Don’t Blame Cactus for Slow Sale of Home

To paraphrase Wordsworth: The brokers are too much with us.

Nothing personal, mind you. Our broker happens to be professional and hard-working.

But my wife and I have endured a 10-week odyssey into the nerve-wracking world of selling a home. We’ve undergone the pressure of a deadline for a cross-country move. We’ve hawked our house in a market that suddenly, maddeningly slowed to a crawl just as we jumped in.

Our modest Sherman Oaks house has brought its share of drama right from escrow. Even before we closed on it two years ago, we drove up one day to find two young women sawing off branches from the majestic cereus cactus in our front yard.

“We thought you’d want them removed,” they lied.

Stealing our succulents? Was nothing sacred in the Southland?

A job promotion drove us back into the marketplace after months of hearing about soaring prices and multiple bids--the California housing gold rush. Even our handyman got nearly $1 million for his grubby Beverly Hills bungalow, which the buyer demolished and replaced with an oversized monstrosity on a quarter-acre parcel.

Waited for Bids

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We listed in early May and waited for the bids to come rolling in. And waited. And waited.

“The house shows extremely well,” our broker said so often it became a kind of mantra. But show was all it did; there was no winning with this place.

As my departure date loomed, we lowered the price and tried not to take it personally when battalions of would-be buyers traipsed through our living room with nary a bid.

“What’s wrong with our house?” my wife lamented.

“Nothing that a generous offer won’t cure,” I replied.

Then the bells went off, sort of.

Alarms Routs Clients

We were hiding in Santa Barbara from yet another weekend open house. A friend had agreed to turn our alarm on and off (if they’ll steal your cactus, why would they stop at the stoop?) so brokers could peddle “the property” in our absence.

He was late one morning and a broker had arrived with clients, only to be driven away by a deafening siren that would not stop.

I called to apologize.

“My clients were serious buyers,” the broker growled. “They really liked the property.”

“Surely, they’ll come back for another look under quieter circumstances,” I pleaded.

“Maybe,” he replied. “They said they want to see what else was around.”

Remove Cactus in Back

For 24 hours, my anger at my friend smoldered. Then my broker assured me that her colleague was probably extracting retribution; his clients were not interested, siren or no, if they failed to return to the scene of the crime prevention.

But she did have a suggestion: remove the 8-foot cactuses in the back that were more impressive than the ones out front. She said many potential buyers wanted a traditional grassy back yard, which we could provide, sans cereus.

Since reluctantly inheriting the prickly desert denizens, we had grown fond of their delicate night-blooming flowers, their stoic grandeur and merciful self-reliance. The notion of hacking them up for resale was painful. We did not want to oversee their demise out back in departing after saving them in front upon arriving.

Instead, we vowed to take them out if the new owner preferred sod to succulents. We lowered the price--again. We even warmed yeast in the oven to create that homey smell of fresh-baked cookies.

‘It’s Like Dating’

And we told ourselves there must be someone who would appreciate what we did about our home: the logical layout, the French doors and skylights, the serene covered patio, the fountain and roses, and gardenias. And, hopefully, even the cactus.

“It’s like dating,” I said. “It only takes one.”

That one proved to be a sweet couple seeking more space, a more outdoor life style, a place to cultivate orchids and plug in computers. They were spurred to quick action--and a full-price bid--by another offer that came in the same electrifying Sunday. Money Sunday.

And, yes, the cereus seem safe. Our buyers appreciate them, too.

So we’re off to the East Coast--and more brokers. I hope no one takes it personally when we tromp through his or her home without buying it. I figure we’ll know we’ve found the right place when bells go off. But I’m not promising my wife a cactus garden.