The HOA President Who Went Too Far
Part 1:
When my wife Sarah and I first drove through the gates of Willowbrook Estates, we thought we had found the perfect home to start our married life. We got all we wanted in the subdivision. The lawns looked like green carpets and were well-kept, the paths were immaculate and lined with young oak trees, and the houses appeared like they had come straight out of a home design magazine. We had lived in apartments for years, so the idea of buying our first house in such a nice area made us feel like we had really made it.
Linda, the real estate agent, was happy because she had been selling homes in the area for twenty years. She couldn’t stop gushing about how great the community atmosphere and amenities were in the neighborhood.
She said softly, “You’re going to love it here,” as we drove up to 247 Maple Lane, a beautiful two-story colonial with cream-colored siding and black shutters. “The HOA does a great job of making everything look nice.” Property values have been going up gradually for years because everything is so well-kept.
Sarah held my hand as we went up the front steps. When she was twenty-eight, she finally got the house she had always wanted since she was a kid. It had enough bedrooms for the family we wanted, a yard where we could have barbecues with guests, and a garage where I could set up a woodworking studio.
Linda pulled out a big folder of paperwork and stated, “The HOA fee is very fair.” “Only $150 a month covers all the maintenance of the common areas, the pool, and the great management that keeps this place looking so nice.”
People we knew, including friends and coworkers, had told us awful things about homeowners associations, such board members who wanted to control everything and huge fines for tiny mistakes. Willowbrook Estates, on the other hand, looked different. We read the rules and thought they were fair: keep your lawn nice, don’t park company cars on the street, and keep the outside of your house in good order. Nothing that seemed unjust to anyone who wanted to live in a nice neighborhood.
“Who is in charge of the HOA?” I asked since I always want to know who I’ll be working with at a new place.
Linda said, “Oh, Margaret Thornfield,” in a way that I would later realize was meant to be neutral. “She has been the president for about eight years now.” She works very hard to keep the community’s standards high.
I thought “dedicated” was a good word when I heard it. I had no idea that Margaret’s strong sense of duty would soon turn our dream home into a place where we were always bickering and stressed out.
The house was perfect for what we needed and could afford. There are three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a modern kitchen with granite countertops, and a finished basement that would be great for my workshop. The backyard was big enough for the vegetable garden Sarah wanted to make, and the area was peaceful and family-friendly.
We made an offer that same afternoon, and within a week, we purchased a home in Willowbrook Estates.
Chapter 2: The Committee That Will Welcome You
The day we moved was perfect: it was sunny and nice, and there was just enough wind to keep us cool as we drove the moving truck and began the lengthy, arduous process of moving our lives from our modest apartment to our spacious new home. Sarah was in her element, ordering people where to put the furniture and making plans for how to decorate each room.
By the time night fell, we were tired but happy. We sat on our front porch with pizza and beverages from takeout and watched the sun set over our new neighborhood. A few neighbors stopped by during the day to say hi, and everyone seemed friendly and welcoming.
Sarah snuggled into my shoulder and said, “I think we’re going to be really happy here,” as we watched kids ride bikes on the sidewalk and families walk their dogs.
That was the first time we met Margaret Thornfield.
She came up to our house like she was on official business, with a leather portfolio and attire that looked like professional clothes, even though it was a Saturday night and she was dressed casually. Margaret was in her early sixties. She had her silver hair pulled back into a perfect chignon and stood up straight, which made it look like she had been in control for a long time or had been in the military.
When she went to our front steps, she said, “Good evening.” “Hello, my name is Margaret Thornfield and I am the president of the Willowbrook Estates Homeowners Association.” I wanted to welcome you to our community in person.
When Sarah and I got up to say hello, we both observed right once that the tone was too formal for a casual neighborhood welcome.
“Thanks,” Sarah said in a nice way. “Hi, we’re Sarah and Tom Mitchell.” We are happy to be here.
“I know you are,” Margaret said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I always like to meet new residents in person so they know what our community’s rules and expectations are.”
She pulled out a big stack of papers from her portfolio. “This is your copy of the HOA’s rules, conditions, and restrictions. It also includes our handbook on community rules, landscaping requirements, and architectural guidelines.”
There were at least forty pages in the packet, which was a lot more than the short overview we got when we bought the house.
“I know it seems like a lot,” Margaret said, “but everyone needs to help keep the character and property values of Willowbrook Estates.” You undoubtedly want to protect your money just as much as we do.
I saw that Margaret’s eyes were moving around our acreage in a regular pattern as she spoke. She looked at our mailbox, which was the same as all the others in the area, our driveway, where we parked our two cars, our front landscaping, which had been professionally designed and recently updated, and our grass, which the previous owners had kept in wonderful order.
She said, “So far, everything looks good,” and typed down her views in a small notebook. “But there are a few things that need to be fixed.”
We both glanced at each other. We had barely owned our property for eight hours, and we were already getting citations for breaking the rules?
“Your mailbox numbers are a little faded,” Margaret commented, pointing to the black numbers on our white mailbox. ” According to Section 7.3 of the architectural criteria, all mailbox numbers must be simple to read and in good shape. You need to swap those out in less than thirty days.
I looked at the numbers on our mailbox and they made perfect sense to me, but I didn’t want to argue with the HOA president at our first meeting.
“Also,” Margaret remarked, “I see a small oil stain on your driveway close to where your car is parked.” Section 4.2 stipulates that driveways must always be clean. You need to either pressure wash or treat that stain.
The oil stain she was talking about was hard to see; it was a small dark spot that was probably hard to see unless you were looking for it.
“Finally,” Margaret said as she looked over her notes, “people can see your trash cans from the street.” When not in use for collection, our rules specify that all trash cans must be kept out of sight of the public.
Sarah looked confused and continued, “They’re in our garage.”
“But the garage door is open,” Margaret said. “That means people can see them from the street, which goes against the aesthetic standards we’ve worked so hard to keep.”
It was great how much Margaret learned from her inspection. In less than five minutes, she uncovered three “violations” that no rational person would have considered were problems that needed to be fixed.
In the end, Margaret said, “I’ll send you a formal notice with the details and deadlines for fixing these issues.” After that, she closed her portfolio. “Welcome to Willowbrook Estates.” You will learn to appreciate how hard we work to do a great job.
Sarah and I sat back down on the stairs of our porch after Margaret gone. We didn’t feel as excited about our new neighborhood all of a sudden.
“Did that really just happen?” Sarah asked, looking at the rules that Margaret had written down.
I read through the pages and saw restrictions concerning everything from what colors are okay for the front door to what sorts of plants can go in the front yard. There were rules about how to decorate for the holidays, what kind of furniture to place outside, what kinds of gifts to give youngsters, and even how bright the porch lights should be.
“I think we just met the neighborhood dictator,” I said with a frown.
Chapter 3: The Campaign That Just Keeps Growing
In the next few weeks, we quickly figured out that Margaret’s first visit was just the beginning of a deliberate campaign of harassment that was disguised as HOA enforcement. Margaret constantly seemed to find new ways we were breaking the rules when she checked our property, which she did way too often. We tried our best to follow all the rules and laws.
We changed the numbers on our mailbox to big black ones that could be seen from space. We used a pressure washer on our driveway until it appeared like it had just been built. We put up privacy screens in our garage so that no one could see our trash cans, even when the door was open. Whenever we fixed one of Margaret’s problems, she would find another one that needed to be fixed right away.
She told us during one of her surprise inspections, “Your lawn stripes are going the wrong way.” According to Section 6.1, the grass must be mowed in a way that looks nice in the area.
I had been cutting our lawn at an angle, which formed beautiful diamond patterns that I felt looked neat and professional. It looks like Margaret loved stripes that went across the street in a straight line.
She said, “I can see your garden hose from the sidewalk,” on another visit. “All tools and supplies for maintenance must be kept out of sight of the public.”
The hose in question was neatly coiled on a hose reel that was attached to the side of our house, just like the hose reels on a lot of other houses in the vicinity. But Margaret believed our hose reel was somehow more visible or annoying than the rest.
“Your car is too close to the sidewalk,” she said one morning as I was getting ready to leave for work. “Cars have to stay at least eighteen inches away from the edge of the sidewalk so it looks nice.”
I measured the distance and found that my car was exactly twenty-two inches from the curb, which is completely within the rules. When I told Margaret about it, she remarked that her measurements were different from mine. She indicated that I will get a letter ordering me to repair it.
