Confessions of a Professional Real Estate Writer

One year as this newspaper’s ‘preview house’ writer has left our reporter astounded, dubious and overflowing with adjectives

By Liz Jaros
Home Book Magazine Contributor

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If there are bulldozer tread marks and a rehabber’s sign in the front yard instead of grass, I can pretty much write the story from my car: This unique residence blends vintage charm with modern convenience, striking a perfect balance between old and new. The cherry cabinet kitchen features stainless steel appliances, granite countertops and a central breakfast island. It flows nicely into a sunny, family room addition across the back of the home…

I have been here before, or at least someplace like it. As the Wednesday Journal’s Preview House writer, my weekly job is to take readers for a 600-word, virtual spin through a local home that’s currently for sale – a job I’ve held for the last year and one that requires a great deal of objective integrity. So while I could, on this occasion, make jaded presumptions and wax sarcastic about home renovation monotony, I instead get out of the car and ample up a spectacular brick-paved pathway toward the next featured property. I knock on the door with an open mind and an arsenal of descriptive adjectives, because, who knows? Maybe this time the cabinets will be maple.

In the course of my duties, I’m treated to a broad range of real estate talent and a diverse sampling of what good money can buy in these fabulous towns of ours. I’ve learned quite a bit about the current housing market and a great deal about the architectural character of our villages. I’ve also come to expect a few things from my subjects.

When my assignment takes me to a three- or four hundred block in north Oak Park, for example, I brace for historical significance.

“This doorknob is original to the home,” the agent says as we enter a Stick-style Victorian built in 1865. “Current owners found it in the crawl space and spent three years restoring it. Look at the detail work!”

I squint, but my eyes are sore from perusing a twenty-four-page feature sheet that includes photos of each floorboard and documentation of each person to ever pass through the front door. Of course I think the house is beautiful and appreciate the efforts of its enthusiastic rehabbers, and I know people generally enjoy reading about home history, but this kind of tour becomes a parody of itself when you’ve been on 20 others just like it.

When I pull up to a Frank Lloyd Wright residence, or something he may have influenced, I take a minute to call my babysitter before going in. She needs to know I will not be coming home at a reasonable hour.

By the time I see the light at the end of the pathway to discovery (a signature Wright trick where visitors are teased through a maze toward an impending surprise: the front door!), my spiral notebook is overflowing with sketches and anecdotes about Prairie style fixtures and individual panes of art glass.

Once inside, I’m often treated to an in-depth account of what Frank was going through personally during this period of his artistic expression, and how it may have influenced his decision to employ a triangle motif in this particular room. I’m frequently too distracted to take adequate notes during these explanations. Instead, I’m looking for some indication that real people do in fact live here. Where are their shoes? Where is the garbage can? Where is the TV? A juice glass in the sink would go a long way to convince me that humans actually wake up here each morning. I do not mention this in my story, of course. I’m here to describe, not ponder.

Equally as time consuming and doubly as mystifying, new construction showings are also a regular part of the beat. In my experience, tear-downs or those homes that have been “completely rebuilt from the ground up” can be divided cleanly into two categories: those designed in Prairie style, and those designed using as many different kinds of exterior material as humanly possible. I contemplate my introductory paragraph as I enter: This unique residence blends flagstone, lannonstone, limestone, light brick, dark brick, stucco, slate, concrete, copper and plastic to create a distracting, but striking façade…

I’m always excited to be assigned one of these million dollar homes, partly because I’m a sucker for the ridiculous.

“Why are there two dishwashers?” I ask the listing agent, during a stroll through the 45-by-75 foot kitchen.

“This one is for glasses,” she returns, already moving on to the potato chip pantry, which is adjacent to the canned goods suite. “Oh and this coat closet comes with its own private full bathroom, which has a pedestal sink and exterior ventilation. Make sure you mention that.”

This is the point where I usually slip the pen behind my ear and abandon all hopes of capturing every luxurious amenity in print. I know I’ll reach my word max well before I get to the cathedral ceiling nanny quarters on the third floor.

Perhaps the mot dreaded, and also the most cherished of all preview house experiences, is the one where an older couple accompanies the agent and me on our walk-through. Typically, this is a ‘60s ranch or an American Foursquare, and the couple is preparing to abandon the nest.

“Here are the lines we drew to keep track of the kids’ heights… This is where Joey chipped his tooth…” Occasionally the matriarch weeps as she speaks.

By the end of the showing, she is hauling out photo albums. I am sitting on a couch holding her hand, promising her there are grand adventures to be had in her new condo on Lake Street (which is smartly designed to offer all the comforts of home living without all the hassles!).

When I sit down to describe these empty nest residences, I usually exert a little extra effort, dwelling on how great a place this would be to raise a family. I know the owners will send copies to their children. They’ll send flowers to my house.

Always on the lookout for a better home myself, I get optimistic when a regular old brick bungalow gets this week’s nod. Formal living- and dining rooms. Nice woodwork. Two bedrooms down, one up. Small kitchen with potential. I’m dialing my husband as I flip through the listing information. This could be the one. But when I get to the price, I hang up.

They want $589,000 for this joint? Are they kidding? Where are the cherry cabinets? Where is the historical significance? Where is the nanny supposed to sleep?

I return to the job at hand, describing what I see. Content to hunt vicariously for a new home each week until I’ve seen and heard it all.