I, a female in my early 50s at the time, arrived at the subject property which was in more of a rural area with larger lots in a neighborhood in Northern California. The male homeowner answered the door, and after our introductions I started measuring the outside perimeter of the house, which had a wrap-around porch on the front half. The homeowner then went to a toolshed in the backyard, close to the house. He pulls out a shovel, a ball-peen hammer, and some duct tape, and sets it all on the deck railing as I’m measuring. He didn’t say anything. He went back inside. I quickly finished measuring and hesitated about going back inside to plug in the floor plan and finish my information. The owner was sitting watching TV with his back toward me as I tiptoed in, quickly went through the smaller one-story home, and made my way to the front door very nervously. I wanted to run to the car and just leave. I should have. Instead, I spoke to his back as he was watching TV as I was getting closer to the front door. Told him I was done, he got up as I was walking through the front door. He came out as I was heading to my car to quickly get in. He stood by the deck railing and the shovel, hammer and tape, and said goodbye. I locked the doors and quickly backed out of the long driveway, my heart pounding. When I told my husband about the day, he was not pleased that I didn’t leave immediately before finishing the appraisal. The sentiment was the same from my fellow appraisers back in the office.
How Do You Measure That Feeling in Your Gut?
Hooked on Appraising
When I first started appraising in 2000, I was sent by my supervisor to do an appraisal in San Francisco. Everything was standard until I inspected the basement. There, every wall was painted black, as were the windows. There were hooks on the wall, which were used for filming bondage pornography. The part that freaked me out the most was the owner’s casual attitude as though this is what everyone’s basement was used for. He was happy to explain it all to me. This hooked me, pardon the terrible pun, on appraising. It sure is fun to see how people live.
House of Slytherin
During the meltdown, we were appraising a house that had been foreclosed with tenants still occupying the home. As the tenants were walking out, they told me that there was a large boa constrictor in the home somewhere. They had lost the snake at some point. I thought they were either being spiteful or teasing me. Turns out, the snake was dead behind the fridge. What a trip!
Fleas and Thank You
Back during the 1990 market crash, I was appraising an REO for the bank. I don’t think I planned to be in the field that day because I had a dress and pantyhose on. The house was a disaster with kids’ toys left behind, food on the kitchen counter, food in the fridge, filthy and smelly. I walk through the house do my interior inspection and get outside to measure the exterior, I look down, and there are hundreds of fleas on my legs. A rare moment when I was thankful for pantyhose.
An Appraiser’s Bright Idea
My partner and I were appraising an older home (circa 1920) in Stockton, CA several years ago as a HUD repo. As is typical with dwellings that have stood vacant for a long period of time, it had been vandalized with the electrical box ripped from the rear of the dwelling, along with all missing appliances, fixtures, etc. Most of the HUD repo properties had no utilities on, so we could rarely test anything, and since the electrical panel box was missing, there was no electricity to this house. My partner and I were heading upstairs to do our measuring and get pictures, look for repair items, etc., and were standing on the stairwell landing under a light fixture, when my partner said, “I bet there is some old money hidden in these walls.” At the moment those words left his mouth, the light right above my head went on. I don’t think I ever ran down a flight of stairs that fast in my entire life—down the stairs, out the front door and onto the sidewalk. When I turned around, my partner was standing on the front porch saying, “It’s a sign—there’s money hidden in here!” To which I replied, “I am not stepping back into that house, I don’t care how much money is in there!” I am fairly certain that the new owners were going to have to do a complete rehab on the property due to its condition, and I wonder to this day if they found any money hidden in those walls.
Measuring By Threes
It was probably at least 10 to 15 years ago, but I will never forget it. I was appraising a home near the San Diego/Tijuana border, and as I drove down the street I was thinking, “Wow, this is a nice neighborhood,” and then I saw the house I was appraising. It was every neighbor’s nightmare! I said to myself, “The woman sounded nice on the phone…” The door was answered by a man in his 40s, and I explained to him that I need to measure the outside before I came in. As I was in the backyard, he appeared with a Doberman Pinscher on a spike collar with a short chain leash. He told me not to approach the dog, to which I said, “No problem.” The backyard was filled with holes he said the dog had dug trying to get to the neighbor’s dog.
When I entered the house, the stairs were right at the front door with the living and dining room to my left, which was filled from floor to ceiling with stuff. You couldn’t really even see the room. The kitchen was so dirty, the floor was black except where people had walked and the stove, sink and counters were just as bad. The 1st floor half bath was filled with pornography and the sink was black except where the water hit it. The family room was also filled with pornography and the fireplace was being used as a beer can recycling center. The garage had the largest freezer I’d ever seen at a residential property. I keep telling myself, “Do not appear scared, dogs sense fear and Dobermans are known as silent killers, they attack with no forewarning.”
It was now time to go upstairs. At the top of the stairs, the husband, who looked like Jerry Garcia, was sitting at a desk in a bedroom filled with more stuff. Then the wife appeared, who had long grey hair down to her knees and showed me the master bedroom. There was a large red stain on the carpeting next to the bed—and I mean large. The master bathroom was just as dirty as the rest of the house. Then another bedroom door opened and another son in his 40s appeared with another Doberman with a spike collar on a short leash. His room was also filled with pornography. My mind was racing, “Keep calm.” Then believe it or not, the last bedroom door opened and—you guessed it—another son with a Doberman appeared. I thought, “This is it, no one will ever hear from me again. They are going to put me in the attic and then I’ll end up in the freezer.” I kept my cool, at least on the outside, and finished my inspection.
Afterwards, I sat in my car and thanked the lord for letting me get out of there! Since then, I always carry pepper spray on my clipboard.
This Job Takes Backbone
As a 2nd year trainee, I have had limited experience in the field. Also, being limited to mostly non-complex jobs, I take what I can get. I was given an assignment in Brentwood (near OJ Simpson’s old home) and, even though my back was a little sore (an ongoing issue), I decided to go. Well, I get to the house which is a corner lot at the top of a steep incline, with the inclined earth side of the home having a very narrow dirt walk (about six inches wide), with a very steep drop beyond.
I measured the home the way I was taught. Rookies at this shop are NOT allowed to laser measure as a sort of “rite of passage.” So, as an inexperienced and overzealous rookie, I measured the “cliff” side of the home as well with my tape. To get to this side of the home there was an extremely low gate, about four feet high, with a lock that I did not have a key to (the home was empty). So, like a rookie I eagerly hopped the gate in order to get the measurement. That “hopping” of that low gate kicked my back pain into overdrive, so I foolishly decided to measure this side hastily. This side was about 60 feet long, and right on cue at about 30 feet, my back went out—completely.
Now, if you’ve witnessed someone’s back go out or if it has happened to you, then you may be able to relate. Imagine where your spine meets your waist turning into Jell-O, and every little movement feeling like the nerves in your back are being crushed. Also, when your back goes out, your immediate instinct is to sit or lie down to ease the pain. I had no room to sit or lie down, and every movement, even slight, hurt like heck.
If you happened to be passing by this corner and looked up, you would have seen me trapped in pain, clutching the side of my subject property like a cat, side stepping at a snail’s pace. It took about 15 minutes to shuffle 30 feet.
By the time I returned back to the low gate again, I was drenched in sweat. I had to use both hands to lift one leg over the gate and again both hands to lift my other leg over. I got in my car, called the agent to reschedule and as I drove off, I saw a construction crew two houses down on the sidewalk, staring as I passed. One of them could not control his laughter…and at this point I could not control my laughter either.
Two months at a chiropractor and I haven’t looked back. I still laugh about how this must have looked.
Good Fellas Meet Goodfellas
The house was an ordinary dwelling in an older suburban neighborhood of Los Angeles. I was there to appraise it for a dissolution of marriage. It was a bit of a drive from my office and I was supposed to meet the lady who was getting divorced.
I knocked and knocked but no answer. I knocked some more and the door finally opened just as I turned my back to leave. There stood a woman with tears streaming down her face. I introduced myself and she began to talk, explaining that she had been in the bathroom with a gun in her mouth preparing to shoot herself. But my incessant knocking interrupted her. She was terrified and thought that she would be penniless and a vagrant on the streets because of the divorce. I calmed her down and explained that she was receiving seven houses as a result of the settlement, and that she would own them free and clear with no mortgages—she was set for life! I then proceeded to appraise the home. When I left, I told her that I would gladly trade places with her. She felt better.
A few days later, I got a call from a man that turned out to be her godfather. He could not thank me enough for saving the client’s life. We palled around, his wife and the client, for about six weeks. He sent a Rolls Royce to pick me up and the divorcee would be inside. We went to fashionable clubs and fine restaurants, and never a word was spoken about the appraisals.
One evening, while he was somewhat intoxicated, the godfather told me he was in the Mafia and wanted to set me up in a good appraisal business in Las Vegas. The next day I called him and turned down the offer, saying that I was just a simple American and knew nothing of these things. He called one more time but I did not return the call.
This Job Smells Fishy. And Catty. And Doggy…
I was very new to the business, probably three months in. I showed up to a normal looking house in a normal development in San Dimas, CA. The only thing I noticed from the outside was a stale smell and all the windows had been covered from the inside with huge sheets of aluminum foil. When the owner opened the front door, the smell hit me in the face like a sack of potatoes. It was this stale/ammonia/pee/death/poop combo that I’ll never forget. As the owner opened the door, I saw probably ten sets of cat eyes staring at me very intently. I stepped into the living room with my t-shirt pinched against my nose (it was really bad). I took some photos of the living room and walked to the dining area. In the dining area I looked back at the front door and I noticed I had left perfect foot prints on the carpet, however, upon further inspection, the footprints were in cat hair. The cat hair was so thick it was like freshly fallen snow.
The backyard was tiny and there were eight dogs chained to fence posts and barking at me like maniacs. I was terrified I was going to be bitten or eaten, so I tried to finish outside as quickly as I could. When I went back inside I noticed that each bedroom had more and more animals, some in cages some out of the cages, and everything was either shredded or stained with pee. One of the 1/2 bathrooms was closed and supposedly had half a dozen cats inside, according to the owner. The smell was so intense I almost vomited a few times, but powered through. The kicker was, I asked, “Why do you have so many animals?” The owner replied, “all these animals have various diseases so I take them in from the local vet because I don’t want them put to sleep.” That’s right, the owner was a diseased animal hoarder. After leaving, I immediately called the lender/client and the local Animal Control. It was horrible to see all those animals sick and living in those conditions. I’ve never seen a house as bad as that one, but it’s one I’ll never forget.
Green Thumb, Black Market
Back around 2005, I appraised a house in Orange County, CA. It was a two-story McMansion in an area with 1950s ranch homes. This home was two-stories plus a GIGANTIC attic. The house was over 3,000 SF plus the attic space, and just didn’t fit at all with the neighborhood. Like any home inspection, I do my routine measuring, photographing and make comments and observations. I ask if I can take a quick photo of the attic space and the owner looks at me, smiles and asks, “You cool?” I didn’t really know what he meant but said, “Yeah, I’m cool.” He leads me up the stairs to the attic and shows me inside. The entire attic is filled to the ceiling with pot plants in 5-gallon buckets. The plants were 5-8 feet tall and looked like small trees. It was the most pot I had ever seen in my life. He had a lighting system, drip/irrigation, air circulation and a generator running. This was an impressive and shocking operation he had going. I took my pictures and explained that they would be in the appraisal report. The owner didn’t seem to care at all so I’m guessing it was a legal operation? Who knows. I alerted the client and made a report to the local PD. I have no clue what came of it, as I never followed up with the client, owner, or the police.
