Short Sale Nightmare

2009-10-29T00:47:49Z

Orangevale, CA--Today, as my truck swung into the horseshoe driveway, Megan immediately saw the Notice of Trustee's Sale tacked to her front door, the locks had been changed, and a Realtor's lockbox was affixed to the entrance of the large family home with a pool and acreage. Her house had been sold at auction.

This was the end of my friend's dream. And as her Realtor, I was a reluctant witness to the final chapter.

Megan had tried to work out a "short sale" with the bank--selling the house for less than was owed. Within two weeks of listing the house, she even received two offers, one for cash. But, in the end, the bank decided to send the house to auction on October 26, 2009. On the steps of the Sacramento County Courthouse, Megan's house went up for auction. There were no bidders. The house reverted back to the lender. It is now "bank owned" also known as an REO property.

As a real estate broker, I've witnessed firsthand the horror stories that people endure trying to hang on to their homes. Megan was one of the thousands of folks who needed to modify their home loan--a loan, she quite frankly, shouldn't have tried to bite off. But Megan valiantly fought for two long years to lower her monthly mortgage payment. Stacks of paperwork spilled from three legal sized folders the day I took her short sale listing. "I can't get them to work with me!" She sobbed, gesturing towards the mountain of forms gently spilling off the table onto the back of her German Shepherd snoring on the kitchen floor--oblivious to the life altering scenario.

"I'll try to get the bank to approve a short sale, but this might take months." I explained. We listed the house for $200K less than was owed.

When the offers arrived, I pulled together a 40-page "Short Sale Package" that SunTrust Mortgage required. It took hours, but the package was submitted. After that, several weeks flew by while I tried to get someone, anyone from SunTrust to speak to me about the offers.

Each and every time I called the "Loss Mitigation Department" I was forced to explain the entire situation from the beginning. Rising at 5:00 a.m. for two weeks straight to call back East, my nerves were beginning to fray.

I swear, the representatives from SunTrust sounded like they were making up stuff each time I called. Exasperated, I said to one rep., "How come each time I call I have to explain the whole situation from the beginning? Don't you keep any electronic notes?" He yelled, "Woman, get a grip!" And put me on hold for 30 minutes. Ah well, so much for "customer service"

This afternoon, we piled a few items left in her garage into the back of the pickup to take back to her rented duplex. Megan said she felt ill--like she was going through a divorce or something totally life altering. After five years of living in her "Palazzo" as she called it, the bank would be looking for new owners. Megan wiped the tears from her eyes with back of her hand, patted the bricks fondly and whispered "Goodbye good house, we went through a lot together!"

Dad's Notepad

2009-10-24T00:37:55Z

Sacramento, CA--This month marks the fourth year of my father’s death. Dad was so caught up in the day-to-day particulars of his suburban North Sac life and as a caregiver to my Mother, I think at times he actually forgot to enjoy it.

The day after he passed, I was searching his home office, drowning in grief and looking for something (anything) to comfort me. I spied Dad’s small spiral bound note pad with his pen resting at a jaunty angle on top of the page. There was a long "To Do" list scribbled in ink—bills to pay, errands to run, and fix-it projects around the house. Just five days prior, he had renewed his October subscription to National Geographic and his AARP membership.

At 83, battling throat cancer and a nursing a patched up heart, he was still heavily invested in living life and planning for his future.

Then, it hit me like a sledgehammer: None of those things on the note pad mattered anymore. Poof! The laundry list of projects vanished the moment his soul took flight. At precisely which point did I understand that it didn’t really matter how many minutes it took to water the lawn, or how much chlorine the pool required, or which day to pick up his prescription? Gone, in an instant. No more lists for Dad.

Hours later, still glued to his office chair while watching storm clouds gathering at dusk, I lightly traced his spidery script with my fingertips, and felt the loss of all those little, sometimes inconsequential things we take for granted. But in the final analysis, those mundane projects had mattered a great deal to him—they were the detailed notes of a life in the process of living, of running to the grocery store for eggs and orange juice, paying monthly bills, or remembering to send a birthday card to one of his four daughters.

I kept that list—buried in the back of my office filing cabinet. Occasionally, I’ll run across it, and immediately touch the paper, trying to re-connect with someone whom I had a complicated and often turbulent relationship.

Farewell, Dad, you are fondly remembered–and, by the way, I keep detailed daily "To Do" lists too.

Newest articles on The Sacramento Press written by Candace Taylor

Short Sale Nightmare

Dad's Notepad