Love's Real Stories

April 5, 2020

Coronavirus

Minute-by-minute, hour by hour, day by day, we Realtors in our Real Estate offices and out in the field, are keeping our ears open and our eyeballs peeled, awaiting the latest changes in the governmental recommendations and rules of how to work with people during this new Coronavirus era. Or, how not to work with people.

How not to work with people is the trick. Real Estate, like all other service industries, is all about the people.

“Social-distancing”, or keeping six feet between us, is the new official recommendation for Coronavirus avoidance. The Realtor’s natural tendency is to get up close and personal. “Hand-in-hand and belly-to-belly” is the old-school recommendation for the Realtor building client relationships and providing the best service. That just sounds dangerous in current times, right?

In the office, email memos have been sent to everyone giving direction and recommendations, increasing in severity of social-distancing, after each change we hear and see in governmental policy.

The first memo was almost cheery, along the lines of: “We encourage you to come into the office. We are open, staff is on hand… If you are uncomfortable coming in the office, we understand….”

The next memo was not so much: “In the office please maintain social-distancing… don’t congregate in groups……”

The next memo was more like an order: “Please don’t come into the office unless you absolutely have to…less density… more social-distancing…”

Now, as municipalities and counties across the state and nation make even more severe declarations ordering people to “shelter in place” and for “non-essential businesses” to close doors, we keep our ears and eyes open all the more.

Despite all the distancing we all must maintain, Buyers are buying and Sellers are selling. With mortgage interest rates dropping into the zone of “free money” it’s hard to resist making a Real Estate move, if it’s been in your plans and desires.

Thanks to the magic of electronic signing of Real Estate contracts and scanning and sending any number of documents, Real Estate sales transactions can be accomplished while maintaining the ultimate in social-distancing. We can’t see or hear each other, much less breathe on each other, and we can accomplish the tasks at hand.

We can even “show” a property online through photos and videos, drive past the property, and write an offer, without making human contact of any kind. No joke. Real Estate transactions have been accomplished exactly that way. The sale is contingent upon the Buyer’s approval of a physical visit to the property, when that becomes possible, but for starters they can be absentees to the physical world of the property they are buying.

We have heard that in some municipalities where “non-essential businesses” have been ordered to close, County Recorder’s offices have closed down, which kills the final step in a Real Estate transaction, stopping it dead in its tracks. This has caused a few train wrecks, we understand.

The California Association of Realtors is pressing with all their might to convince government administrations throughout the land that a Recorder’s office is an “essential business” whose doors should remain open. Looks like we’re getting there.

Regardless of the technicalities and entanglements of the business world through this Coronavirus era, we in Real Estate are in it for the people. We hope everyone can stay healthy, safe and strong, as we all listen and watch closely for the latest Coronavirus information and recommendations.

It’s minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, and day-by-day.

March 9, 2020

Separation

A funny thing happened on the way to the Real Estate conference in Reno. I didn’t see it happen, but in my mind’s eye I picture what happened, and I bet I’m right on.

In my mind’s eye, I see my cell phone sliding off the tailgate of my pickup as I accelerate to about 55 miles per hour on the two-mile stretch of Woodruff Lane that runs east from Highway 70 toward the Sierra foothills. That two-mile stretch of Woodruff Lane is as straight and flat as an airplane runway. I picture my cell phone diving off the back of the truck, hitting the pavement, bouncing, hopping, and cartwheeling along the road behind my speeding pickup, until it veers off into the ditch bordering Woodruff Lane.

In the driver’s seat, I was oblivious to the plight of my poor cell phone until Woodruff Lane hung a sharp right. At that point, I slowed down and sensed there was a change in the sound and air current from the back of the truck. In my rear-view mirror, I saw the tailgate down and the camper shell door up. I pulled over and bore witness to the horrific situation: my briefcase open, having regurgitated my cell phone; the tailgate and camper shell open, having been unsecured in their closed positions, sabotaged by an errant bungee cord, caught up in the fastening mechanism.

Cell phone gone! “Gaaaa,” I yelled into the quiet vastness of the Northern Sacramento Valley. A hot bubble of anxiety swelled in my chest as I thought of all the ways I would be in trouble without my cell phone. I’m dead without that phone. Too many plans are in flux at the conference in Reno. I’m sure the texts and voicemails are piling up. “Where is he?!!” people are surely saying.

Only one thing to do: Drive back down that two-mile stretch of Woodruff Lane, back to Highway 70, and hope the cell phone shows itself either lying on the pavement or along the ditches. Would it survive its tragic fall? Flattened by another vehicle on the road? Slowly I drive, retracing my route, scanning all surfaces.

Alas, no phone. I parked the truck and decided to walk. You can’t see down into the ditches while driving. I’ll walk the distance of two roadside telephone poles, peering into the ditch on one side of the road, then cross the road, and repeat on the other side. The ditches are variously watery, steep-banked, thickly brambled, wide, narrow, barbed-wired. I’m biting my lips and flexing my knuckles. C’mon phone! I need you! I’m stranded without you. I can’t even call anyone from a landline, should I find one, because I don’t remember phone numbers anymore.

A guy walks down his driveway. His house is the only one on that stretch of Woodruff Lane.

“You okay?” he asked. He’s wiping his hands on a mechanic’s rag. “Can I help you?”

I explain my dilemma. “I have a bike you can use,” he says. I laugh. Silly. A bike. Wait. A bike!

I got on his bike and rode the roadsides, covering a lot more ground now, still with a good view of the ditches. I found a glove, some shoes, hats, beer cans, whiskey bottles, and sadly, a dead dog facing downhill on a steep embankment. He looked like my dog, Bear, thick and brown.

An hour later, anxiety level rising, I returned the man’s bike. “I rode the whole length, no phone,” I said.

“Too bad,” he said. “I don’t bother with those cell phones myself. People are addicted to those things.”

I white-knuckle the two-hour drive to Reno and find a cell phone store. The store guy locates my cell phone through the magic of his computer. There’s my phone, a blip on the screen. “Looks like it’s on a road called………. Woodruff Lane,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, “in a ditch, and I’ll never find it. That ditch is two hours away and I’m out of time. I won’t be back that way for three days.”

I bless the store guy for selling me a new phone. I’m stranded no more.

Funny, no calls or texts were piled up, nobody wondering where I was. No panic but my own.

At the conference center, I tell a friend my horrible experience of cell phone separation anxiety. She nods, apparently not feeling the pain of my story.

I stare at my new phone. People get addicted to these things.

February 6, 2020

Cowboy

“The explosion blew him 35 feet, all the way across the road!” said my friend Mae. “Can you believe it? 83 years old, and he lived!”

“That is hard to believe,” I said. “Is he still around?”

“Oh yes,” said Mae. “Lost his Paradise home and everything he owned, but Lee’s a tough old cowboy. He was knocked out and lay in the ditch for three and a half hours. The fire burned right over him. They said he was burnt black as coal. The fire burned everything around him while he was knocked out. He lost his house and everything.”

Mae gave me Lee’s phone number, I called and introduced myself. I told him I wanted to hear his story.

“It’s not much of a story,” he said. “I was knocked out cold through the whole thing, and all I have to show for it is one shoe and one dog.”

“I heard you were blown 35 feet,” I said. “That sounds like a story to me!”

“More like 40 feet,” said Lee. “I think I damaged the driveway when I hit it with my head. But I’m a tough old cowboy, we take it as it comes. I’m just a little bit older than the hills, but I can still ride bulls. My wife doesn’t think so. She’s a beautiful lady, but even ornerier than me. Tougher, too. She fell and broke her hip and her arm after the fire. So, I’m not getting much good work out of her lately. Don’t tell her I said that. She’s wilder than all get out. She’s over 90 years old and more beautiful than ever. We love to dance. She fell when we moved into this fifth wheel. I worked a whole lotta years to become homeless. We might build again on our lot in Paradise but I’m hard to work with. I’m a contractor. When I say plumb, level, and square, I mean it.”

I asked Lee about the day of the fire.

“The fire came later in the day to my place on Deer Creek Lane. My granddaughter had already come by and hauled off my wife, when I decided I better get moving. I’ve been a logger and a cowboy, and I’ve fought fires. I figured I knew what to do. I watered the place down and I was loading my four dogs into the pickup. But that fire was too fast. The propane tank blew and sent me flying. Knocked out in the ditch while the fire burned right over me. I never did find my other shoe….”

Lee paused there. When he continued, he choked up. “Three of my dogs didn’t make it, Doug,” he said. “My special dog Lacey, the Border Collie with the white ruff, she had her legs wrapped around me. I always load her into the pickup because she’s overweight.”

Now Lee is talking through his tearful sobs.

“I’ve never had a dog so close,” he said. “She clung to me. We were in this world to help each other, comfort each other! I love all animals, Doug. I’ve worked with livestock my whole life, but it’s not just numbers! I loved every horse, cow, pig, dog, and animal I’ve ever seen.”

Through his pain, Lee told me that Lacey perished in the fire along with Princess, the other Border Collie, and Lucky, the Black Lab. Bambi, the Lab/Pit Bull, survived, curled up on the floorboards in the cab of the pickup, having stayed there as the entire area was consumed by the howling fire.

“I woke up to a red blizzard of fire and smoke. I was dazed and stupid. I hauled myself in a half-crawl back across the road to my charred pickup, the only thing left of the world I knew before that tank blew.”

Lee jumped in the pickup, it started up and he drove himself and Bambi out of Paradise.

“I was pretty beat up,” said Lee. “The worst is a bunch of 3/8 inch holes burnt into me from the embers, but they gradually fill up.

“Like I said, I’m a hard-headed old cowboy. We take it as it comes.”

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December 26, 2019

More Christmas Blues

As I was saying in the last column, this Christmas season has been particularly sentimental and emotional. Partially, as I said, because I miss KDV, my old Real Estate mentor.

KDV was Mr. Christmas. He was the guy who tied the wreath to the front of his car and drove around wearing a Santa hat, shouting “Ho, ho, ho!” through a speaker mounted to the car roof. He was also the guy who rolled his own smokes and flicked the ashes out the sunroof as he cruised through town, giving the impression that he was possibly a Bad Santa. But he always came through with generosity and smiles, delivering presents to friends, especially kids of friends, and even kids he didn’t know but met along the way. KDV was eccentric, unpredictable, and irreverent, but he was a Good Santa.

“Listen, babe,” said KDV back in the day, “This is the time of year when we are on a mission to forget our troubles and help others forget theirs.”

As I was also saying in my last column, I inherited KDV’s place at the podium telling Christmas stories to the hundred or so Realtors at the final meeting of the year of our Realtors weekly Multiple Listings meeting. I inherited the position six years go when KDV passed away.

This year’s final meeting of the year was yesterday. In addition to missing old KDV, I also had that sentimental and emotional feeling because of Paradise lost in the Camp Fire last year; the people we know who suffered then, the people we know suffering now, the ongoing PTSD and anxiety throughout our community. Yes, we are excited and determined to rebuild Paradise and we are involved in the effort, but the one-year anniversary made the disaster fresh.

So, my Christmas story this year at the Multiple Listings meeting was once again about KDV and his holiday antics throughout the years; but also about KDV’s wife and widow, dear Alla, who passed away two weeks ago. Alla was 95 years old. The conclusion of a good life and a great run, for sure. A cause for celebration, even. But just days before she slipped away, Alla was still her smiling and laughing self, so you can’t help pondering the fragility of life.

At the conclusion of my story-telling, the curtain on the stage behind me rolled back, and there stood our Band, the Richard Moore Memorial Chico Association of Realtors Holiday Band. There stood six members of the Band in their Santa hats, with guitars, horns, keyboards and drums. I jumped up on stage, making it a seven-member band, and we kicked it off with Blue Christmas, which was KDV and Alla’s favorite Christmas song. We played five Christmas songs, finishing with Feliz Navidad, and Santa jumping into the room from behind the curtain at stage right, handing out sombreros and maracas and throwing candy canes and chocolates. Santa led a Conga line around the room and the place was aglow in Christmas spirit.

Underlying the festive mood for me was the knowledge that during this very merry moment, my sister was visiting with her oncologist to get the results of the previous day’s scan. It’s been three years of scans and surgeries as she battles her cancer. The doctors warned her to keep her expectations down, because of the nature of her particular cancer, and the knowledge that tumors in her lungs were still present and likely growing after her last surgery.

We broke down the equipment, stuffed it in the truck, said our goodbyes, and I checked my phone. There was the text from my sister: “NO GROWTH & ONE DISAPPEARED!!!! Next scan in 6 months!” Replies followed on the 8-person family text line: “Christmas miracle!” “Tears of Joy!!” “Thanking God!!”

Mission accomplished. Troubles forgotten. Happy Holidays!

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December 25, 2019

Christmas Blues

I have a case of the Christmas blues. One reason is because I miss my brilliant old friend and Real Estate mentor, KDV, sometimes known as Ken DuVall. KDV’s favorite time of year was Christmas, so his memory looms large this time of year. Like me, he loved Christmas songs. And like me, KDV’s two favorite Christmas songs were “Blue Christmas” by Elvis Presley and “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” by Nat King Cole.

Hence, KDV’s two favorite Christmas jokes:
1. “Who is Santa’s favorite singer? Elf-is Presley.”
2.“What did the naughty Jazz singer get for Christmas? A lump of coal. Nat King Coal.”

KDV always said, “I made up that second one myself! Not bad, huh, bro?”

Every December, at the final Realtors’ Multiple Listings meeting of the year, KDV would start the meeting with a Christmas story, usually sentimental, sometimes funny, and often both sentimental and funny. KDV did that for most of the forty years he was a Realtor. Every year, he had that roomful of Realtors, a hundred or so people, enthralled with his deep voice.

There were more Christmas jokes, of course. KDV was a walking encyclopedia of jokes. Like: “Hey, I told my neighbor I bought my wife a beautiful diamond ring for Christmas. My neighbor said, ‘I thought she wanted a new car.’ I said, ‘She did, but where would I find a fake Cadillac?’”

After KDV passed away six years ago, I inherited that role he held at the December Multiple Listings meetings. So, now it’s up to me to come up with a Christmas story every year. It’s been easy for me, though, because every year all I need to do is resurrect a Christmas story or two about KDV. Like the Christmas season when he brought a car full of goodies and gifts to the decrepit little group of shacks occupied by migrant workers which he called Shanty Town. KDV threw open the doors of his car and blared ‘Blue Christmas’ by Elvis till all the people came out and celebrated with us. Shanty Town was on E. 8th street and has long been demolished. Then there was the time he convinced me to go on a mission with him to each of our favorite restaurants and bars in town, have a drink, and decide which establishment most evoked the spirit of Christmas. The Hatch Cover won, with decorations and music and a friendly rosy glow. The owners received a plaque presented by KDV. The Hatch Cover, iconic restaurant and bar that it was, is long gone, too.

KDV loved life. But more than life, KDV loved his wife. His dear Alla. KDV had one wish, the same wish, every time we broke a wishbone, which we did as a tradition on our respective birthdays.

“My wish, babe,” said KDV, “is that I die before Alla. My world is over without her.”

KDV got his wish in 2012. Alla has remained a great friend. She tells me stories from the Hollywood days as a hat-check girl in nightclubs, a dental hygienist, and meeting her crazy neighbor, KDV, who raced motorcycles and worked as a Hollywood stuntman. He became the love of her life.

Here’s the other reason I have the Christmas Blues. Dear Alla DuVall passed away two weeks ago. I was lucky enough to see her the day before she died. We sang her favorite Christmas song, Blue Christmas. Alla was 95 years old. Her granddaughter, Maura, who took care of her until the end, texted me with the news:

“I’m so honored I was able to help her and watch over her last act,” she said. “I made sure it was good. I played her ‘Blue Christmas’ and ‘Chestnuts Roasting’ as she passed. I placed my hand on her heart and told her I loved her as she breathed her last. I told her Ken was here to get her and it’s time to go. Goodbye Sweetheart.”

Merry Christmas, Ken and Alla DuVall.