On my private property.
Ten minutes later, she's taping this official-looking notice to my screen door.
Violation citation.
Unsightly dock structure damaging community property values.
Fine: $500.
Compliance required within 72 hours or daily penalties will accrue.
I had to read it twice.
My weathered dock, the same one Pop and I had reinforced together when I was 12, was apparently an eyesore threatening the entire neighborhood's real estate market.
Being a reasonable guy, I walked over to explain that my property actually predates the HOA by about 40 years.
You know what she said to me, standing there in my own driveway, hands on her hips like she owned the place?
"Everyone on this lake answers to me, sweetie. Ask the Hendersons how well fighting me worked out for them."
The Hendersons.
My elderly neighbors, who'd mysteriously decided to downsize last month after living here for 23 years.
The pieces weren't clicking yet, but something cold settled in my stomach.
That's when she started her photography session, circling my cabin like a real estate appraiser, snapping pictures of my solar panels, my vegetable garden, even my grandfather's hand-carved porch railings.
The smell of her chemical air freshener wafting from that idling Escalade made me want to gag.
By the end of the week, I had three more citations.
Each one came with escalating fines.
Each one made it crystal clear that Delilah Cromwell had declared war on everything my family had built on this land.
I figured I was dealing with your typical power-tripping neighbor.
Annoying, sure, but manageable.
What I didn't know was that I had just painted a target on my back in a game much bigger and more dangerous than petty HOA politics.
Pop's words echoed in my head.
Find out why they want your land.
I was about to find out why, and it would change everything.
Karen didn't waste time escalating to the big guns.
Three days after my compliance deadline passed, because seriously, I wasn't tearing down Pop's dock for some wannabe dictator, a certified letter arrived that made my coffee taste like ash.
Cease and desist.
Violation of community waterway regulations.
The letterhead read Blackstone, Meyer, and Associates, one of those fancy law firms where the partners probably charge more per hour than I made in a month.
The legal gibberish basically said my dock was illegally extending into community waterway, and I owed three grand in retroactive violation fees.
Plus, they were threatening to slap a lien on my property if I didn't pay up within 10 days.
My first instinct was panic.
These people had lawyers.
I had a toolbox and a bad attitude.
But then I remembered something Pop always drummed into me during those long fishing afternoons.