Sellers | Love's Real Stories

October 23, 2020

Smoke Out

Blinking through the smoke and talking through his mask, my old friend Steve said something to me, which I did not understand. He maintained at least a six-foot distance from me per Covid protocol and his face-mask muffled his words. The ambient noise of cars and shopping carts in the Raley’s parking lot added to the suppression of his voice. My lack of acute hearing didn’t help. Still, I couldn’t help but notice his eyebrows frowning above his mask and his finger jabbing toward the sky alternating with his two fists punching toward the ground.

“What?” I said. It sounded like he had said, “I’m all about beer, I’m going to Sierra Nevada,” but that couldn’t be right. The gestures didn’t match the sentiment.

Steve grew frustrated with my lack of comprehension. He pulled down his mask for clarification. He shouted, “I’m so out of here! I’m moving to Nevada!” He repeated his hand gestures while adding various comments about California fires, politics, and general degradation.

He shouted, “Is the Real Estate market really on fire?” I’m pretty sure I heard that correctly, though I wouldn’t have expected his choice of the word “fire.”

I told him the Real Estate market is extremely low on inventory, with high Buyer demand, and houses are selling quickly. Multiple offers on new Listings is a commonplace occurrence. If you price it right, and prepare it for sale, your house might get a price premium above asking price through competing Buyers.

He asked about preparing his house to sell, and I told him I would send along some advice.

Steve thanked me and stomped across the parking lot, shaking his head and blinking up at the thick orange blanket of smoke covering our section of California.

Here’s the piece I sent to Steve:

“Clean it and paint it” is the tried and true advice. “Re-carpet it” is good advice, too. Leave your personal taste for color out of the equation unless you favor neutral.

Paint it Red: A new front door is a simple improvement that delivers impact, and “Red says ‘welcome’ in all cultures,” say the experts. Feng Shui proponents say to choose your color according to the direction your front door faces. You can look it up.
Convert it: Converting an attic or storage room or basement into a bedroom is a quick way to add value. Kids move back in with parents and parents move in with kids. The “spare bedroom” is seen as a bonus for people who sometimes like their family and visitors.
Line your Den: Whether you call it the office or the computer room or the den, the “extra room” it is a big draw. Everyone can use some more space, even after adding the new bedroom.
Go Outside: Building a deck is one of the least-expensive ways to extend your living space. Building a deck can bring a return on investment of up to 80 percent at the time of sale, according to the experts.
Go Back Outside: Check your curb appeal. Funky siding goes right to the top of a buyer’s worry list and makes them wonder what serious problems, structural or otherwise, might lurk behind. Fix it and paint it, and don’t cover it with vinyl if you can help it.
Help the Cook: The kitchen can be the make-it-or-break-it for a home sale. Kitchens are expensive, but you don’t have to go full-tilt. Replacing countertops, faucets, and cabinet hardware can be the missing ingredient.
Get Good Glass: Curb appeal again, with the added feature of energy efficiency. People are thinking green these days and are interested in spending less green on their power bills.

Fix it, shine it, and make it better, but don’t turn it into the Taj Mahal, unless it’s just for you.

October 1, 2020

Reverse 2020

“I’m tired,” said my old friend Carlene. “I just want to stay in this house and die here.”

Carlene and I had been driving around town checking out apartments for her to rent. She couldn’t afford the loan payment on her house anymore and she had decided to sell to acquire funds to live on.

“Let’s have a drink,” she said, as she collapsed into her easy chair and fired up a cigarette. It had been a rough afternoon. Carlene was arthritic and weak.

“I’d rather be back on the ranch digging ditches and skinning rabbits than dragging my old carcass around town with the likes of you,” she said.

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

“Ha! I’m just gettin’ your goat, kid,” she said. She cackled and blew smoke.

“And don’t worry, I am gonna list my house with you. You don’t have to kill me first.”

She hurled a folded-up newspaper at me. “What do you think about this?”

An advertisement was circled: “Reverse Mortgage. Over 62 years old? Let your home’s equity pay you income! Stay in your home with no payments! Free consultation!”

This was back in the early 1990’s, and I had never heard of a Reverse Mortgage.

“Sounds fishy,” I said.

“I called the 800 number,” she said, “and some loan guy is coming here tomorrow. You want to be here?” In other words, she expected me to be there.

The loan guy drove 90 miles to meet Carlene. He laid out the Reverse Mortgage plan, and it seemed too good to be true, so I called a local loan person I knew.

“It’s a new product,” she said. “We don’t have it here yet, but my understanding is that it’s a Government-backed loan, and perfect for older people who want to stay in their home. It’s a cash flow tool, drawn from the equity in their home.”

Carlene signed up for that Reverse Mortgage and it fit her situation like a glove. About a month later, no more house payments for Carlene. In fact, she now received a check every month.

“Pour us a drink and let’s celebrate,” said Carlene. She fired up a cigarette. “Well sir, I know you’re sad you have to wait till I die to list my house now.”

“What? No….!”

“Ha! Got your goat again, kid!”

Fast forward to 2020, and we now find the Reverse Mortgage has evolved into the Home Equity Conversion Mortgage, or HECM, pronounced in the slang version as “Heccum.”

People over 62 can now use the HECM loan for buying a home, not just staying in their home, like Carlene did.

I stopped by the office of my Loan Officer friend, the one I call Big Jim, and asked him, “Do you have a good example of a recent beneficiary of the Heccum loan?”

“Many,” said Big Jim. “But my client, and now friend, Kay, calls me regularly saying she still can’t believe she was able to buy a bigger home than she could have with a conventional loan, and she has no house payments!”

“No payments,” I said. “It seems too good to be true.”

“Exactly,” said Jim, “it’s one thing the Government got right.”

I have a great brochure on the HECM, thanks to Big Jim. If you would like me to send it to you, just call text or email me, with the question, “What the heck is a HECM?”

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April 23, 2015

Nobody Home

Walking around in people’s houses when they aren’t home is an odd part of the Real Estate job. You witness some peculiar things.

I once saw a Basset Hound sprawled on the kitchen floor in front of an open refrigerator door surrounded by a great splatter of former contents of that refrigerator. Stained meat wrappers, mangled Tupperware containers, and various chunks, lumps, and hunks of foodstuff radiated from the snoring and bloated dog in a colorful collage like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Another time, I discovered a rat swimming frantically around in a toilet bowl, fighting for dear life. “Good riddance,” said Bill, my buyer. But I couldn’t leave that rat. Bill looked shocked when I scooped the little guy up with a plunger and flipped him outside. Hey, my kids owned pet rats named Fluffy and Scamper, and this was a cute one.

An odder part of the Real Estate job is walking around in people’s houses when you think they aren’t home, but they are. That oddity occurred three times over the course of a single weekend when I was showing houses to my client, Rosie.

First, in a workshop behind an old country farmhouse Rosie and I came upon an elderly man in overalls slumped over a dented metal desk, his head resting on his arms. I had dutifully yelled “REAL ESTATE!” when I opened the front door of the house; but not the shop. I coughed intentionally. The man jerked suddenly awake, alleviating our concerns that he might be dead, but the surprise appeared to nearly kill him anyway, for he clutched his chest and gasped, “Lordy, Lordy!”

At the next place, Rosie and I looked down from the second-story master bedroom window to the pool below, and beheld a man lying on his back, splayed out on a lounge chair, happily sunbathing in the nude. My front-door announcement had been unheard again. “Let’s get out of here,” whispered Rosie, and we slunk from the house anonymously, though I left a business card on the kitchen counter.

At the third place, we witnessed a lady strolling queen-like across her back yard. She held a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and wore a long shimmering silky robe. She might as well have been striding through the grounds of a castle, though her home was modest. Classical music flowed from a table-top radio, enhancing the elegance of the spectacle.

Back at the office, Rosie said, “I’m sold on that blissful place with the lovely lady in the back yard. Let’s make an offer.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you stage all that just to get me to buy that last house?”

I didn’t, but it’s not a bad idea.

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February 17, 2015

Apprentice Again

“You got the job, son!” said old Mr. Voss. He had a strong, calloused grip. But I was unsure of my job description. I was visiting the Voss home with the intent to list the house for sale. When I found Mr. Voss in his back-yard shop, I was immediately put to work by the man, taking his orders like an apprentice, helping him re-build an old redwood trellis. He called me Rob despite my corrections, and I realized as we worked, that he wasn’t completely tied in mentally with this world. Physically, at 85 or 90, he was in command, and worked his antique tools like a master carpenter.

“Wipe these tools down, Rob, and let’s go check on the other guys.”

There were no other guys. As I hurried to keep up with his long strides, I said, “Mr. Voss, I’m a Realtor, and I am here because you called my office about selling your house.” I handed him my card. He seemed to take new notice of me and our surroundings. His tall, wiry frame and wide shoulders that he had held erect while we worked now slouched and stooped.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, right…… Sissy says we’re selling and moving. I’ll show you around the place.” A fat orange cat rubbed against Mr. Voss’ legs and accompanied his every step. The place was in perfect shape, improved by Mr. Voss with well-crafted wood trim and finish. I was excited at the prospect of listing it.

At one point on our tour, Mr. Voss stood beside me on the strip of grass bordering the busy street in front of his house, and so help me, proceeded to relieve himself, splattering the roadside curb as well as the tops of our shoes. He maintained a stream of conversation as though we were standing alone in the woods.

I herded Mr. Voss back into the house, where Mrs. Voss sat in her rocker. She regarded us silently and incoherently. I locked the doors. This was a scary situation. These people were not lucid.

On the kitchen wall, “Sissy” was scrawled in black ink under the phone. I dialed the long-distance number beside the name.

“Hi, I’m a Realtor and I’m here with Mr. and Mrs. Voss. He called me to sell the house, and I’m a little concerned……”

“What?” screamed Sissy. “You’re in my parents’ house? Where’s my niece!?” I told her I saw no niece.

“Listen, Buster,” she said evenly and menacingly, “I don’t know what you’re plotting, but you will never sell my parents’ house. I’m calling the police.”

A week later, someone else’s Real Estate sign stood in the front yard of the vacant Voss home. There was no sign of life except for the fat orange cat on a ledge of the brick chimney.

Sissy was right. I never did sell her parents’ home.

February 10, 2015

Apprentice

I stood outside the front door and waited while someone inside opened a series of locks from top to bottom, painstakingly and slowly.

I checked my “While You Were Out” note. The message said, “Man says needs to sell house now- Mr. Voss.”

The house looked solid. Natural lap-siding gleamed with an oil coating like a good old baseball glove. A fat orange cat crouched and glared at me from a ledge on the brick chimney. This would be a nice listing.

I heard metallic clunking, clanking, and rattling from the other side of the door. Deadbolts opened, chains slid out of slots, and padlocks unhooked. At last, the door slowly opened and I was greeted by an ancient, silent woman with long white hair and otherworldly blue eyes. She didn’t respond to my introduction, and after a long gaze into my eyes, she smiled calmly, and waved me in.

She led me through the living room to the kitchen. As we slowly made our way, I admired rich paneling and hardwood floors. “HENRY!” she shrieked to no one. My heart jumped. She wandered back into the living room and sank into a straight-back rocker and stared out the window.

The kitchen wall-mounted phone was surrounded by a confetti-like spray of sticky notes covered with phone numbers, names, and indiscriminate scrawl.

I peered outside and saw a tall stooped man in overalls disappearing into a stout little shop building.

I slipped out back, and leaned in the shop doorway. “Mr. Voss?”

“You know it, son!” he said, grabbing a handsaw off a workbench. “Bring that drill, will ya?” The drill was an old brace-and-bit with big wood-knob handles. It lay among a neat display of chisels, hand planes, and antique tools in perfect condition.

“Let’s go!” he said. “Hang on to this two-by-two, Rob.”

He called me Rob for the next two hours, despite my protests, and we rebuilt the upper part of his redwood trellis. He ordered me around like an apprentice.

“Nice work, Ron!” he said when I drilled through a two-by-two, holding the wood-knob handle of the brace-and-bit against my chest, spinning the bit churn-like.

The man was 85 or 90 years old, with questionable mental lucidity, but a master carpenter, and in complete control of his physical abilities.

“Congratulations, Rob,” he said and shook my hand. “You got the job!”

“But I’m here to list your house for sale.”

“Did you hear me, boy? You got the job. You want it or not?”

I was unsure of my job description, Realtor, laborer, or both.

“Uh, yes,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

(To be continued………)

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