My family couldn’t park our RV since the HOA said so. So, my dad, who owned their water, raised their rates by three times. My mom sat on the porch steps with her hands shaking and a single piece of paper that changed everything. It was the night the HOA letter came. The article indicated we had a week to remove the ugly RV off our driveway or pay a fine per day.
That ugly monstrosity was our family’s RV, the place where we kept our memories and the only place we could go after losing everything else. At the age of 16, that RV represented more than merely a vehicle to me. It was the only place where my family could find joy again after Dad’s construction firm went bankrupt. We took that RV up into the mountains every summer to fish, climb, and just relax away from all the stress of rebuilding.
The HOA board thought it was just an eyesore. It was home to us. Our neighborhood, Willow Creek Estates, was meticulously maintained, with the HOA enforcing strict rules on everything from fence color to mailbox height. We lived there for five years without breaking any rules.
But as soon as we parked the RV next to our house for a short time while we fixed the garage roof, they flew down on us like hawks. Dad tried to be fair at first. He went to the following HOA meeting with a calm, professional demeanor. My mom made cookies for the board members in the hopes that they would be nicer. But Linda, the chairwoman, cut him off as soon as he stood up to speak. Mr.
“Your car breaks Article 14, Section 8,” she added, her voice harsh as glass. It is against the law to store RVs on private property unless they are out of sight of the street. You are ruining the look of the neighborhood. Dad attempted to tell her that it was only temporary, maybe two weeks, but she wouldn’t listen. “Rules are rules,” she remarked with her arms folded. That day, something in Dad’s jaw twitched. I hadn’t seen that look since the business went down.
He sat at the kitchen table that night, scrolling through documents while his mom wailed in the living room. Then he said something that surprised me. He said to mom, “You know what’s funny, Sarah?” with cold eyes. They think they can tell me what to do with my driveway, but they’ve been using my water for years. Mom looked up, not sure what to do.
That’s when he reminded both of us of something I had entirely forgotten. Ten years prior to Willow Creek’s completion, the developer had arranged for the Carter family to use their private well system. At that time, Dad’s business took care of local water systems and utilities in rural areas. The water supply didn’t belong to the HOA. The HOA rented the water supply from Dad’s business for ten years, with the option to renew.
In only three months, that lease would be up for renewal. Dad smiled, but it wasn’t the kind of smile he usually has. The smile was the kind that shouted “checkmate.” The HOA kept delivering warnings for the next few weeks. We received one warning for the RV, another for the yard that needs work, and a third for putting the garbage cans in the wrong spot. It was evident that they were after us now.
As we drove by, our neighbors muttered. One person even said, “Why don’t you just move it already?” Dad didn’t move it. He parked the RV right in the middle of the driveway and cleaned it every Sunday, even waxing it. It shone like a mirror in the sun, which was a quiet way of saying “screw you” to the HOA. The meeting to renew the water lease followed next.
Linda and the HOA board came to our house with a lot of confidence and pride. They figured Dad would just sign the same contract again, but he had a new one ready: a big packet with the words “Revised Terms and Conditions” on it. Linda’s smile went away when she flipped through it. She said, “You’ve tripled the rate!” Dad said calmly, “Actually, I’ve changed it to take into account inflation, upkeep, and the fact that it’s harder to do business with the HOA.”
One board member yelled, “You can’t do this.” The well is crucial for this community. Dad put his feet up on the chair. You are correct. You could always dig your own, but that will cost you around half a million dollars and six months without flowing water. So, you have a choice. They were really angry as they departed. The neighborhood was humming by the next week.
Everyone knew what had transpired. A few people were furious at the HOA. Some people said Dad was a genius. Linda sent another letter, this one threatening to sue. Dad’s answer was short: “Look at section 9, clause B of your lease.” There are penalties for ending the contract. They called back within two days. They agreed to the revised price. The HOA stopped pestering us after that.
No more threats, no more notices. They were actually very courteous. The minutes from the next meeting even included a new guideline regarding temporary parking for recreational vehicles utilized by long-term residents. They had broken their own rules since their dad influenced them.
We packed the RV and headed to the mountains when summer came months later. The air was lighter. Mom eventually laughed again. And Dad said something I’ll never forget while we were sitting by the campfire. He added that people believe that money or a title gives them power. But real power lies in knowing where the water goes and who can stop it.
The HOA never bothered us again. Linda waved the shortest and stiffest wave you’ve ever seen every time she walked by our house. Thereafter, we lived in Willow Creek for a few more years. Dad finally sold the water system to the county, but only on his terms. But I will always remember the lesson.
Defy their attempts to bury you in rules. Sometimes, the most effective way to retaliate against someone isn’t by shouting louder. It’s like turning on the water and seeing who arrives there first. This is how a homeowners’ association attempted to intimidate my family, and how my father, the quiet man with water rights, asserted his authority and demonstrated who genuinely governed the area.
