you?”
“I’m volunteering.”
“For whom?”
“The HOA.”
That was when I understood.
Cedar Ridge Estates sat east of my property.
Two hundred and forty-one houses built around a private golf course, artificial lake, clubhouse, and enough ornamental stone walls to defend a medieval kingdom.
The development had been built twelve years earlier.
My land existed decades before it.
We shared about three-quarters of a mile of boundary.
We shared nothing else.
Mercer Farm was not part of Cedar Ridge.
Never had been.
Never would be.
But Cedar Ridge had spent years pretending otherwise.
They had complained about my tractors starting before sunrise.
They had complained about cattle smell.
They had complained about dust.
They had complained that my grain bins ruined their homeowners’ “viewshed.”
Once, their architectural committee mailed me a notice demanding approval before I repainted my barn.
I mailed it back with a photograph of my deed.
For
