Life and Death And Real Estate

Five days a week I drop my two kids, aged 10 and 7, off at school. My thoughtful son, intent on pleasing both his teachers and his parents, gathers his books and his gym bag, and leaves the car, his face reflecting his mind that is steadily focused on the day ahead and the things that he must do. My aloof daughter leaves the car, some days forgetting her backpack on the seat next to her, and blows me a kiss before skipping or stumbling towards the front door where she dreads the day of work that lies ahead of her. Unless Katie or Summer happen to be leaving their parents’ cars at the same time, then she’s in a better mood. My son will reach the door first, and he’ll open that door and hold it until his sister shuffles, or skips, through. This was not his original inclination, but after absorbing my instructions for a year or perhaps two, he has finally settled into this routine. Today was no different than all the ones that came before.

Behind me in the stacked line of cars that funnel towards the schools’ front entrance was another dad dropping off his daughter. His day today was, as I imagine, not unlike the last year of days that he’s had. While I pulled forward to think of my day, and of my clients that treat real estate as if it is indeed life and death, I thought of him. He pulled away from the entrance, his ten year old daughter no longer in the shotgun seat, and he drove back towards home for another day as I drove to my office. His day will be nothing like mine, as he has been told that he is dying of cancer, and at not yet 50 years of age, there’s no longer any treatment possible to reverse that sentence. His day will be nothing like mine.

I have told sellers after showings that the buyer liked their home, but they didn’t love their home and as a result, they will not be buying it. I have had these sellers tell me just how horribly disappointed they are. In the buyers, in me. I have had clients in the process of buying homes that buy with such emotion that if a deal were to fall through you’d think it would take away their primary reason for living. I’ve introduced buyers to deals only to watch them walk from the deal and later, when someone else takes that same deal, I’ve had those initial buyers tell me that they demand integrity from those with whom they deal, labeling their indecision as my fault. I’ve had buyers back out of deals for no reason at all, and then work with someone else because of their own imagined slight. I’ve had customers leave me because they needed to be coddled and massaged, and my approach to real estate is one that assumes my clients are intelligent and should be treated as such. These are the things I deal with, where buyers and sellers treat the business of vacation home ownership as though it was a matter of life and death.

This may indeed come as a shock to some, but real estate- be it the sale or the acquisition of- is not life and death. It isn’t even close. It is a joy, a privilege, something that we should celebrate at nearly all times. There is a perspective lacking, and I’m somewhat saddened by it. I lose perspective myself, allowing my happiness to hinge on the whims of clients who may or may not buy, or sell. I drive the shores of this lake every day, ducking into and out of small narrow lanes and twist towards the water, and I gather information and present that information in the best way possible. I rush to do this, I rush to do that, and I just keep spinning and rushing and doing everything while continuously warping my own sense of perspective.

Yesterday, I drove into the city. The meeting I had was important, the company pleasant, the lunch befitting the occasion. As I walked the concrete I couldn’t avoid the sewer smell that washed over well dressed shoppers and businesspeople, all walking quickly and with purpose. The purpose I presumed was to slip inside a building as soon as possible to avoid the sewer smell, but I may have been wrong. I walked the concrete, I ate at the table, and when I walked out onto the concrete several hours later I could no longer tell if it was sunny or cloudy, warm from nature or just warm from the smelly air pushing through those sidewalk vents. I drove home, North and then West, past all of the people and all of the buildings, and past all those shiny things that we acquire to possibly find happiness. It hadn’t been cloudy in the city at all, it’s just that I couldn’t see much of the sky.

I drove home last night, and when I finally made it to Lake Geneva and glimpsed the lake, the setting sun had cast a rosy glow over everything in my view. The water was soft and colored as the sky, as if the whole thing was one big brush with the same pastel paint. I saw the lake again in Williams Bay, and the color was the same. A sailboat sailed. When I climbed out of the valley where Williams Bay rests, the sun was dipping lower, throwing a vibrant light over the farmer’s fields that were either just harvested or soon will be. There were a few cars, but not many. There was no noise, no smell, no city to be found. This is the drive I take daily, in fast forward always, and it took only a day trip to the city to realize how unique these scenes really are.

And so it goes, a gray morning like this, a sturdy wooden desk with all of these important things scattered across it. A buyer for this, a seller for that, a deadline soon and move eminent. This day will spin past, quickly and with many, many events, and I’ll become absorbed in these as you become absorbed in yours. Meanwhile, a father sits at home and wonders what his daughter’s life will be without him. That’s what it means to face life and death, and it has nothing to do with real estate.