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.
A Friendly Heads-Up
A few days later, the note appeared. It wasn’t in the mailbox. It was on my welcome mat, a single sheet of cheap printer paper, folded crisply in half. There was no envelope, no signature. Just black, Times New Roman font.
A Friendly Heads-Up for the Good of the Community:
- Per the Primrose Court Covenants, Conditions & Restrictions, please be advised of the following potential violations:
- Article 7.3: A limit of five (5) flowering plant varieties per front-facing garden bed. Your east bed appears to contain at least eight.
- Article 9.1: All lawn ornaments, including bird baths, must be pre-approved by the Architectural Review Committee. Your ceramic bird bath is not on the approved list.
- Article 11.4: Mulch must be of a natural wood-chip color. Black or red dyed mulch is prohibited.
My mulch was cedar. A very natural wood-chip color. I read the list twice, my pulse a low, angry thrum in my ears. This wasn’t a friendly heads-up. This was a declaration. It was so petty, so stunningly passive-aggressive, that for a moment I just felt a surge of disbelief. Who counts the flower varieties in their neighbor’s yard?
I knew, with absolute certainty, who had typed it. The woman with the severe boxwoods and the rulebook memorized.
That night, I told Mark about it, shoving the paper across the dinner table. He scanned it, his brow furrowed. “Are you serious? Who has time for this?”
“Carol. The new neighbor,” I said, stabbing a piece of chicken with my fork. “She mentioned the trellis the other day. Now this.”
“Just throw it out,” he said, ever the pragmatist. “She’s new. She’s probably just one of those people who gets a weird power trip from this stuff. Don’t engage. It’s what she wants.” He was right, of course. But telling me not to engage over an attack on my garden was like telling a mother bear to ignore someone poking her cub.
The Covenant Queen
I tried to follow Mark’s advice. I really did. I threw the note in the recycling bin and spent the next few days aggressively ignoring Carol’s house. I’d turn my back when I saw her car pull into the driveway. I’d focus on the flowerbeds in the backyard, out of sight of her perfectly aligned windows.
But a rot had set in. I found myself looking at my own garden with a critical eye, wondering what other obscure rule I was breaking. Was my garden hose coiled improperly? Was the wind chime I’d had for ten years an unapproved “auditory nuisance”? My sanctuary was starting to feel like a crime scene.
On Saturday evening, I was watering the hydrangeas when I saw her. I couldn’t help it; my eyes were drawn to her house like a magnet. She was standing in her kitchen, the light from inside throwing her into silhouette against the window.
She wasn’t cooking or cleaning. She was standing at her counter, holding a massive, white three-ring binder. I could just make out the gold lettering stamped on the spine: “P.C. HOA.” She looked up then, her eyes finding mine across the manicured lawn that separated us. She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave.
She just gave a slow, deliberate nod, a clear and unmistakable acknowledgment. It was a look that said, I see you. And I have the rulebook. My stomach went cold. This wasn’t about property values. This was a siege, and I was the target.
Bylaws and Battle Lines: The Architectural Review Committee
The email landed in my inbox on a Tuesday morning with the subject line: “HOA Community Announcement.” I almost deleted it, assuming it was the usual reminder about trash can etiquette. But a knot of dread made me click it open.
“The Primrose Court HOA Board is pleased to announce that the vacant seat on the Architectural Review Committee has been filled. Please join us in welcoming your neighbor, Carol Jansen, to the committee. Carol’s dedication to upholding our community standards will be a tremendous asset. She will be assuming the role of Chairperson, effective immediately.”
I read it three times. Chairperson. Effective immediately. The fox wasn’t just guarding the henhouse; she’d been handed the keys, the deed, and a feathered menu. My blood ran cold, then hot with a fresh surge of fury.
“Mark, you have to see this,” I called out. He came into my small home office, coffee mug in hand, and leaned over my shoulder to read the screen.
He let out a low whistle. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
“She’s been here a month!” I said, my voice rising. “How does someone get to be chair of a committee in a month?”
“She probably volunteered,” Mark said, taking a sip of coffee. “Nobody else wants that job. It’s a thankless nightmare of telling people they can’t paint their shutters teal.”
“It’s not thankless to her,” I muttered, staring at Carol’s name on the screen. “It’s the whole point.” I felt a deep, sinking certainty that the anonymous note had just been the opening salvo. Now she had official letterhead.
About the Author
