What this arrogant man didn’t realize is that I know exactly what the original 1981 covenants say. I know every single word of them, because my husband is the one who drafted them. Back in the late seventies and early eighties, this neighborhood was just a collection of houses bordered by empty fields.
A few of the original owners, Arthur included, decided we needed a basic set of rules just to keep things neighborly—nothing crazy, just agreements on property lines, road maintenance, and keeping the place looking decent. We spent three consecutive weekends sitting at this very dining room table, drinking cheap coffee and scribbling on a yellow legal pad.
Arthur was meticulous. He wanted to make sure the rules protected the homeowners, rather than controlling them. When we finally got the wording right, we handed the handwritten notes over to a local lawyer to type up and file with the county. And because Arthur was the kind of man who kept records of everything, I still have the original, signed, unedited copy of those covenants sitting in a manila folder in the drawer right beside my stove.
I didn’t argue with Richard on the phone. I just politely told him I would attend the board meeting on Tuesday night to discuss the matter, and hung up. When Tuesday rolled around, I took my time getting ready. I put on a nice blouse, fixed my hair, and carefully slid that yellowed, forty-five-year-old document into my purse.
I walked down to the community clubhouse, which was already buzzing with neighbors whispering about the latest round of citations Richard had handed out. I took a seat in the back row and waited patiently through an hour of agonizingly boring budget reports and landscaping updates.
Finally, Richard cleared his throat and announced the open floor for public comments.
He looked right at me, a smug little smile playing on his lips, fully expecting an emotional elderly widow to come up and beg for mercy. I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and walked slowly to the microphone.
The room got very quiet. I looked up at the board members seated behind their folding tables, locked eyes with Richard, and took a deep breath. “Richard,” I started, keeping my voice steady and loud enough for everyone in the back to hear. “I received your violation notice regarding the flagpole in my front yard.
You mentioned on the phone that the original 1981 covenants prohibit freestanding poles over six feet. I wanted to ask you… which specific version of the covenants are you reading from?” Richard sighed, leaning into his own microphone like he was dealing with a toddler.
“The original covenants, ma’am. Filed with the county in 1981. It’s quite clear in the text.” “That’s fascinating,” I said, unzipping my purse. “Because I have the original, signed covenants right here.” I pulled out the manila folder and extracted the thick, slightly yellowed stack of paper, holding it up for the room to see.
