At exactly 6:58 a.m., the silence is violently shattered by the guttural roaring diesel engine of a Ford F-350 hauling a flatbed trailer. And following closely behind is a dump truck filled to the brim with dark, rich, pungent topsoil. Mike has arrived. I'm standing in my driveway with a mug of coffee, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Mike hops out of the truck.
He's wearing a high-vis vest over a faded band T-shirt, steel-toed boots, and a baseball cap pulled low. He unchains the skid steer from the trailer with a series of heavy, metallic clangs that echo down the entire block. "Morning! " Mike yells over the idle of the trucks. "You ready to commit some property value treason? " "Burn it to the ground, Mike. " I yell back. "Metaphorically speaking. " At exactly 7:00 a.m., the legal noise ordinance lifts.
Mike fires up the skid steer. It roars to life, belching a tiny puff of black smoke into the pristine Naperville air. He drops the steel bucket, or lowers it to the edge of my perfectly edged, chemically treated Kentucky bluegrass, and pushes forward. The sound of the turf ripping is magnificent. It sounds like a giant tearing a carpet in half.
Decades of meticulously maintained, aggressively fertilized lawn roll up like a cheap rug. The smell of raw earth fills the air. Within 4 minutes, my front yard looks like the staging area for a trench warfare reenactment. Across the street, I see a curtain twitch. Then another.
The neighborhood is waking up, and they are horrified. Suddenly, Brenda's front door flies open. She doesn't even bother with the velour tracksuit this time. She is in a plush, ankle-length, leopard-print bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. Her hair is in rollers.
She looks like a mob wife who just found out the feds are raiding the compound. "Stop! " she shrieks, and her voice piercing through the heavy machinery noise. "Stop right now! What are you doing? Turn that machine off! " Mike can't hear her.
Or more accurately, Mike is pretending he can't hear her. He's happily scooping up a massive pile of turf and dumping it into the back of his truck. Brenda marches right up to the edge of my driveway, pointing violently at the skid steer. "Have you lost your mind? " she screams at me. "You have 11 days to plant bluegrass.
You are destroying the property. I am calling the police. This is vandalism. " "It's my property, Brenda. " I call back pleasantly. "I'm landscaping. Enjoy the show. " She furiously dials 911 on her phone, pacing back and forth, shooting me death glares.
I take a sip of my coffee. I can't wait. 20 minutes later, it's with the flashing red and blue lights of a Naperville police cruiser reflect off Brenda's pristine white Lexus. Two officers step out. One looks like a seasoned veteran who is 2 weeks from retirement and has seen it all.
The other looks like he just graduated from the academy. Brenda practically tackles them. "Officers, thank god! " she gasps, clutching her bathrobe. "He is destroying the neighborhood. He's operating heavy machinery without HOA approval.
He's creating a massive public health hazard with all this this dirt. You need to arrest him and impound that tractor. " The older cop, Officer Davis according to his nameplate, sighs. It is a deep, heavy sigh of a man who has responded to way too many suburban noise complaints. He walks over to me. "Morning, sir. " Officer Davis says, looking at the massive crater where my lawn used to be.
"Um your neighbor here says you're committing vandalism. " "Morning, officers. " I say, setting my coffee down. "No vandalism here. Just a homeowner doing some court-protected ecological remediation. I have all my paperwork right here. " I hand Officer Davis a thick, meticulously tabbed binder. "What's this? " he asks.
"That," I say, "is a copy of the Illinois Compiled Statutes, specifically the section regarding the preemption of local ordinances by state environmental protections for native landscapes. Behind that tab is my approved contractor's license, his insurance, and my pending certification application from the National Wildlife Federation. " Brenda scoffs loudly. "That doesn't matter. The CC&Rs specifically states "Ma'am. " Officer Davis interrupts, holding up a hand. He flips through the binder.
He reads the highlighted state statute. Then he looks at my contractor, who gives him a friendly wave from the cab of the skid steer. He looks back at the statute. A slow, barely perceptible smirk crosses Officer Davis's face. He closes the binder and hands it back to me.
"Well. " Davis says, turning to Brenda. "He's got permits, he's got licensed contractors, and according to this state law, he's well within his rights to plant whatever native flora he wants. This is a civil matter, ma'am, not criminal. " "A civil matter? " Brenda screeches, her voice cracking. "Look at it. It looks like a landfill.
It's going to attract rodents and coyotes and and poor people! " "Ma'am, if the coyotes show up, give us a call. " The younger officer chimes in, visibly suppressing a laugh. "Until then, have a good weekend. " They get back in their cruiser. Brenda is left standing on the sidewalk, as her jaw literally hanging open. She looks from the retreating police car to the massive pile of dirt in my yard, to me. "This isn't over. " she hisses, her eyes narrowed into little slits of pure suburban rage.
"I will bankrupt you. I will lien this house until you have to sell it at an auction. " "Have a great Saturday, Brenda. " I wave cheerfully. Mike spends the rest of the day spreading the premium topsoil. By late afternoon, we are spreading the seeds. We don't just plant a few flowers, we plant an army.
We scatter thousands upon thousands of seeds. Purple coneflower, New England aster, goldenrod, blazing star, Joe Pye weed, and of course, three different varieties of milkweed. We cover it in a layer of straw to protect it from the birds. When we are finished, my front yard looks like a barren, muddy wasteland covered in dead grass. This is arguably the ugliest yard in the history of Whispering Pines.
Brenda takes photos from her upstairs window. I know because I can see the flash going off. The next day, I receive another certified letter. The HOA has officially levied the maximum allowable penalty, a $5,000 fine for malicious destruction of landscaping and willful disregard of board directives, accompanied by a formal notice of foreclosure proceedings if the balance isn't paid within 30 days. They also summon me to an emergency disciplinary hearing.
I ignore it. I water my dirt. I wait. Nature requires patience, but malicious compliance requires absolute, unwavering resolve. The weeks roll by.
Spring turns into early summer. The heavy spring rains do their job. Tiny green shoots begin to push their way through the straw. At first, um it just looks like a slightly fuzzy pile of dirt, but then it explodes. It is a botanical riot.
By late July, my yard is no longer a yard. It is a towering, 6-foot-tall, impenetrable jungle of color. It is a wild, untamed ecosystem completely alien to the sterile environment of Whispering Pines. The Joe Pye weed is practically touching my gutters. The goldenrod is blindingly yellow.