I watched a stranger with a chainsaw cut down my mother’s roses, all because my new neighbor decided they violated a homeowners association rule.
It started with a “friendly” note on my doorstep, pointing out my so-called violations. Then came the official HOA fines, nitpicking everything from my birdbath to the shape of my shrubs.
She was a bully with a binder, a woman who got a power trip from enforcing rules that nobody else cared about. My garden, the one thing that brought joy to the whole neighborhood, was a threat to her perfect, sterile world.
So she had it destroyed right in front of me.
She thought she was the queen of the cul-de-sac, untouchable behind her wall of regulations. But she never imagined I’d stop reading her petty HOA bylaws and start pulling the city permits for the illegal deck she built on her own house.
A Weed in the Cul-de-Sac: The Queen of Primrose Court
The dirt under my fingernails is a special kind of peace. It’s a mix of last year’s compost and this morning’s dew, a scent that’s more home to me than the lemon-scented cleaner my husband, Mark, prefers for the kitchen. My garden isn’t just a hobby; it’s my portfolio, my sanctuary, and my life’s work, all rolled into one sprawling, chaotic masterpiece. As a freelance landscape designer, my own yard is my best, and sometimes only, advertisement.
Kneeling on my foam pad, I pinch a spent bloom from the David Austin ‘Jubilee Celebration’ rose. Its petals are a rich salmon pink with hints of gold on the underside, a living sunset. My mother gave me the first cutting twenty years ago. Now, three robust bushes form a fragrant wall along the white picket fence, their vines climbing a sturdy cedar trellis Mark built for our tenth anniversary.
“Hey, Mom, you going to be out here all day?” My son Leo, all seventeen years of gangly limbs and sarcasm, leans in the doorway. “Dinner isn’t going to magically photosynthesize itself.”
“Very funny,” I say without looking up. “Tell your father I’ll be in soon. I just need to deadhead the petunias.”
He grunts an acknowledgment and disappears back into the cool of the house. Around me, Primrose Court is quiet. It’s that perfect time in late spring when the lawns are impossibly green and the air is thick with the smell of cut grass and possibility. Mr. Henderson across the street gives me a little wave from his porch. I’m the neighborhood’s unofficial Garden Queen, a title I wear with more pride than I probably should. This place, this patch of earth, is where I make sense.
The New Neighbor’s Appraisal
The moving truck had been the talk of the cul-de-sac for a week. The old Millers had finally retired to Florida, and their neat but boring colonial was now home to a woman named Carol. I saw her a few times, directing movers with sharp, precise gestures. Her yard, once a simple expanse of grass, was now… severe. Perfectly spaced boxwoods that looked like green meatballs, mulch dyed an unnatural shade of black, and not a single flower.
She chose this afternoon to make her formal introduction. I was wrestling a particularly stubborn patch of clover when her shadow fell over me. I looked up into a face that was all sharp angles and tight-set smile. She was dressed in crisp white linen pants and a navy-blue top, looking like she’d just stepped out of a yacht club catalog. I was in dirt-smeared jeans and an old t-shirt.
“You must be Elara,” she said. Her voice was bright, but her eyes were doing a rapid inventory of my property. “I’m Carol. Your new neighbor.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said, wiping a sweaty hand on my jeans before offering it. Her handshake was firm and brief. “I love what you’ve done with the landscaping.” A polite lie.
“Thank you. I believe in clean lines and order. It’s good for property values.” Her gaze drifted past me, snagging on the rose trellis. “Your garden is certainly… abundant.”
“Thank you,” I said again, the words feeling a little tighter this time.
“Those roses are magnificent,” she continued, that bright, false smile still plastered on her face. “But that trellis looks awfully high. The HOA covenants are pretty specific about structure height. Section 4, article B, I think. You’d hate to get a notice.” She gave a little laugh, as if sharing a funny secret. I didn’t laugh back.
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