But the real kicker was that she claimed the lake itself was a common area requiring monthly membership fees of $200 per household.
Margaret collected signatures from eight of the 23 properties, mostly newcomers who bought into her fear-mongering about property values. The rest of us got certified letters demanding mandatory HOA enrollment.
I called her, polite as my mama raised me. "Ma'am, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I'm not interested in joining."
Her response could have frozen that lake in July. "It's not optional, Mr. Blackstone. This affects everyone's investment."
"Ma'am," I said, "I don't have investments. I have a home."
The silence stretched longer than a tax audit before she hung up.
Two weeks later, laminated signs appeared around the lake like a bad rash. PRIVATE HOA PROPERTY. MEMBERS ONLY.
The plastic gleamed in the morning sun, an ugly scar across the natural beauty we had always shared freely. I kept fishing anyway. What else was I going to do?
This was my routine, my peace, my connection to Sarah's memory. But Margaret stationed herself at her picture window with binoculars, taking photos like I was some escaped convict instead of a guy trying to catch breakfast.
That was when she made the call that lit this whole powder keg.
Deputy Charlie Morrison showed up looking like he would rather wrestle an angry bear. Charlie was local. His daddy and mine had worked construction together back in the day.
"Sorry, Theo," he said, avoiding my eyes. "Got a complaint about trespassing. I have to ask you to leave."
Margaret stood on her deck in a pink cardigan that probably cost more than my truck payment, arms crossed with that satisfied smirk of someone who thinks they just checkmated a chess grandmaster.
I packed up without a fuss. But as that tackle box snapped shut, one thought crystallized like ice on a winter morning.
Lady just picked a fight with the wrong fisherman.
The next morning, I woke up to find Margaret had filed a formal trespassing complaint with the county. Not just a phone call to Charlie, an actual written complaint with my name on it, complete with photos of me illegally accessing HOA waters.
The woman had documented my fishing trips like I was running a cartel instead of catching bass.
Within 48 hours, she had organized an emergency HOA meeting about what she called non-compliance issues. The agenda was how to deal with problem residents who refused to respect community standards.
Margaret had recruited Dale Pemberton, a retired bank manager with the personality of wet cardboard, as her HOA treasurer. Dale brought legitimacy to her operation. Nothing says official like a guy who spent 40 years foreclosing on people's dreams.
Margaret's next power play hit like a sledgehammer. She identified four other problem properties around the lake.