For the next hour, he taught me more about California native plants than I had learned in my entire life. He suggested deer grass, California poppies, purple needlegrass, and a few flowering shrubs suited to the site's sun exposure. Lavender could go in a separate herb bed, he said, because it was drought-tolerant but not native to California.
I liked that distinction. After months of reading documents designed to confuse people, it was refreshing to speak with someone who cared whether his words were accurate.
I asked the association for approval of a landscape conversion and attached a plan. No one answered within the review period stated in the rules. I sent a second letter. Still nothing. Before beginning significant work, I had my plan checked by a local professional to avoid drainage trouble and made sure I wasn't removing anything the association had a legitimate right to protect.
On a bright Saturday morning, I started pulling out the old turf. It was satisfying work, even if my shoulders protested by lunchtime. The grass came away in damp strips, revealing soil that smelled pleasantly earthy instead of like chemical fertilizer. I spent the afternoon putting in drip irrigation and arranging the first plants along the walkway.
Victoria appeared before the second day was over.
"What is this supposed to be?" she asked from the sidewalk.
"A drought-tolerant garden."
"It's not a lawn."
"That's the idea."
She stared at the young bunch grasses as though I had installed industrial machinery in front of my house. "Our standards require a consistent residential appearance."
"And the governing documents require a reasoned review of plans submitted by members. Here's the plan I sent. Here's the follow-up. You didn't respond to either."
I handed her copies. She examined them with the expression of someone who expected paper to become less annoying if she stared at it angrily enough.
"You people always think you can find some loophole."
"You people?"
Her eyes flashed. "Homeowners who want special treatment."
"I'm asking for the same treatment everybody else receives. Nothing special about it."
She folded the pages and shoved them into her purse. "We will see about this."
The next afternoon, a white pickup with county-style decals pulled up in front of my house. Randy stepped out wearing a polo shirt with an embroidered patch and carrying a clipboard. He announced that he was conducting an official county inspection in response to complaints about fire hazards and pests.
The statement surprised me. So did the fact that he never identified which county office supposedly employed him.
"Great," I said, setting down a bag of mulch. "I'll be happy to cooperate with a legitimate inspection. Could I see your department identification and the inspection request number?"
Randy looked at the clipboard. "I don't have time for all that."
"Then let's call the office. They can confirm you're assigned here."
"The office is busy."
"Which office?"
His jaw shifted. I could see the exact moment when he realized I wasn't going to let him wander around my property just because his shirt had a patch on it. He said something about an urgent appointment, got back into the truck, and drove away before I had even reached for my phone.