HOA? No way!

The other weekend while walking my dog I had to clip her leash on to cross a busy road. I never have to do this. She runs free, I try to keep up. Simple as that. But this time when I hooked on her leash I had a vision in my head of what it must be like to live in a suburban shake n' bake neighborhood under the power of a Home Owners Association instead of where I live, a rural valley surrounded by natural parkland (and a few scattered rednecks with shotguns).

Most certainly my freedom-loving pooch would have to have a leash on before we left the driveway, our house would have to be painted beige or a variation of beige, our grass cut to an exact 1/2 inch, our cars unseen in the garage, no laundry enjoying a fresh breeze and worst of all, no garden gnomes. As I thought of this I had a slight panic attack and envisioned a Wrinkle in Time scenario with rows of duplicate houses and rows of children bouncing balls in unison.

Why would people live in a place that is as confining and rule-abiding as their work? Home is comfort and escape, not a place to worry about whether your neighbors have the regulated number of flower boxes in their windows.

The panic attack began to ease up a bit when I took a look at my own neighorhood: junk cars and trucks in people's yards, piles of wood waiting to be chopped, rusty swingsets, slobbering German Shepherds and homes in hues of blueberry, mandarin, pine and lemon. I unclipped my baby from her leash and watched as she ran free into the hills. Far away from the HOA.

HOA Horror Stories