The staple in the corner was rusted, but the signatures of the original five founding homeowners—including my husband’s, right at the top—were crisp and clear in dark blue ink. “You see, Richard,” I continued, pacing slowly across the front of the room. “My husband, Arthur, drafted these covenants at our dining room table.
And because he was a Navy veteran who had just finished pouring the concrete for his own flagpole, he made sure to include a very specific provision.” I opened the document and flipped to the third page. I could see the color starting to drain from Richard’s face.
“Article Six, Paragraph Two,” I read aloud, my voice echoing slightly in the quiet room. “‘No freestanding poles or structures shall exceed six feet in height, with the explicit exception of flagpoles intended for the display of the United States flag, which shall be permitted at a standard residential height, and are forever protected on the properties of military veterans.’ Furthermore, Richard, Article Nine clearly states that any structures erected prior to the filing of these covenants in 1981 are permanently grandfathered into the community and cannot be subjected to forced removal or fines by any future board.” The silence in the room was deafening.
You could have heard a pin drop. I looked up from the paper and stared directly at Richard, whose smug smile had completely vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated panic. “So,” I said softly, but with enough steel in my voice to make him flinch.
“Unless you plan on going to the county courthouse to try and retroactively forge signatures on a forty-five-year-old legal document, you will drop this ridiculous fine immediately. And if you ever send another threatening letter to my home, my next stop won’t be a board meeting.
It will be a lawyer’s office, and we will be discussing a harassment lawsuit. Do we understand each other?” For a long, agonizing moment, Richard just sat there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The other board members were staring at him, clearly horrified.
Finally, one of the older board members sitting next to him quickly grabbed her microphone. “The board withdraws the notice,” she said hurriedly, shooting a furious glare at Richard. “The fine is dismissed. We apologize for the oversight, ma’am.” “Thank you,” I said simply. I carefully folded the document back into its folder, placed it in my purse, and walked down the center aisle toward the exit.
As I reached the back doors, the room erupted into applause and cheering from the other neighbors who had been terrorized by Richard’s petty rules. I didn’t stick around to chat. I walked back home under the warm evening sky. When I got to my driveway, I stopped and looked at the flagpole.
The American flag was waving gently in the night breeze, illuminated by the streetlamp.
