I have lived in many different houses. I’ve lived in new houses, old houses, small houses, big houses, nice houses, even ugly houses. I have lived in these houses for months and years at a time, and I have continually adjusted to wherever my new location finds me. I had been afraid in some of my houses, at least initially, until I learned what each creak and groan meant. I have shamefully decided that the thing that makes a house feel most immediately like a home is the presence of a cable connection. A house might feel comfortable, but until I can sit on a couch and mindlessly flip through two or three hundred channels, that house is not yet my home.
The most tenured home that I have lived in isn’t even mine, it’s my parents. The old lakefront on the end of Upper Loch Vista has been their home since 1971, and my home from the day after my birth in 1978 to a very dark, very depressing day in 1996 when I moved from the lake into a one bedroom upper unit of a duplex that I had bought. This was a move that I celebrated at the time, but looking back through some years I have decided that this was the worst move I could have made. Why was I in such a hurry to grow up? Was it so important to have the electric company send bills to me at my own address? Was the fleeting freedom of choosing which channels I wanted as part of my bloated cable package really such an important impetus that could have, or should have, plucked me off of Upper Loch Vista and onto Clover Street? The answers, as I see now, are all no, and that no is deafening.
If this was the worst move I ever personally made, even if it was dictated not solely by choice and more by the progression of life, then the move my clients just made yesterday to 274 Sylvan in Fontana will probably prove to be the best move they ever made. The lakefront on the water in Buena Vista is gracious and comfortable, fitting much like an old shoe, unless your old shoes tend to have crushed heels like mine that continually cause them to slip and act less like a shoes and more like giant leather flip-flops. The house has style, and if I had the ability to steal just a bit of that style and sprinkle it among some of the other lakefront homes in that price range, the market would be better for it. There are features of the home that I like (see hardwood throughout), and those that I love (see original fireplace), and there are those features that render me speechless with admiration (see two story lakeside porch with original hardware). There are features upon features, and these combined with a pleasant setting in a rare association caused this home to receive a dozen or so showings resulting in multiple offers on one windy weekend in May. Thankfully, through the help of the listing agent and a motivated buyer, this quintessential cottage closed yesterday for $1.495MM, a number that represented a full price sale.
I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it would be better if you were to spend today in Lake Geneva. But that other thought, the one that questions why such a value minded agent as myself would boast about selling a property for full price. The thought that finds my representation of a buyer towards a full price contract to be at odds with my continued ridicule of high priced contracts and the ignorant buyers that reward sellers for their shrewd negotiating abilities. The simple answer to these thoughtful questions is that this home was a value, even at the list price. Multiple offers rarely flood a listing agents in-box if the listing in question is overpriced. This property was priced at a buyer pleasing number, quite obviously at the dictation of a no-nonsense seller who wanted to sell without pause. The sale was a solid value at full price, and once that was agreed upon by me and my precious buyer, then the game changed from negotiating price to negotiating position. In the game of individual real estate, there can be only one winner, and that winner can be found sitting on their new pier this weekend enjoying a day like none they’ve enjoyed before.
I have yet to own a house capable of making me feel completely at home. I have bought some furniture, and painted walls, and had hands crusted with mastic as I lay tile in such a pattern that might make it feel like home to me. I have done these things in vain, and continue to look for the house that will sooth my soul. Unfortunately, I know where this search ends, and I know how the story of my house-hunting life likely ends. It ends with me hosting a burning desire to end up on the lake, which is a move that appears impossible for me given my chosen profession. It has been said that home is where the heart is, which to me sounds like a miserable excuse to be happy no matter your location. If that saying were to be modified to accurately reflect my sentiments and the sentiments of my most recent, most cherished buyer, the phrase should probably read “Home is where the pier is”. But even that saying only works if the pier is large and white, with no mooring tires to be found and if it is surrounded by the clearest, freshest of water.
A huge thank you and a big fat congratulations to the buyer who allowed me to represent them in this most wonderful sale (and also to the listing broker who helped pull this thing together for us.)