Bill and I were in our car recently, driving to some event or other when my cell phone rang. It was our landlord calling to tell us that Norman and Amanda’s house, and more importantly the nine acres that went with it, were going on the market the following week. “It will probably take at least a year to close,” he added reassuringly.
It was nice that he warned us because a day or two later, I was working in my office when Bill yelled, “There’s a drone flying over our house!” Needless to say, he ran out and investigated. He found a young photographer using the drone to take pictures of the land and also taking pictures from the ground. (Well-paid work if you can get it, Bill also learned.)
A few days later, one of those huge two-sides-of-a-triangle signs appeared on the road by our property though nowhere near the driveway itself. I’d been a bit concerned about people knocking on the door but I needn’t have worried. No one would pay $2.15 million to live in this house, and indeed the sign advertises us as a “residential plat” with 9.33 acres. Welcome to the wacky, fun-filled world of Western Washington real estate.
We had every reason to know this was coming. Development is crawling up the road at us, swallowing up the old farms and farmhouses turning them into series of depressing beige boxes with no yards and spindly trees. The development that comes up to two houses south of us was offering 54 of these for $400,000 to $600,000 each, and they’re all or nearly all sold. It’s a crazy, crazy, crazy real estate market out there. The house next door to us is next, with its five acres, already permitted and sold, with the tenants on a month-to-month lease. We always knew this house would be next.
And so, we started looking around at real estate. But it’s a crazy, crazy market. The Venn diagram of houses that we like and houses we can afford is a very small overlap indeed. A few weeks ago, we tried to go to an open house at a house in the woods we’d visited a couple of times. It was much of what we’d wanted in a house, in the woods, with nearly five acres, a fairly nice house, a deck, and the trunks of primordially huge trees with the notches still in them from when loggers a century ago put planks a yard or two up the trunk and stood on them so as to cut across the trunk at a thinner spot than near the ground. It turns out that if you do it that way, the tree will regrow and that place was full of these old monsters that had regrown in various ways. It was magical, although the house was boringly generic. But it was only the second house we’d toured and it seemed to soon to make an offer. Which anyhow we might not have been able to make without a pre-approval letter that I hadn’t yet gotten from a lender.
So, I decided, I’d put the pre-approval in process and we would go to the open house and make a final decision as to whether to bid. No smart seller in this seller’s market, I reasoned, would sell the house days before an open house–you might get higher offers.
But no, we arrived at the open house to find the house deserted, the gate to the driveway closed. We retreated to Doc’s Pilchuck Tavern on Machias Road and put in a call to the Redfin person who’d shown us the place. Turned out, there was an accepted offer already and the house was off the market, the open house cancelled.
I felt like a fool–I’d been dreaming of a house in that wooded area east of town almost since I’d first seen that area (on the very stunning drive to the local dump). Why hadn’t I moved faster, tried harder? Most homes around there were half a million dollars or more. Here was one we could actually have afforded.
Drinking beer and licking our wounds by the river on Doc’s back deck, we decided we’d be quicker and more decisive next time we found something we really liked…
Image: The forest near the house we didn’t get.
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