives at your home or office.

 

So whether you are in Wichita or Washington, D.C., you, too, can shop at Furniture Consignment Gallery. Bookmark our website and check it regularly - it's like a treasure hunt with new pieces every day. Why leave all these bargains to the savviest shoppers in Massachusetts?

 

She came into the showroom to buy a bed. Her husband is a big dude - 6'4", 260 pounds - and the bed they'd bought just a few years ago from a discount store had broken. Cheaply made, she'd been told, it wasn't worth repairing.

 

Fortunately, we have 21 beds at our store in Plymouth, and I knew she'd be pleased with the variety and the price. Still, it was a hassle for her - and an unforeseen expense. Like a burst pipe or a dead car battery, a bed is a necessity.

 

Looking around the showroom, she seemed stunned at the array of styles, the quality and the excellent condition of the beds - not to mention the prices. "You guys have awesome stuff," she said, taking a moment to appreciate it all.

 

Unfortunately, tales like hers are increasingly common these days. For the past decade or so, the home furnishings market has been flooded with cheap furniture. Shoddily made, many of these pieces are made from lightweight particle board then glued or stapled together. That's why so many of those so-called bargain pieces sag, crack, or fall apart after only a short time.

 

"We thought we were getting a deal," our customer said sadly of the bed she and her husband had bought as newlyweds. "Turns out, it was no deal."

 

We don't do cheap. Our showrooms are filled with stylish and pieces from some of the nation's top furniture manufacturers like Ethan Allen, Stickley, Stanley, Hooker, Hitchcock and Thomasville. These beds, tables and couches are made with care and precision using old-fashioned, long-lasting manufacturing techniques. Dowels are important. So are dovetails. Thanks to our knowledgeable staff, our customer got an education - and a bed she loved - that morning.

 

Later that afternoon, a thirtysomething couple strolled into the showroom holding hands and eagerly looking over the inventory. They unveiled the secret to fine furniture accumulation. "We buy one piece of Stickley furniture every year for our anniversary," the wife explained. Married ten years, they have a home that has been thoughtfully decorated over time with meaningful pieces that will last a lifetime.

 

That seems like a lovely tradition to me. Skip the bargain basement where couches are featherweight - because their cushions are made of inexpensive foam. Stop by one - or all - of our three stores. You'll never regret buying quality.

 

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

  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.

a beauty, a palatial oriental woven in brilliant colors. So of course we put it out for display in our showroom as boldly as Cher once put it out in Vegas. We weren't hiding anything. That rug got a lot of attention from shoppers until one lucky buyer hauled it home.

         Six days later, the phone rang irritably. Apparently, it had taken almost a week for the buyer to notice the flaw - and now she wasn't happy about it.

          Shoppers, let's get real. Virtually every piece on our showroom floor has had some interaction with life. More precisely, that means the occasional ding, dent or scratch. A loyal customer recently told us that it was worth the long drive to our showroom because the not only is furniture a bargain - it is in "pristine condition."

But, the reality is, if you do some serious poking around you'll probably find some small issue with just about every item in our stores. Some shoppers are really fussy - and they're actually kind of fun to watch. They'll crawl around on the floor inspecting an item for dents you can barely see with the naked eye.

Others shrug off the small stuff. We sold a Hitchcock hutch this week with a small scratch on the maple top. Our buyer shrugged it off. She was a bit of a klutz herself, she said, and she'd learned to accept that foible. For her, the scratch on the hutch was nothing more than a reminder that bumps and bruises are part of life.   

 At Furniture Consignment Gallery, we carefully evaluate furniture when it is displayed under the bright lights of our showroom - and we take every one of those dings and dents into account when we price the item. So the question is, what's your angle?

Are you looking for flawless furniture? Or can you tolerate a minor scuff or snag to get top quality at a bargain price? If that's the case, we  have got some great buys for you this week.

 

For those new to this blog, the twins refers to the two brothers - identical twins - who manage the Hanover and Plymouth stores for Furniture Consignment Gallery. Ron has overseen our largest showroom in Hanover since 2006. Brad was recently recruited from a Macy's in Florida to manage our newest store in Plymouth. Equally gifted in furniture merchandising, they are ferociously competitive about their stores.

 

Earlier this week, during our weekly conference call with the store managers, I witnessed what sounded suspiciously like a sibling smackdown. "How do you like the flowers?" Ron asked Brad casually. Turns out, Ron had planted masses of wildly colored flowers outside his brother's showroom last Monday - on his day off!  

 

Well, apparently, no harm, no foul when the goal is beautifying our stores. Brad was grateful for the help. Later, I heard the two hatching a plot to do a landscape makeover of Hanover together this coming Monday.  

 

As an employer, I couldn't be more appreciative of the effort, but I was getting a little worried about burn-out. Then, in a moment of furniture-arranging pique yesterday, Brad dropped a bombshell that explained everything. "Everything has to be perfect," he said. "Mother is coming."

 

So that explains it! Mother! On her way from her winter home in Florida to her summer home in Maine, the matriarch of the family is going to stop by to see her sons and look over their handiwork. I've never met her, but she lives in legend, at least at FCG.

 

Widowed when her twins were 10, she raised three boys along with their sister by herself, working in the family tire store where she excelled at the art of retail. At 78, she's a tiny, stylish dynamo, and her 51-year-old sons haven't yet outgrown the desire to impress her. She arrives in two weeks. I can't wait to meet her - if only to see an end to the frenzied primping.   

 

So stop by our stores this weekend and enjoy the results of our sibling rivalry.  I'll be there. I've been sentenced to hard labor - at least for the next two weeks. "The deck outside the store has to be stained," Brad told me sternly. "Mother is coming."

"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.

"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.