The Wall

By the time the homeowners' association decided that my flood wall was an eyesore, I had already spent thirty-eight years learning exactly what water could do when people underestimated it.

My name is Frank Mercer.

I was sixty-seven when all of this happened, and I had been retired for almost five years.

Before retirement, I had worked as a general contractor and heavy-equipment mechanic. I had built foundations, repaired retaining walls, installed drainage systems, poured concrete in freezing rain, and spent more nights than I could count standing in muddy construction sites while everyone else was safely asleep.

I knew concrete.

I knew soil.

And more importantly, I knew water.

That was why I built the wall.

Our neighborhood, Willow Creek Estates, had been advertised as a peaceful community built around a beautiful greenbelt. The houses were expensive, the streets were carefully landscaped, and the HOA collected enough money every month to make you wonder where it all went.

But there was one problem the brochures didn't mention.

The neighborhood sat at the bottom of a shallow basin.

Every heavy storm sent water rushing down from the higher streets toward the western edge of the development.

My house was directly in its path.

The first serious flood happened two years after I moved in.

Water came through my backyard, crossed the patio, and reached the foundation.

I spent the night pushing water away with sandbags.

The next morning, the yard looked like a construction site.

The HOA sent someone to take pictures.

Nobody came to help.

So I fixed it myself.

I spent nearly $8,000 on a reinforced concrete flood wall, underground drainage channels, gravel trenches, and two sump discharge lines.

The wall wasn't beautiful.

It was never supposed to be.

It was four feet high in some places and lower in others, following the natural grade of the property. I had reinforced the foundation with steel and installed drainage openings at carefully calculated intervals.

It kept water out.

For eighteen months, it worked perfectly.

Then, one Thursday afternoon, a black SUV pulled into my driveway.

A man stepped out wearing khaki pants, polished brown shoes, and a light-blue polo shirt.

He carried a black folder.

Behind him was a blonde woman wearing white.

I recognized both of them immediately.

Arthur Caldwell, president of the HOA board.

And Linda Pierce, the board's architectural committee chair.

Arthur smiled as he approached.

It was the kind of smile people use when they believe they have already won.

"Frank," he said. "We need to talk about your wall."

I looked at the concrete behind me.

"What about it?"

Linda folded her arms.

"It violates the community standards."

I almost laughed.

"The wall has been there for a year and a half."

Arthur opened his folder.

"And we've given you plenty of time to address the issue."

"Address what issue?"

"The appearance."

I stared at him.

Then I looked at Linda.

Then back at Arthur.

"The appearance?"

Arthur nodded.

"The wall is inconsistent with the aesthetic character of Willow Creek Estates."

I glanced toward the drainage ditch behind their houses.