The packet contained a deed, an old topographic survey, records of utility access, and correspondence from three previous owners.
I read everything because I had spent too many years working construction jobs where a missed note cost somebody money.
The workshop stood on a former orchard parcel outside the original boundary of Alder Glen, our association’s planned subdivision.
The neighborhood had grown around it over forty years.
A narrow gravel track connected the rear of the workshop to an old county maintenance road.
The track was on my deed.
Its existence became important the day Vivian arrived with a binder and announced that the association was adopting an Emergency Greenbelt Access Policy.
She said it required every owner along the creek to open their gates for authorized landscaping vehicles.
I asked who had authorized the vehicles.
Vivian said the board had.
I asked what state law required me to give up control over land I owned outright.
She tapped the binder and told me not to pretend I was a lawyer.
I wasn’t a lawyer.
I had, however, spent enough time on job sites to know that putting the word emergency on a document did not magically transfer title.
The first notice gave me thirty days.
The second gave me seven.
The third warned that the association would perform corrective work and bill me for it.
The fourth contained the new title that sounded like an act of the legislature.
I called the county clerk’s office after the second notice.
A patient employee named Ruth Ellison directed me to the recorded declaration and told me where to look for amendments.
There was no amendment granting the association access to my workshop road.
There wasn’t even a recorded membership agreement binding my old orchard parcel to the subdivision covenants.
I knew a board could adopt rules for property under its authority.
I also knew the board could not simply vote itself my land.
The contradiction should have ended the matter.
Instead it seemed to make Vivian more determined.
She showed up at the school pickup line beside Lucy’s mother, Rachel, and told other parents I was blocking an emergency fire route.
She placed an orange warning sticker on my truck.
She complained to the town that I was running a commercial salvage yard, even though I restored antique furniture in the workshop and sold almost none of it.
The complaints triggered visits from two inspectors who were polite and plainly confused.
