WHAT IS THE VALUE 

By Duncan 

I like to read about finance, money, stocks, and interest rates. I am also very interested in the housing market. You know, what did the house across the street sell for last week? 

I was hired by a mortgage company in the early seventies. After serving in the United States Air Force, I was starting my life over. I know that’s a little melodramatic, but I faced the daunting task of finding a job. I assume this is common. Drop the drama, Duncan. 

I entered the man's office and sat on the edge of my seat. I was told what the job was all about. I was going to be a BANKER. Would I get the corner office with the windows overlooking the beautiful landscaping?

No, I was hired as a sales grunt who would pound the streets looking for business. My job was to call real estate offices and beg Realtors to give me the ability to lend money to their buyers/customers. Back in the early 1970s, Realtors worked in an office. They were given a desk and a phone. 

My job was to approach the copy machine in our office and make one hundred copies of my rate sheet for our 30-year fixed-rate mortgage loans. Then, I would drive to a Realtor’s office, meet and greet, and provide them with my rates for my FHA, VA, and Conventional home loans. 

Of course, it didn’t hurt if you got to know the Realtors on a personal level. I was as green as the grass on a spring day after it rained. I was given a beeper and two charge cards. One charge card is for gas, and the other is for entertainment. 

The idea was to take a Realtor to lunch occasionally, get to know them, and tell my story of how I could make the Realtor money by financing and closing their loans faster than the other guys. 

The average female real estate broker in the early 1970’s 

Of course, the Realtor wants to get paid their commission as quickly as possible. If, for some reason, we didn’t or couldn’t make the loan (turn the loan down), that created a big problem. 

“You told me you could make my customers a loan! Your company is full of it!” 

The odds of turning a loan down were remote. FHA and VA were 95% of the loans my company made. If FHA or VA said no, we couldn’t insure the loan against default (Federal Housing Administration or Veteran Administration), and my company would have no investor to sell a low-down payment loan. That news always travels quickly in the office to the other Realtors. I would be branded as not being able to get the job done. 

Thankfully, it didn’t happen that often. The Federal Government wanted as many people as possible to own a home, and the FHA was pressured to insure as many loans as possible. 

During the 1940s-1960s, home ownership went from 43.6% to 61.9%. In the early 1970s, home ownership of Americans rose to 64.5%. The Federal Government slapped themselves on the back and enjoyed a cocktail. Buyers were happy, real estate brokers were delighted, and I was pleased; I made more money than I ever expected.  

It was a win-win game for everyone. Interest rates for home loans in the early 1970s held steady in the low to mid 7% range. 

However, the relaxed underwriting criteria handed down from “On High” came with a cost: delinquency rates. People who should not have been given a loan defaulted on their home loans. 

     

The default rate was analyzed by month. How many are behind their mortgage payments by one, two, three, or more months?  At six months, lenders foreclose and take the house. We notify FHA and expect them to pony up our money, and we, as lenders, hand the home to FHA. It’s now FHAs responsibility to sell a repossessed house, or in simple terms, it’s called a REPO. 

The federal government acts as a sales agent. Yes, default rates increased. 

While I enjoyed the early 1970s in the mortgage business, I was able to meet and get to know Realtors personally. I made some very good friends in the early 1970s. However, it took me a while to realize another number. This number is very important to mortgage loan professionals. 

It goes like this: 80% of the sales in a real estate office are sold by 20% of the Realtors, and 20% of the sales are sold by the remaining 80% of the sales staff. I was making a big mistake; I was taking the 80% to lunch and could never figure out why the busiest Realtors didn’t have time for me or lunch. 

The average male real estate broker in the early 1970s

In today's housing market, it’s a whole new ballgame. I’m retired from the home mortgage business and have no interest in returning to the game. Housing prices are up, up, up. And why is that? 

Oh, there is always the supply-and-demand rationalization. When interest rates were 3.5% for years, many homeowners refinanced their higher mortgage rates to low single-digit rates. (It’s hard to believe everyone switched to a 3.5% rate, but maybe they did.)  

My experience was when I returned from Florida in mid-2019. The explosion of home prices was starting. The home I own today had five offers. And I’m told it was on the market for five days.

SUSAN TIBBS - TUCKER - 317-507-8490

My Realtor, Susan Tibbs, advised me to act fast if I really wanted the home.

I gave up the inspection and an appraisal. I wanted the home.  

So, WHAT IS THE VALUE of a home? Who decides what the house is worth? In today's market, it ain’t the appraiser who establishes value anymore. It works the same way it’s always worked. The VALUE of a house is established when a willing seller and a willing buyer agree on a price.  

(First row, far left) - Lucy Duncan - My Mom

1989 - Christmas - Staff at the Metropolitan Indianapolis Board of Realtors

LONG JOHN SILVER

 LONG JOHN SILVER  

By Duncan 

I had an appointment for an ultrasound at the Veterans Administration today. I offer a picture (above) of what happens when a man gets an ultrasound. My pretty VA woman told me to remove my shirt and lower my jeans to half-mast. 

I am curious to know if I have a serious problem. You see, this woman, or should I say this Nurse Practitioner, is not allowed to tell me anything. So, I have no idea how someone noticed a small shadow on my kidney. This works in the medical field because the Doctors are all omniscient, which means “God is all-knowing.” No one, absolutely no one, is allowed to talk to the patient about anything except the Doctor. 

So, as I’m half-naked talking to this pretty woman (Sorry, Nurse Practitioner), I’m trying to figure out what interesting topics we can talk about as she slides this gooey camera over my body. So, I decided to break the ice with this comment. 

“So, do you come here often? Can I buy you a drink?”  

She has no expression or reaction in any way to my comment.

“So, has the shadow moved, or gotten bigger?” 

“What is it that you know?” 

“I only know there is a shadow, and the Doctor wants to know what it is. My problem is, I don’t know which Doctor has asked for all this photography. This place keeps changing people around. I see someone new each time. For example, have you ever had the pleasure of meeting me?  Don’t answer, the room is more than likely bugged.”

“And what else do you think you know?”  

“Well, I assume the Doctor is not sure if I have a problem, “Let’s take pictures every year and keep an eye on him. This is my third year.” 

“Or he could be one of those Don Knots Doctors that went to a legal seminar, and the legal know-it-all warned Doctors to protect themselves. So, my Doctor is afraid of a lawsuit and has decided to err on the side of many tests at my expense.

You know I get a payment request every time I come to this place?”  

“Wow, you really have it all figured out don’t you?” 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” 

She picked up the paperwork and refreshed herself about why I was there. Then she put the documents back and continued to take pictures. She was as cool as a cucumber. Her left hand was on the computer keyboard, and her right was on the camera, sliding across my stomach.

She was finally finished and gave me a towel to wipe the goose grease off my stomach. She told me I could get dressed and turned her back to me. I slipped my shirt over my head, turned my back to her, and adjusted my shirt so I could put the shirt back in my jeans. I turned, and she smiled. She pointed to my overcoat hanging on the wall. She walked with me till I was in a major hallway. She said it would take about 48 hours, and I would receive a phone call about the test results. 

I desperately wanted to say, ”Did I pass?” But, this was a no-smoking, no-joking kind of gal. Sorry, Nurse Practitioner.

As I pulled out of the VA complex, I decided to take a different route home. I wanted to drive by the cemetery where my parents were laid to rest, just to look over and acknowledge that they were there. It was pretty close to my normal beaten path home. I got to a major intersection and decided to take the road north to the interstate around Indianapolis. While northbound, I see a fast food restaurant, Long John Silver's.   

This fast food restaurant doesn’t enjoy the foot traffic that the other fast food places have, but they serve a very tasty fish meal. Before I go any further, I know it’s not the most healthy food in the world. Yes, I know it’s all fried food: the fish, the hush puppies, the French fries. Yes, I know. I stopped anyway. Let me tell you why I stopped.  

In 2002, my mother, Lucy, passed. It was a typical Baptist funeral. About one hundred people came to view the body, and several stayed for the service. I was surprised at Dad’s age of ninety-nine (99) that anyone who cared about Dad was still alive and around. Keep in mind this is my second experience with burying a parent, so I’m still new at this.

Anyway, a church lunch was scheduled in the basement of the Crooked Creek Baptist Church after the funeral. So, the pitch-in lunch took a couple of hours. Dad was emotionally and physically tired when he got home late Friday afternoon. 

George Ronald (Ronnie) William Duncan is better known as “George.”  

We sat down at the breakfast table just off the kitchen. He was looking out the back window. He had not said anything on the ride home, and he had still not said anything to me as we walked into the empty house. I sat across from him, not wanting to break his thoughts. 

It was getting dark, and I was not sure what to do. Leave him alone in the house, feed him dinner, talk with him, and sit quietly. At some point, I asked him if he was hungry and wanted to eat something. He quickly said they (Lucy and George) eat fish on Friday. So, I assumed Gordon’s Fish Sticks were in the freezer, and I also assumed that was what they had on Friday. I thought, (You’re not Catholic, why fish on Friday?) 

So, I asked him, “Is there anything else you would like?” He looked at me with burning eyes and a solemn attitude. “We always eat fish on Friday.” 

So I got up from the breakfast table and headed for the freezer. 

“What are you doing?  

“I’m going to get out the fish sticks and heat the oven.”  

“That’s Lucy’s oven and no one can use her oven except Lucy.” 

GEORGE & LUCY

So, I walked back to the round orange table and sat quietly for a few minutes. Then Dad whispered, Lucy got tired of asking daily, "What do you want for supper, Geroge?” Dad continued, They sat down and decided what they would have every day of the week. Every meal. Friday was fish. Every single Friday night, week after week, year after year. 

It was obvious I would be doing no cooking in that kitchen. So, I asked, 

“You want to go out to a restaurant and have a fish dinner?”   

He said he was tired and didn’t want to go out. 

“Do you want me to go out and bring something back?”

“Where would you go?” 

I was hard-pressed to think of a place that had take-out fish. I ran a few places across my mind and then thought of Long John Silver's. 

“How about I go to Long John Silver’s and bring something back? They have fish meals.”  

“I’m not allowed to have Long John Silver’s.” 

“Why? 

“Lucy said it’s not good for me, and I’m not allowed to have it.” 

“Well, … (I chose my words very carefully) Lucy is not here anymore; you want to give it a shot?” 

Dad looked up at me, who knows what was going through his mind at that point. Was he thinking, finally, I can break some rules? Or was he thinking, “I always wanted to taste that stuff?”

He didn’t decide right away; he was still hesitating. I suggested to him, why don’t I go get some, bring it home, and you can sample it, and see if you will like the fish from Long John’s? If not, we can toss it and never do it again. 

He gave the idea a lukewarm “Okay.” 

I was off to the local Long John Silver’s. I told the crew behind the counter the story of why I was there, and the gang had a good laugh. The guy in charge said, “Well, let me put in a few extra crumbles; people really like the crumbles. We normally charge an extra fee for the crumbles, but for your Dad, let’s make sure he is well taken care of.” 

Do they charge extra for the crumbles? I didn’t know the crumbles were such a big deal. I got home, and of course, the grease smell was potent. I was fearful he would turn up his nose at the smell of grease. He looked at the meal in the little square box and began. I said nothing. The next thing I knew, he was whipping his hands with a napkin and almost had a smile on his face. 

For the next year, I’m talking about a year here … Dad wanted Long John Silver’s fish. The local Long John’s crew looked forward to me walking in every Friday night. I was getting tired of Long John Silver’s fish. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could continue this Friday night tradition.  

I noticed a new restaurant opening about a mile west of the house. It was called Lincoln Square. I suggested that we go out to a restaurant and eat fish on Friday night. (That way, I could order something besides fish.) 

Dad was not sure that’s what he wanted to do. On the way to church one Sunday morning, I noticed cars in the parking lot of the new restaurant. I pulled in and went inside. The place was still in the remodeling stage. The owner was in the building. I told him my story, he laughed and said, “Is-a-your-father-in-a-da-car? ” I said, “Yes.” The owner (I don’t remember his name) went out to the car and did a number on my Dad, 

“Georgie-you-a-cum-ah-to-my-place, 

I-take-a-good-care-of you!

I-a-make-a-da-best-fish-dinner-you've-ever-a-seen!” 

But Lincoln Square is another story all by itself.

And that is the reason I decided to stop at Long John Silver's and go down memory lane today. 

Life can be wonderful if you just let it be what it is.