Oh, Larry. He had no idea what he’d started.
For twenty-five years I’d lived in this house — raised three kids here, buried my husband here, watered my begonias here. My days were simple: black coffee, the crossword, a wave to the neighbors.
Then Larry got his grubby hands on the HOA presidency and thought life had handed him a crown and a clipboard.
Larry was the parade-of-one type: mid-50s, always in a pressed polo, hair combed like it was a schedule. He smelled of certainty and lemon hand sanitizer.
From the moment he took office, he marched around like he had the kingdom’s keys. Only he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
It started the afternoon I was on the porch, minding my own business, when I saw him striding up the driveway, clipboard in hand and a look that said he’d finally found something to wag at me about.
He stopped at the bottom of my steps, didn’t even say hello. “Mrs. Pearson,” he said, every syllable a headline. “I’m afraid you’ve violated the HOA’s lawn maintenance standards.”
I blinked. I’d mowed two days earlier. “Is that so? The lawn’s been freshly mowed,” I said, calm as the surface of my teacup.
He clicked his pen — a dramatic little click that made me think of gavels. “It’s half an inch too long. HOA standards are very clear about this.”
Half. An. Inch. My mouth wanted to laugh, but I held a smile in place. “Thanks for the heads-up, Larry. I’ll be sure to trim that extra half-inch for you,” I said, sweet as pie.
Inside, I was boiling. I’d survived diaper blowouts, PTA meetings, a husband who once tried to roast marshmallows with a propane torch — I had no patience for petty kings.
Larry had obviously missed the memo: don’t mess with a woman who has survived that much life.
That night I sat with the HOA rulebook on my lap, the pages soft from years of neglect. I’d never cared much for it until now.
I read every line, turning pages slowly, like a detective finding a clue. And there it was: lawn decorations, tasteful, within certain size and placement limits — allowed. Perfectly allowed.
Oh, Larry. You poor, unfortunate soul. You had no idea what you’d just unleashed.
The next morning I went on a shopping spree. It felt like a little liberation — a joyful, slightly wicked spree. I bought gnomes. Not the tiny ones that hide behind the begonias, but big, bold gnomes.
One held a lantern, another balanced a fishing pole over a tiny fake pond I built, and one of them — my favorite — lounged in a hammock with a tiny beer in hand, looking like he owned the place.
Then I bought a flock of plastic pink flamingos. I planted them in a proud cluster, like a tropical rebellion. Solar lights followed: along the path, around the trees, tucked in the flowerbeds. When dusk came, my yard lit up like a fairy tale on a holiday cruise.
And every single piece was within the rules. Not one measurement broken. I sank into my lawn chair and watched my little masterpiece glow. Pride and mischief bubbled up inside me.
I didn’t have to wait long for the reaction. I was watering petunias when I saw his car creep down the street. He slowed, scanned my yard, and I could see his jaw tighten as if someone had given him salt instead of coffee.
He rolled down the window, stared at the gnome with the margarita, then at me — and I gave him a wave that was all honey and knives.
His face went the color of an angry tomato. He sped off.
I laughed so loud a squirrel leapt and nearly did a double take in the oak tree. “That’s right, Larry. You can’t touch this,” I said to no one but the setting sun.
A week later he stood on my porch again, badge and clipboard on full parade. “Mrs. Pearson,” he announced, “I’ve come to inform you that your mailbox violates HOA standards.”
My eyebrows climbed into my hairline. “The mailbox?” I followed his gaze. I’d painted that post two months ago. “Larry, I just painted that thing. It’s pristine.”
He squinted like he’d found a crack in the universe. “The paint is chipping,” he insisted, scribbling as if scribbles were power.
Not a chip. Not a smudge. I could see this was personal. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I said. “All this over half an inch of grass?”
“I’m just enforcing the rules,” he replied, but his eyes had the look of a man who’d been outfoxed by a woman’s garden.
That night I upped the ante. Back to the garden store I went, loading my car with more gnomes, more flamingos, and a motion-activated sprinkler system that twinkled in my head like a prank waiting to happen.
When they came, I arranged them in formations — gnomes fishing, gnomes carrying tiny tools, flamingos standing sentinel — and I tucked the sprinklers into the flowerbed, hidden behind a row of rosemary.
It was ridiculous. It was beautiful. It was completely legal.
The first time Larry came by after that, the sprinkler tasted him for him. He strolled up, clipboard poised, and the motion sensor thought, “Ah — intruder!” — and the sprinkler sang. A bright arc of water hit him square on, and he spluttered, arms flailing.
He looked like a drowned cat. He retreated to his car, soaked and humiliated, clutching his soggy clipboard as if it might save him.
I laughed until I cried.
Then the neighbors started watching. A few of them came by, and not just to whisper gossip. They came with curiosity and with thumbs up.
Mrs. Johnson from three houses down stopped, hands on her hips, eyes sparkling. “I love the whimsical atmosphere,” she said, using that perfect word like a co-conspirator.
Mr. Thompson, who always wore a cap and a half-smile, ambled over and chuckled. “I haven’t seen Larry so flustered in years,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good on you, Mrs. Pearson.”
Others followed. A teenage boy from two driveways down asked where I got the flamingos and told me he wanted one for his dad.
Mrs. Sandoval brought over lemonade and a plate of cookies with a note: “For the hero of our cul-de-sac.” Little by little, my yard’s eccentricity became a neighborhood trend.
People started adding their own touches — a gnome on Mrs. Patel’s porch, a line of tiny lanterns at the Miller’s house, a pink flamingo winking from the Hendersons’ front lawn.
It turned into a movement of tasteful defiance. The more Larry tried to tighten the rules, the more people played within them, and the more the rules lost their teeth.
Larry’s once-feared fines became a joke. The clipboard, once a symbol of his authority, was now a damp prop he couldn’t make scary anymore.
He had to drive down our street every day and see what we’d done: twinkling lights, plastic flamingos, heroic gnomes standing in neat little rows. He’d pass and stare, and I would catch his eye and give him a grin that said plainly, “We know our rights.”
Sometimes, late at night when the lights were all on and the gnomes looked like little soldiers guarding the begonias, I’d sit on the porch with a cup of tea and feel something warm and powerful buzz through me.
It wasn’t just about the lawn. It was about the fact that when a small, officious man decided to lord over people, those people could choose to laugh instead of cower. We chose joy.
And Larry? He kept looking. He kept clutching his clipboard. He kept trying new angles, new nitpicks.
But every time he flexed, the neighborhood responded with another tasteful lawn decoration and another story to tell at the next barbecue.
So, Larry, if you happen to be reading this — which I doubt, but stranger things happen — keep on looking. We’ve only just begun. I have plenty more ideas, and each one will be perfectly, beautifully within the rules.
