assumed we would exist in a state of peaceful indifference. I was wrong. The arrival of Oakridge Estates
brought with it a Homeowners Association, and with that HOA came a president who viewed my grandfather's
legacy not as history, but as a blight on his property values.
Richard Vance was a man who wore golf polo shirts in the dead of winter and spoke to service workers as
if they were deaf. He was a real estate developer from the city who had built the crown jewel of Oakridge
Estates: a sprawling, twelve-thousand-square-foot modern monstrosity of glass, steel, and imported Italian
marble. His property backed up directly against my eastern fence line. Or, at least, that’s what the manicured
sod implied.
It didn’t take long for Vance to make his presence known. I was in the barn one Saturday morning,
wrestling with a stubborn spark plug, when a shadow fell over the entrance. I turned to see Vance standing
there, flanked by two men who looked like bodyguards but were probably just overpaid HOA board members.
Vance didn’t introduce himself. He just pinched his nose, looked at the rusted corrugated roof of the barn, and
asked, "When is this eyesore coming down?"
I wiped the grease from my hands, stood up, and politely informed him that the barn was not coming
down, ever. I explained the history, thinking maybe a human connection would soften him. Vance just