First Night

Clay Hurtubise

Sun drenched golden fields, wind tormented trees, ominous heavy clouds gathering: at more than nine thousand feet above sea level, this awe inspiring site made the recent traumatic cross country journey fade, momentarily, into my memory bank. This could be my home. Heaven.

More than two thousand miles away from our home, I had traveled to this sparsely populated region of the country to start anew.  New home, new career: a better, simpler life. The plan was for me to settle into our new home with views of the Snowy Range. It was under contract with a closing date that had already passed, but we were assured the closing would take place in our new town. With me were two of our four dogs, Katrina rescue pooch Monkey Man, and Soft Coated Wheaton Terrier Ms. Bea. Once settled, then my beloved partner would follow.

Twenty-six feet of a U-Haul truck had been stuffed with most of our accumulated home furnishings. For years we had listened to realtors berate us that our home would sell better if it was more bare, as our unique art and belongings were to much for a prospective buyer to see past. How a painting of Homer Simpson falling down a staircase detracts from a twenty-six foot high ceiling with a full-length real stone chimney is beyond me. With the art carefully packed, and most of the furniture removed, the home was now a house. My partner of fifteen years temporarily remained behind, knowing how much this new career, and the land I was moving to, meant to me. It was my dream job, and he was willing to set me free and then move out with me to see if he too could find the magic in the land that so inspired me. I love him for that.

With less than a days travel remaining to our new home, the underwriters from the bank called me at 5:00 PM, on a Friday, to tell me that my funds for the down payment did not meet “Homeland Security Guidelines”, and the loan was pulled. It didn’t matter that they had already poured over all the details, had multiple documents sent repeatedly, nor did it matter that they had sent a ‘firm’ closing date that had already passed. Logic was thrown out like reeking kitty litter, simply no looking back. The anonymous man that had mastered feigned politeness, and who controlled my life at the far end of a cell phone connection, was not willing to take a few minutes and some simple steps to see that the money was indeed mine. With little regard for logic, fairness, or responsibility, he closed the loan telling me I could reapply on Monday.  Start over. That night I sent emails to all involved showing that the sale of my car two months prior, through eBay, was indeed legitimate. His answer the following day, (yes he was there on a Saturday!), was that the money was no longer an issue, but now he required 20% down, instead of the agreed 10% with Private Mortgage Insurance (PMI), would not include closing cost as part of the loan, mandated that I close out a retirement fund, and required an extra eight thousand in escrow to prove that I could make the payments, which were substantially less than renting a home. In all, it would take almost $61,000 in cash to close on a house that was currently valued at $275,000 and being bought for $200,00 (with a new $8,000 roof to be installed by the current owners) and was one of the least expensive homes in an established neighborhood.