& Albany County Post - The Altamont Enterprise

4B Spring Real Estate Section And Home Buying Guide The Altamont Enterprise – Thursday, May 17, 2010Adventures in real estate, Part 3: I mopped my ceiling! We only need one buyer after allBy Jo E. ProutContradictions — a one-worddescriptor for our real-estateexperience in this muddledmarket.We’ve seen our friends decideto move, and actually do it!How?In a process that seems to eludeme, they agree on a better placefor their families to live, list theirhomes with Realtors, and thensell their homes. One friend nowhas a new-to-her horse farm inGreenville. Another now teachesin India. Still a third has movedto Copenhagen, and a fourth hasset up shop in Oregon.I am much more boring. I justwant to move down the street toreduce both my mortgage andmy mowing by half. My house,however, sits on the marketlanguishing, begging me to pourmore money into it. Contradictions,for sure.Just before my previous listingexpired, our Realtor called witha last-minute showing. We hadtrouble with our ancient phonelines, as Verizon doesn’t seem tohave figured out how to protectthe wires from squirrels, and shehadn’t been able to get throughearlier. The potential buyer’s Realtorshowed up with a client 10minutes later —10 minutes!She parked haphazardly atan angle in my yard and on thestreet, almost reaching my normaldriveway but without pullingsafely into it.I agreed to let them in after Imade the beds — it was only 10a.m. and I do have children totake care of, with bed-makinglower on my to-do list than itmight be otherwise.“Why don’t you walk throughthe wooded trails to see the creekwhile I straighten up?” I suggested.They didn’t even make itthrough the fields to the woods.I know, because they knocked,again, too soon.They walked through and sawthe lovely built-in cupboards;the old woodwork, the brandspankingnew heating ducts,since covered, that remainedunframed but that intimated awarm and cozy winter with theiraccompanying new furnace; thenew granite counter; the newcarpets and bathroom; and theold and new wood floors.“She’s looking for a house withgood bones,” the Realtor said.Hot-diggity! I thought. We havegood bones and then some.My Realtor called later andsaid they weren’t interested; thehouse was “too close to the road”and needed “too much work.”I hit the roof! Too close to theroad? If you park on the road,it must seem too close to theroad!Did this Realtor actually wantto make a sale? Probably, but notby selling my house. She probablyhad a more expensive houseshe wanted to sell, instead. Minewas the comparison piece.That bit about being too closeto the road gave me conniptions,too. They didn’t randomly driveup to my home. The potentialbuyer and her Realtor lookedat a picture of my house andmade an appointment to see it.I guarantee that you can see thedistance between the house andthe road in that picture.Their comments niggled inmy brain for a long time. Is myhouse too close to the road? AmI the dumbest person who everlived to have bought the housein the first place? Is the wholeworld laughing at me becauseI was such a sucker as to buya house “too close to the road?”Should I take it off the marketand just wait for it to be an estatesale — mine?No, I finally decided. My houseis not too close to the road, and I— Photo from Jo E. ProutThe green, green grass of home: Jo E. Prout’s 19-Century farmhouse nestles in acres of lush greenfields and forests.— Photo from Jo E. ProutToo close to the road? So said one prospective buyer of Jo E.Prout’s house, causing her to fret. The house is 20 feet from anunpainted county road. Like so many historic homes, it was builtin the days of horse travel when being close to the unpaved roadwas an advantage.— Photo from Jo E. ProutHunters and gatherers: Jo E. Prout and two of her children stopfor a picture on the sun-dappled trail behind their house as theyreturn from an excursion picking wild raspberries.will not apologize for any impliedstupidity on my part nor inferiorityof property on the house’s.I drive through village uponvillage, and up and down countryroads each day on my wayto work, and do you know whatI see? Houses sitting just off theroad, that’s what. Contradictions,contradictions.When that listing contractexpired, I took a chance on offendingour local business-ownerRealtors — our acquaintances —and called a Realtor out of Delmar.Why not? It’s just business,and someone looking in Delmarmight wanta c h e a p e roption abit south, Ithought.I invitedhim to viewthe house. Iinvited himto pull all theway into thedriveway toget a view ofthe field, notthe road. Icleaned like amadwoman.By this, Imean that Imopped my ceilings with bleach.My house is always clean, but Ireally cleaned it. The walls, thebaseboards, the pipes — nothingwas safe.I repainted floors, door trim,and windows. I couldn’t movefor two days after that cleaning,even though I go to the gym andconsider myself fit. I Cleaned.Then I went to Girl Scouts andleft my husband, Robert, to givethe Realtor a tour.They walked the fields, theytromped around, and they crawledin the Harry Potter door underthe stairs. They didn’t, however,hike the trails or see the creek.The Delmar realtor wimped out,and quit at the trailhead.“When he thought our ditchnear the house was the creek, Icould have smacked him,” Robertsaid. They returned to the houseand got down to business.He wouldn’t list our house.The houses he’d sold that wererehabbed and beautiful still onlysold for $50,000 less than ourprice. If we wouldn’t drop it, hewouldn’t list it. He listed onlyhouses he knew would sell, andours wasn’t one of them.My husband didn’t want totell me when I got home. He hasseen my conniptions, and feltmy wrath.“Do you want the bad news, orthe worse news?” he asked me.When I ran out of obscenities,I cried for 12 hours. Contradictionscharged into my head andI finally snapped out of it.That Delmar Realtor had locallistings, so I had called him.Those listings are in boring,normal neighborhoods and haveprices similar to other boring,normal listings. I follow the MultipleListing Service like othersfollow the stock market, and Iknow what every house in thearea has been listed at and soldfor in the last eight years.Beyond that, it’s a small town,and, if I didn’t have the informationdirectly, I’d heard it atthe church social, the library, orthe grocery store checkout line.What houses had he sold for solittle, I wondered, when the oneson the market were still on themarket?Only those he’d cheated, wasmy consoling thought. I imaginedhim preying upon retired coupleswho couldn’t afford to wait butwho could walk away with lessthan even a reduced marketvalue. I thought of the young manthe Realtor mentioned who’d inheritedthe Realtor’s last sale. Onhis advice, the rehabbed countryhome had been listed at less thanthe price of the majority of mobilehomes in our local market.That Delmar Realtor was athief. Or, at least, too shrewdfor me. I counted my blessingsthat he’d driven away withouta contract.Those 12 hours afterward weretorture. The next morning, brightand early, we re-listed with ouracquaintance business ownersand thanked our lucky stars forthem. We are back on the MLS!To move things along, and to bea friendly neighbor rather thanthe disgruntled client I may seemvia e-mailupdates tothelisting— Thewrong townis listed! Thewrong town,again! — I“Do you want the bad news, took someor the worse news?” o r g a n i cpeach jammade fromour farm’sp e a c h e sdown to thereal estateoffice.I re-introducedmyself to one of theowners, Diane. I sing with herbrother in the church choir everyChristmas Eve, and she goes to adifferent church with one of mydearest friends. Tenuous connections,sure, but connections to bemaintained, just the same.Her brother’s house has beenfor sale for two years. He wantsto go to Tennessee, or Arizona.Someplace warm, she said.“We’re staying here. We justneed someone to get the ballrolling,” I said. I told her aboutthe house that got away whilewe waited for a sale.“Don’t think about it. It wasn’tmeant to be,” Diane told me. “Theright one will come along at theright time.”I hope that she’s right, and thatthe right time is soon. We onlyneed one buyer, after all. I keeppromising not to put any moremoney into the house.The longer I stay here, themore the house seems to “need.”The bathroom fixture I saw atthe home store would look nicedownstairs, and those climbingroses at the nursery would begreat against my porch rail. Blastthose contradictions, anyway.