On Christmas Eve, my landlord smirked as he told me to get rid of my dog or get out.
He was a trust fund kid, barely thirty, who had just bought my apartment building. He said my dog, Buster, violated the new “no pets” clause in the lease.
I tried to explain that Buster was my emotional support animal, the only thing that kept the quiet from getting too loud after my husband died.
He just shrugged. “Rules are rules,” he said, like he was talking to a child. He clearly enjoyed the power he had over me.
He thought his shiny new lease made him king of the castle, but he never expected his entire kingdom to be brought down by a dusty old piece of paper he didn’t even know existed.
The New Rule: A Splash of Color
The late spring sun felt good on my back. I pushed the trowel into the soft, dark earth, making a neat little hole for a fresh wave of impatiens. My garden was my sanctuary, a chaotic masterpiece of color and life that stood in stark contrast to the muted taupe of our house. It was the one place where the rules of right angles and manicured edges didn’t apply.
My husband, Mark, thinks my gardening is a form of therapy. He’s not wrong. Out here, with the scent of damp soil and blooming peonies, the constant hum of my job as a grant writer for a local non-profit finally faded. It was just me, the dirt, and Gnorman.
Gnorman was a garden gnome. Not just any gnome, but the gnome. He was offensively cheerful, with a cracked red hat, a ridiculously long white beard, and a fishing pole perpetually poised over a non-existent pond. My mother gave him to me the year before she died. “Every garden needs a little bit of tacky joy,” she’d said, and his stupid, painted-on smile had been guarding my petunias ever since.
My son, Jake, loped out the back door, his phone already in hand. At seventeen, his natural habitat was anywhere with Wi-Fi. “Mom, there’s a letter from the HOA. Looks official.”
He handed me the crisp, cream-colored envelope. The words “Oak Creek Homeowners Association” were embossed at the top in an elegant, severe font. I wiped the dirt from my hands onto my jeans and slit it open. Inside, a single sheet of heavy paper outlined a new addendum to the community bylaws, effective immediately.
Addendum 114-B: Aesthetic Cohesion and Yard Ornamentation. It was a wall of text, but my eyes snagged on the key phrase: “…all non-essential, decorative yard statuary, including but not limited to figures of a whimsical or folkloric nature, are hereby prohibited.”
Whimsical or folkloric nature. They were banning gnomes. They were banning my gnome.
The Bylaw Queen
The community center meeting room smelled of stale coffee and industrial-grade carpet cleaner. About twenty of my neighbors were scattered across the folding chairs, most looking as thrilled to be there as someone waiting at the DMV. At the front of the room, behind a long folding table, sat the HOA board. And at its center sat Evelyn Reed.
Evelyn was the board president. A woman in her late sixties with a helmet of perfectly coiffed silver hair and a posture that could straighten a slouched teenager from fifty paces. She ran the HOA not like a neighborhood committee, but like a military tribunal.
“As you can see from the handout,” she began, her voice crisp and devoid of warmth, “Addendum 114-B is a necessary step to protect and enhance the property values of our community.” She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the paper. “A unified aesthetic demonstrates pride of ownership and discourages the kind of clutter that can devalue our most significant investments.”
A man a few rows ahead of me, Mr. Gable from down the street, raised his hand. “Evelyn, my wife has a couple of those flamingo things. She likes them. What’s the harm?”
Evelyn offered him a smile that was all teeth. “The harm, Frank, is in subjectivity. One person’s charming flamingo is another’s plastic eyesore. A standard, uniformly applied, eliminates that ambiguity and ensures a baseline of decorum for everyone.”
I felt a hot flush of anger creep up my neck. I raised my hand. “Evelyn? Sarah Jenkins, 412 Oak Creek Lane.”
Her eyes, a pale, piercing blue, found mine. “Mrs. Jenkins.”
“I’m just trying to understand the urgency,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “My garden gnome isn’t exactly tanking the local housing market. It was a gift from my mother. It has sentimental value.”
“Sentimental value is a personal matter,” she replied, her tone unwavering. “The bylaws govern our shared space. They exist to maintain a collective standard. The rule was passed by a majority board vote. It is not up for debate.” She looked away from me, a clear dismissal. The meeting was adjourned a few minutes later.
I walked home under the perfectly spaced, HOA-approved streetlights feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. This wasn’t about a gnome. This was about being told my joy, my memory, was clutter.
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