My Perfect House Was Impossible to Sell
We were selling the perfect house. It should've sold in an hour after an aggressive bidding war, but instead it dismally sat on the market for almost three years, thanks to Vermont's most devastating natural disaster in 85 years.
When we lived in New Jersey and could finally afford it, a second home in Vermont was a dream come true. My husband's work hours, compounded by a daily hellish commute into Manhattan, left little quality family time during the week. Our weekends in Vermont became a sacred heavenly retreat.
We first saw the house online and instantly fell in love with its charming New England feel. Although it was relatively new construction, the house was built to look like an old post-and-beam barn with beautiful wide-plank floors, a new kitchen and bath, and a double-heated garage. Because it was over our budget, we obsessively tracked it online, stalking the real estate website nightly. When the price dropped, we pounced on the opportunity. Even after the price drop, we knew that we overpaid but justified that we would keep it forever, so resale considerations were not an issue.
Yeah, right.
Things changed when my husband's job took us to Pittsburgh. The 10-hour car ride was too taxing for an average weekend getaway, so we unfortunately decided to sell the house. We also rationalized it by considering that my husband's new job was closer to home this time around, eliminating the long commute to work and carving out more time with the family. The house had served its purpose, acting as the glue that bound us, but it was time to say goodbye.
We put the house on the market and made one final trip to Vermont, emotionally packing up the house. Closing the door one final time was the end of a chapter. Although I did my best to see it as a new beginning, the pit in my stomach only grew deeper as we drove away. I consoled myself with the thought that the house would hit the market just in time for the glorious fall foliage and the skier's haven winter season. Unfortunately, Mother Nature put a dent in our plans. At the end of August (just before the beginning of prime real-estate season for that region), Hurricane Irene flooded the town, causing unprecedented damage. Our house was part of a community that sat high on a hill and didn't sustain a single drop of water. While it remained dry, so did the market. Very few buyers ventured up during that next year.
So we lowered the price of our already reasonably-priced home and bided our time. Eventually, one ridiculously low offer came in and we dismissed it as offensive. Little did we know that two years later, we'd be accepting an identical offer, wishing we hadn't waited for the next best thing.
Sometime during the first dry year, we decided that perhaps Vermont wasn't so far and took the house off the market. In reality, we were just missing home and our Vermont house provided some much needed stability and nostalgia. With renewed promises to visit more often, we hired a mover and re-shipped our personal contents back north. We did spend a wonderful winter break there, and we congratulated ourselves on our wise decision. However, we just couldn't find the time to visit again, given our kids' sports, social activities, and the rarity of the long weekend necessary to make the trip. And so, once again, we realized that sentimentality got in the way of reality. At this point, we got back on the emotional rollercoaster, put the house back on the market and kept promising to visit when we could. Needless to say, visits were few and far between.
Two years into this mess, we lowered the price further, switched to a new agent and became disgusted with the protracted process – and if I'm being honest, with the house as well. I grew more resentful each month as I paid the real estate taxes, homeowner association dues, utility bills, and the occasional unexpected expense (such as a malfunctioning septic tank), which could've resulted in a long-distance nightmare.
Our sense of nostalgia seemed to be going down the tubes – along with the dollars we lost monthly. Hurricane Irene decimated many of the charming shops, restaurants and family-owned businesses that were so unique to New England. And it all but obliterated the real estate market. We tried to maintain perspective and empathy, because, after all, this was only our vacation home – thousands of others lost their family homes and livelihoods. Our real estate agent relayed that many homes had been flooded, walls and roofs had caved in, and a portion of the road leading into town collapsed into the river. Admittedly, it was hard to stay focused and balanced and not let our selfish need to sell get in the way.
At the beginning of the third year of our saga, we received an offer from a buyer who was familiar with the town and had just sold her house. While her offer was low, our expectations were even lower and she had cash in hand from her sale. We were cautiously optimistic (and desperate) and accepted the offer, reasoning that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush – little did we know that the buyer would literally turn out to be a cuckoo bird!
The buyer failed to provide necessary documents, respond to emails in a timely manner (or any manner for that matter) and failed to meet her mortgage deadline. The contract expired, and in our desperation to consummate the deal, we agreed to a lengthy extension. Many months after we extended the contract, we ended up selling the house to the same crazy buyer.
Perhaps the agony and irritation of this long process helped to alleviate the angst of selling a piece of our family history. We didn't even attend the closing of the house, because at that point, we were just done. With her. With the house. With all of it.
