Blog : Winter

Off Season

Off Season

It was January. Maybe February. The snow had piled up and the lake had frozen. It was winter, but not like last winter, it was real winter. The sort we had a couple of years ago. The sort we might have this year. The property came to market on a Tuesday. It might have been a Wednesday. I saw the listing and sent it to a customer. I didn’t send it via an automated feed that all of my “competitors” use. Those feeds are insulting to your intelligence. Or at least insulting to mine.  I sent him the property, with a note, “Buy this”.  Within a few days, he had done just that. The beautiful vacant piece of Fontana lakefront was his. Ours.  Today, a new home is being built. It will be a stunning home, designed with summer weekends in mind, perfect in the little ways. Perfect in the big ways. It’ll be done by next summer, hopefully.

The lot was listed in January. My buyer was in Naples. Or Ireland. Or California. It might have been South America, hunting grouse. The sort that live in the rocky crags. They might not even be grouse, but grouse lookalikes. It didn’t matter where he was. He knew what he wanted to buy here, and when it hit the market, it didn’t matter if it was a Saturday in July or a Tuesday in January. It didn’t matter if he “had the time” to make it up for a look. He had me, and my eyes and my advice, and he knew I knew what he’d want. In this, there is no humble brag. There is just the reality of a resort market during the months that the casual lookers perceive to be the off-season. The reality of Lake Geneva? There is no off-season.

Had this buyer not been paying attention, he would have easily let this opportunity pass him by. That’s the easy thing to do, after all, to assume that there’s always something else. There’s another best thing, coming soon. Not today, tomorrow, maybe. If not tomorrow, perhaps seven Wednesdays from now. That’ll be the day.  That lot was purchased perhaps three years ago.  From that winter day to this autumn day, there has been nothing else come to market that reflects the same sort of attribute. The ideal location. The ideal configuration. The ideal price. If that buyer had decided that, no, he didn’t want to pursue something because his attention was momentarily elsewhere, none of this would be happening. The carpenters wouldn’t be rushing to finish the roof before the snow. The buyer wouldn’t be thinking about summer at his new lake house. He’d just be temporarily distracted by the distraction of the day.

A cold November morning feels about as as distant from summer as possible. Nothing could be farther away at this point. We haven’t even started winter. We haven’t grown tired of winter. We haven’t longed for spring. We haven’t tasted spring. We haven’t put a pier in, because the piers still aren’t out. Next summer is forever away, and it’s easy to live our lives as though we have plenty of time. Summer will come, but it won’t come soon. This is the easy way to live. This is the way most live. But this isn’t the way to get things done. This isn’t the way to accomplish the goal. How do you accomplish the goal? You pay attention in December just like you would in July.  When a property lists in January and I tell you it’s something to buy, you drive up in January.  The grouse can wait. Summer’s coming.

In Praise Of November

In Praise Of November

Writing hasn’t been easy lately. It’s not that I don’t want to write, because I do. I want to write. If I write that enough I might believe it. If I believe it then I might act on it. If I act on it, well, then it’ll be true. But it’s not just the writing that has proven more difficult these days. It’s everything. It’s the typing and the talking and the sleeping. A poll would be helpful, something to find out when sleep no longer comes softly and easily. I’m at the point now, just a few months shy of forty, or a few months into 39, depending. I want to be productive. I want to keep this business moving forward at this pace. I want to do lots of things, but it’s November, and how many times can I beg you to hire me?

But the afternoon yesterday was gray and dark. It wasn’t ominous, no, ominous is something that happens in June, or April. Something that happens in July, when the clouds are low and the lightening strikes. They say November is the clash of seasons, of warm air and cold air battling over this town. But there’s no battle really. The warm air has already lost. These are just the last puffs of life, the last hints of warmth on our cool skin. It won’t be warm again for quite some time. The cold air has won. Winter will be here soon.

This is the in between. There is cold rain in April, but no song was ever written about it.  We should give thanks in June, but no one gets Thursday off in June. We harvest in May, that first sweet crop of hay, of rye and clover, but no one counts the harvest then. A year is not made in June and it is not lost then, either. But it’s November now, and it’s time for all of those things. It’s time for dark skies and faded leaves. It’s time for one last mow of the season. For me, this week will be my third last mow of the year.

There is great mourning now. Long pauses about how awful things are now, and how great they were then. Summery things are memories now, and those who found time to make some have a greater sense of what is now lost. I’d rather be boating, the bumper sticker says. It’s true in November, for most. But it’s calm out now and it’s gray and when people text me about how depressing this weather is I tend to take offense. What is so awful about it?  Is there not equal beauty in that field with the low sun peaking through on the western horizon, lighting the stalks of just harvested horse corn? Field Corn, my  Grandma May would chide.

The Tribune yesterday was filled with skiing. Snow, mountains, West. Buy skis now, before they’re all sold. Buy your Epic Pass by November 19th, the ads and my son warn. It’s urgent really, this warning. Do This or you’ll miss out.  Do This or be stuck. People are fleeing to the islands now. To warmer weather, of any sort. Desert, with purple horizons. Mountains, capped with increasing snow. Beaches, dazzling turquoise. Warmth and sand, sweat and TSA. Travel Now, the Tribune said. Make Plans Now, an admonition. If you don’t, you know what will happen. Winter is coming. Run while you still can.

But why would I run? Why wouldn’t I want to see that field, bright and yet dull, vibrant in a shade of browns and grays that no beach could ever, ever match. Why does everyone hate November? Why is the harvest not magic? The granaries overflowing with corn and beans, the tractors slowly plodding down a two  lane country road, throwing mud into the air and slowing the scant rural traffic, the scene decidedly and undoubtedly perfect. Our fields now are as beautiful as any beach. Any mountain. Any desert sky, no matter how faded purple and pink it may be.  November isn’t the in between, not at all. November isn’t a fight between winter and fall. It isn’t something to run from. It’s just a month, deserving of your admiration, requiring nothing but your presence.

Wreath Sale

Wreath Sale

I should have started a cooking blog.  My first post would have been about chocolate chip cookies. That’s SEO gold. I’d sprinkle in mentions of famous chefs’ names, and then, by now, after so many years I’d have a tremendous following. I would write a cook book. People would buy it. I’d be a guest on some cooking shows. Probably Ellen would also have me on.  Things would be better then. I’d have a publicist and an agent. Then I’d have my television show. My blog would be somewhat dormant by that time, but then every once in a while I’d write something. DAVE’S BEST CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES. The likes and shares would be uncountable.

But instead I write about real estate, and no one really cares. Some people care, but they cared more when they felt the market needed a steadier hand. Now it’s just a frenzy, and careful contemplation is out of style. That’s why I’m going to write about wreaths today. My wife has been bugging me to write about these wreaths for a month. I told her I would. I wasn’t sure if I actually would.  It didn’t feel appropriate to write about wintery things in the heart of fall. It would be like writing about fall in July. No one wants to hear that nonsense.  This morning it’s cold, it’s dark, and anyone who isn’t aware of the pressing nature of the winter season simply hasn’t been paying any sort of attention. Today, wreaths.

My kids are selling the wreaths. They aren’t selling them because they particularly want to sell them. They’re selling these wreaths because they go to a small private school, and as is the nature with small private schools in rural areas, there’s nothing easy about making payroll. There’s nothing easy about keeping the lights on. There’s nothing easy about any of it, and so fundraisers are not so much a means to buy neato wiz bang technologies for the school, they’re a way to keep the doors open.  I don’t often appeal to this group for fundraising efforts, but since it’s a Monday and my wife is mad at me, here’s the information. Besides, I don’t even have a terrific chocolate chip cookie recipe.

If you’d like a wreath, or a bunch of wreaths, or some garland or maybe some other bits of greenery, here are your options. You could just shoot me an email and tell me what you’d like and I’ll put in the order. I believe the wreaths arrive something around Thanksgiving, so I’ll be heading out at that time with my kids and we’ll deliver your order.  Maybe my wife is right. Maybe you’re going to buy some wreaths anyway so you might as well buy them from someone who will bring them right to your doorstep?

 

Lake Geneva’s Winterfest

Lake Geneva’s Winterfest

I admit when it comes to events that I lack enthusiasm when compared to some of my enthusiastic competitors. Chili Cook Off Dinner This Friday Night! I can’t bring myself to care about that. Elkhorn Rotary Club 23rd Annual Pot Luck Dinner This Sunday!  That means nothing to me.  I can’t even feign interest or enthusiasm or concern.  That’s part of what makes this blog somewhat difficult at times. I don’t really want to write about things I don’t care about just for the sake of being an involved member of this community. That’s because the community, as I see it, is different from the way it looks on Facebook, because that’s a particular lens that I don’t own. Not everything is fun, not everything is interesting, and not everything is something you should attend.  SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY MOVIE NIGHT AT SHOWBOAT IS “JUMANJI”!!!!

It’s because of this that I have shied away from telling you about every little goings on in this market. I don’t really tell you about things in the way that I used to, because it seems insincere to me if I tell you to do something that I don’t want to do myself.  Do you care that this Sunday you can go to Pier 290 and watch the Super Bowl? Neither do I, because I can watch that game at home and since I write this to my Illinois clients I’m guessing that very few of you (none) want to stay at Pier 290 until late Sunday night when you likely have to work on Monday morning. So I’m not going to tell you to watch the Super Bowl there, because I don’t really need the content and I’m aware that such an invitation is likely to be ignored anyway. That said, there is something worthwhile this weekend.

Lake Geneva’s Winterfest is this weekend, and it’s important not because of what it is, but because of what it represents. Yes, there will be snow sculpting on display and those displays are worthy of your attention. The competitors are skilled and they slave away to create something that is only valued until it melts, which, according to our forecast, should be sometime around Tuesday of next week. This work is akin to a famous chef making the best of meals, the fanciest of meals, the most expensive of meals, and you’re lucky enough to score an invite to the dinner table. But like a fine meal that won’t hold up well to microwave re-heating, the snow sculptures are best enjoyed fresh, before the dolphin’s nose melts and renders the once vibrant animal a lowly manatee.

The sculptures are one thing, perhaps the main thing, but there’s the ice bar at the Baker House, helicopter rides for those uncertain they care about making it to Monday, and other fun things as well. There’s a scene here, and it matters because the scene plays out during the first week in February. We all know what the scene looks like in July, because it’s a summer scene that has likely been seared, pleasantly, into each of our minds. That scene is so very lovely. But this is a winter scene, and it matters because Lake Geneva isn’t just a place for summer. It’s a place that thrives in all seasons, in the spring and summer and in the fall, yes, but also in the dead of winter. The scene is alive, this town in action, never taking time off, always here, open, ready.

And that’s why it matters. Many resort towns, especially in the Midwest, fail at one season or another. The Northwoods will gladly allow you to be mosquito bitten in the summer and frostbitten in the winter. This is what the Northwoods does.  Door County will sell you ice-cream in the summer and show you their roof-goats with great pleasure. But in the winter Door County is closed, the lights dimmed, the scene on hold until June. Michigan, well, I’m not sure about Michigan in the winter because I visited Harbor Country once in late June and their season hadn’t yet started, so I cannot be certain exactly how terrible that place might be in February. But Lake Geneva is the same in summer as it is in the winter, it’s thriving, it’s bright, and it’s ready for you.

This weekend, come up for a visit. Walk the downtown. Take pictures next to the snow dolphins. Have a drink in an ice bar. And then come over and visit me at N1561 East Lakeside Lane in the South Shore Club. I’ll be holding that new listing open from 1-4 pm on Saturday, and it would be a shame for me to have to sit there all by my lonesome. See you at the lake this weekend,  when the scene will be on full display even while our Midwestern “competitors” hibernate.

 

Photo courtesy Lake Geneva Country Meats
Gray Again

Gray Again

What, exactly, are we supposed to do with this?  We wake to the dim light, not because it beckons us but because we must, we sleep with the pitter and the patter of ice and water against our window sills.  We slip over the day, uncertain if the next step will be slushed or wet or frozen, and we return to our homes in the fog of evening, waiting until we can sleep and repeat the day again. Is it Wednesday or Tuesday? It doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway.

I hurt my back the other day doing nothing in particular. It hurts today and it hurt yesterday, and without something changing it’s going to hurt tomorrow. But I’m used to it, like I’m used to this suffocating gray, like I’m used to the days blending and the night coming early. I’m used to all of this, and none of it bothers me anymore. There is nothing important to do today, but there are important days to come, and it’s so easy to prepare under this gray. The gray days are important days because they want nothing from us. They urge us to do nothing. They don’t distract, they don’t consume, they don’t ask. They just are and they leave us alone.

But we need the prodding of a sunny day, and we expect to be rushed and to be hurried and when we are we complain that we have too much to do. There are too many places to be, too many people to see, too many bills to pay. Too much of this and too much of that, and we want to rest. We need to rest. Under the brightest sky we have things to do and those places to find, and when we wish we could just rest. We wish we could find our house in the early evening with nothing to do and no where to go, to build a kindling fire and watch it burn. To eat a slowly prepared meal slowly because there’s no where to rush to, nothing to hurry about, no where calling. We hurry and we race and we wish we could slow down until we can, and then we don’t.

I wish it would be colder and sunnier and I wish the snow would build and the ice would skim and the fishermen would auger and the sailers would affix blades to their boats. I wish these things would happen in this season, but today they won’t. Tomorrow, nothing. Later in the month something might happen, the ice might return, the snow might fall, the men might reel in their tiny fishing poles and boast to the passersby of their pile of flopping food. But none of that is happening today, because today we get to move more slowly. We get to make that fire and eat that dinner and watch that game. We get to do these things and we shouldn’t complain, because these gray days are a gift that expect nothing in return.

Eagles

Eagles

The Eagles don’t belong to us. They fly here, they fly around, and then they fly away. They don’t visit while we boat, and they don’t visit while we swim. They never get to see the green shore and the smallmouth when they crash through the surface feeding on Emerald Shiners. They never see the carp splash in the shallows while they spawn against the rocky shore. They miss the fields turning from green to gold, from gold to tan, from tan to gray. They miss the sweetcorn sending out their tassels, and they miss the harvest. The planting, missed, too.

The Eagles come with the cold, riding down from the north, from those lakes where they fish and those rivers that they watch. They fly in on the cold currents and they circle overhead for most of a season. They circle my office, they circle your house, they circle the water and they wait. They’re cold and they’re ruthless and it’s minus ten this morning and they don’t even care. They’re waiting for the ice and they’re hoping it hurries. They don’t want to stay here for long, though if they were more discerning they’d wait to see what the piers look like and what the boats do and how the sun rises and sets on a summer day.

But they won’t be here and they don’t care, because they’re here to eat and they’re not our friends. The Coots visit now, too, and like so many arctic birds that stop here for a spell, they stay longer than they probably should. We can’t blame them, these small running-on-water-birds, because they stay longer when they like a place. Just like us. And so the Coots stay and the lake freezes and the Coots huddle into tighter and tighter circles. It’s when they huddle and the Eagles know the timing is right, that they’ve finally found what they’ve been waiting for. That the ice has formed and the Coots have huddled and the air is cold and the piers are stacked, each on their lawn, waiting.

The Eagles see the birds and they see the ice and they know it’s time, and so they circle overhead and they dive down like fighter pilots on a strafing run and they eat and they eat. They rip the Coots from the water, one by one, plucking them off like me milling around the waiter with the chilled shrimp tray at a party where no one feels comfortable enough to eat too many. No one but me, and the Eagles. They grab a small arctic bird and fly to the nearest Oak, or Walnut, or Maple, and they rip it to pieces in a hurry. Then, once the feathers and the bones have fallen to the ground the Eagle goes again, circling and circling before diving. The feast will last as long as the Coots huddle in whatever open spot of water might be left.

It’s that time again, and the Eagles are here. The Coots came first, but the Eagles will be the last to leave. And then it’ll just be us, the sturdy ones who don’t mind the winter, the ones who know that after winter we’ll get to put our piers back in and then everything will be alright.

Winter Rules

Winter Rules

It was fall on Saturday and winter on Sunday. It’s winter today, and it’ll be winter tomorrow. In fact, the odds are stacked heavily in favor of it being winter for most of the days between now and spring. When the spring does arrive it’ll be nice, but it won’t be here until it’s been winter for so long that we’ll start to wonder if it’ll ever be. Spring.  For now, it’s winter and it just started and so there are things that need reminding.

If you bought a lake house this year then that would make this your first winter. You should do some things to make sure you don’t ruin your first winter at the lake. Those things are the things that I’ve learned, even though most of the things aren’t something anyone would actually need to learn. They’re things we should all know but in the hustle and the bustle of a Holiday season we tend to forget. The lake house is for summer, that’s what some people think, and so when the winter comes they think of malls and of Zika Beaches and of other things. What they should be thinking about is the lake. Frozen or not.

That brings us to your exceptionally short to-do-list:

Don’t turn the heat down and leave. This is a common mistake. Buy a many million dollar lake house and then turn the heat to 55 and leave it for a month or two. This is a bad idea. It’s noble that you want to save the planet by consuming less natural gas, but let’s really consider what’s happening here. In Wisconsin it gets cold. It gets cold on a Tuesday and then it’s warmer by Thursday, and all the while you were at work doing the work things that we accomplish in winter. Your house is not a constant temperature in all of its various rooms and levels. It fluctuates, somewhat wildly. A thermostat set at 55 degrees will indeed keep the air around the thermostat at 55 degrees, but the air in the basement by that bathroom on the outside wall? 31. Don’t risk frozen pipes, just keep your heat at 62 or 65 and deal with the burden of an extra $50 on your monthly gas bill. It’s cheap insurance.

Along those lines, why haven’t you installed a Nest or Ecobee or anyone of the dozen wifi thermostats? Do that. Monitor your lake house when you’re not there. Keep an eye on things with a wifi security camera. Not because we have high crime, because we don’t, but because it feels good to sit at your desk and look in on the things that you work hard to own. Buy the thermostat, the camera, and maybe a wifi water sensor or two to install in the basement. Just do it and be smart about things. No matter how diligent your house check person may be, they can’t be at the house all the time, but your technology can be.

Buy some bird feeders. Put the bird feeders outside your house. Watch the birds. Winter birds are the real champions, unlike migratory birds that turn tail and leave when the going gets rough. It’s the winter birds that deserve our affection. Beat it Sandhill Cranes, you’re too soft for a Lake Geneva winter. Beat it, Bald Eagles that come and eat our small birds and then head south when our soft water turns hard.  Love the local birds, feed them.

You don’t like coming up to the lake as often in the winter because there’s nothing to do? Are you serious? What, exactly, is there to do in the suburbs during winter that somehow trumps the Lake Geneva things to do? You have movie theaters? Big deal, so do we. You have a mall? So what? We have some shops.  What you don’t have is a handful of ski hills, a giant frozen lake to skate on and snowshoe over and cross country ski atop. You also don’t have all of these bald eagles. Come to the lake this winter. Make a fire. Burn it all day. Make some soup. Be domestic. Stop needing something to do so often. Just be, and be at the lake. The meter is running on your lake house expenses, whether you’re here or not. It’s running a bit faster now, too, now that you’re not going to leave your heat at 55.

Eternal Summer

Eternal Summer

In the middle of my living room is a large fireplace. It’s made of bricks and stone, mortar and sweat. Next to the fireplace there’s a basket of sorts, a large wooden container that spiders like to web behind, between the stone and the wood. In the container is the cut and split wood, the firewood. It’s oak and maple and sometimes ash. Increasingly, ash. Opposite the wood is the axe. It’s a handsome axe, a big axe, and it’s worn and dented and scratched. I see this fireplace and this pile of wood and these spider webs and that axe every single day. I see these items in the morning and again at night. In time, my dear fire friends, in time.

And that time will come, but it won’t be here soon. It’ll be here in October, late October, on that first Saturday when the sky turns dull and dark, when the rain spits and a lonesome walker can see her breath outside for the first time since April. On that day, the wood will be stacked in the stone fireplace, a match will be lit, and the fireplace will crackle and roar to life. Then the process will repeat, not during an Indian Summer, but during the later months, those cold November afternoons and the still snow of early December. The fireplace for now is decoration, but then it will be for heat, for moods and for satisfaction and for passing the time.

It’s been summer for a while now. Summer blossomed in May and then it stuck during June, then July and now August, too. June wasn’t like June, and July was like July. August, well for a while it’s been feeling like too much. How many times can I sweat through a Wednesday shirt before I say that it’s all too much? The summer has been here and the summer will stay here, and for the rest of August we’ll sweat and then we’ll swim and then we’ll swim and soon after we’ll sweat. September will be the same. The summer that came early will stay late, and we’ll all be happy for it and yet, deep down inside, we’ll all think a little about football and a little about leaves and a little about how nice it will be to wear jeans without feeling suffocated by the denim.

This is what it’s like to live here. To live in this place where our summer is summer and our fall is fall and when winter comes, it’ll be winter. Imagine a life where summer was summer and fall was summer and winter was summer. Spring? Summer. The excitement of it all would be lost on us then, when we wish for the days when 98 might be 82, so we can wear our light jacket to dinner. What a boring life it would be to live where the seasons are the same. The people who live like that tell us how great it is. They mock our winter. You have a little something on your hat, and on your boots, they say. They’ll think they’re being funny, that they’re better than us because their sunburn is the same in December as it is in June.

I lived for a while where I thought that might be nice, to ignore winter and spend the season in some other summer. But today, in the middle of a most righteous summer I think of how much I love the sun and the waves and the breeze in the trees, but I also love my fireplace, and that stack of wood.

 

Above, “Sweet Wheat” by Kristen Westlake
Winter Selling Strategies

Winter Selling Strategies

I’ve driven to Marco Island at least twice. I don’t think I’ve driven there more than that, so it must be at least and at most, twice. The days were those days before kids, or before they were in school, back when my schedule had nothing to do with basketball practice and swim meets, back when there was little that I absolutely had to do. Back then, my wife and I would leave for Florida just after Thanksgiving, and we’d stay there for three weeks. What a luxurious thing that was, and what a strange thing it was. There we were, young and lacking money, and we drove to Florida like some septuagenarians to spend some of the winter. The market afforded that opportunity then, because it used to be painfully quiet in the days that fell between Thanksgiving and New Years. The market wasn’t active, at least not for me, and so I’d spend some time hurling fresh caught mullet into the surf, and at least once I caught a giant Snook that my wife caught only glimpses of on video. She didn’t know how to zoom out.

But that was then and this is now, and our market doesn’t sleep. It doesn’t make allowances for three week winter vacations, nor does it particularly care if you’re not paying attention because you’re busy shopping and baking. The market churns, and it churns in July as it does on the last day of November, as it will on the 20th of December. Now, it does slow on Christmas Day, and on New Years Day, because only the very difficult or the exceedingly lonely would wish to talk real estate on those days. But the rest of this next month, the market will be moving. Last weekend, after the rain of Thanksgiving, there were showings on Friday and on Saturday and on Sunday. There was activity in a market that the casual observer would assume is on hold.  I’ve always said that the best time to secure value at Lake Geneva is late November through mid December. That’s still true, but that’s direction for the buyers out there. I generally ignore the sellers, except for today.

It’s a terrific time of year to be a buyer, but it’s not such a fun season to be a seller. Sellers know it’s not fun to be available during the season when every active buyer wants a deal, which is why they’ve taken their properties off market en masse long before the last day of November. This has been the conventional wisdom for quite some time,  but it’s the wrong way to handle the winter. If it were still 1998, I’d have time to go to law school to avoid selling real estate, but more importantly, we could take our properties off the market and sit around to pass some of the winter before re-listing the homes. This isn’t 1998, sadly. It’s very late 2015 and the market doesn’t stop, which means inventory shouldn’t be pulled. If you’re a seller and you’ve been floundering on the open market all year, there’s no particular reason to let your home sit out the next 8 weeks.

There are exceptions to this new rule. If, for instance, your home has been for sale for all of 2015 and it’s grossly and disgustingly overpriced, then pull it. But only pull it if you’re intent on letting the property rest before bringing it back to market in the spring (Late January) at a much reduced list price. If the goal is to let a property rest, then reposition it in the market for the new selling season, the most important part of that playbook is the repositioning. A property cannot be repositioned to appeal to a new group of buyers if the property is the same old crappy house at the same elevated asking price. If you’ve been for sale all year and everyone loves your house but hates your kitchen counter tops, then pull the property, install some new counter tops, and re-list in spring, no price adjustment needed. However, if your house is listed at $2.5MM and everyone knows it’s worth $1.8MM, then pull it from the market, let it rest, and bring it back at $1.99MM in late January. These are two scenarios where it makes sense to pull and then re-list, but for everyone else? Leave the property on the market.

Last Friday, I had two showings at a condo on the lake that hadn’t been shown since the first weekend in November. If that condo hadn’t been on the market and had, instead, been pulled as is the old-timey conventional wisdom, it would have never had two different buyers take a look at it. It would have been sitting with its head in the sand, hoping no one paid it any mind until it came back to market, triumphantly (boringly) in late January.  Sellers, heed this advice. Leave your properties alone. There’s very little more appealing than walking a lake property in the still of winter, just after a fresh snow, and if your property isn’t on the open market, it’ll just be you walking the property, and you’re not a buyer.