She told him grief was not an exemption recognized by the covenants.
Lisa said two board members stared at the table after that.
Nobody stopped her.
Then there was the grass.
The official maximum height was three and a half inches.
Most reasonable associations would have sent a friendly reminder if somebody’s yard became overgrown.
Denise carried a measuring tool.
She walked lawns.
She photographed weeds.
She once emailed a violation notice before seven in the morning because a single dandelion had appeared beside a mailbox.
The subject line read:
BOTANICAL NONCOMPLIANCE — ACTION REQUIRED.
Curtis kept a printed copy on his refrigerator because it made him laugh.
Denise banned wind chimes after deciding they created “auditory inconsistency.”
She tried to regulate birdbaths.
She made an eighty-year-old veteran replace a faded American flag instead of simply asking whether he needed a new one.
A family was ordered to repaint its front door because Denise called the original blue “visually aggressive.”
“What color is nonaggressive blue?” I asked Lisa.
“She gave them a sample.”
“Of course she did.”
“She carries them.”
“Paint samples?”
“Paint samples, grass requirements, mailbox dimensions.”
“In her purse?”
Lisa nodded.
“That woman could issue a citation during a plane crash.”
For months, I watched Silver Creek from outside.
Their HOA had no authority over me.
My property predated the development.
No deed restrictions connected it to theirs.
That fact irritated Denise from the beginning.
My fence did not match Silver Creek’s.
My workshop had a metal roof.
My truck sometimes sat outside.
I had stacked firewood visible from one corner of her yard.
Worst of all, she could see me and could do absolutely nothing about me.
Or so I thought.
Her house backed directly against my southern boundary.
Her backyard was not large, but it was elaborate.
The pool consumed most of it.
Eighteen thousand gallons surrounded by limestone, ornamental grasses, hydrangeas, outdoor speakers, a built-in grilling station, and an attached spa that steamed on cool mornings.
Denise treated the pool as a symbol.
She hosted brunches.
Cocktail evenings.
Birthday gatherings.
Summer socials.
It appeared regularly in photographs.
Everything about it communicated the same thing Denise communicated everywhere else.
Look what I have.
Look where I live.
Look what I can afford.
Twenty feet inside my fence stood an exterior spigot connected to my well system.
For years, I barely thought about it.
Then my electric bill changed.
The first increase was small enough to ignore.
Then came another.
By July, the difference was large enough that I sat at the kitchen table comparing twelve months of statements.
My routine had not changed.
I was not running air-conditioning differently.
The shop equipment did not account for it.
My appliances were the same.
So I checked the well system.
The pump was operating far more than normal.
That got my attention.
A leaking underground line can cost money for months before anybody notices, but I knew where every line on my property ran.
I started walking.
Front spigot.
Dry.
East side.
Dry.
West line.
Fine.
No wet ground.