At first, the HOA president acted like I was simply mistaken. Then she acted like I was lying. Eventually, she operated under the delusion that repeating herself enough times would somehow cause the county property records to magically rewrite themselves out of sheer respect for her authority.
She started stopping by with little verbal reminders. When those failed, she moved on to printed notices. One was about lawn standards. Another was about exterior lighting. Petty nonsense. Every single time, my answer remained exactly the same: “This house is not in your HOA.”
She did not care. In her mind, wanting control badly enough was legally binding.
One afternoon, she knocked while I was asleep after a shift, and my wife answered. The HOA president launched into a lecture about an inspection walk and demanded we fix the "ATV issue" before the weekend.
My wife told her very calmly, “This property is not in your association.”
“That has not been properly established,” the woman scoffed.
“It’s in the deed.”
“I would like a copy.”
My wife simply shut the door in her face. A normal person would have taken the hint, but the president only escalated.
If anything, she resented me more once she figured out what I did for a living. I am a patrol officer, though I never discussed my job with her or her son. A few neighbors had figured it out, but my profession had nothing to do with her trying to dictate rules on a property she had no jurisdiction over. She just hated that I wouldn't fold to keep the peace.
Not long after, I formally met her son. He was old enough to know better but carried himself like consequences were things that only happened to other people. Lowered truck, backward hat, and a fake relaxed attitude.
He wandered over one afternoon while I was pressure-washing the driveway, staring at the ATV.
“That yours?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “Nice. My mom hates that thing. She said it makes your place look trashy.”