My name is Daniel Mills. I’m fifty-four years old, a software architect who works remotely from my home office, and for the past eight years I’ve lived on a six-acre property in the Blue Ridge foothills of North Carolina. It’s the kind of place I’d dreamed about for decades—quiet, private, surrounded by old-growth trees and mountain laurel, with a spring-fed creek running through the back corner and enough space that my nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away through the woods.
When I bought the property, it came with a modest ranch house that I’ve slowly renovated, a detached workshop where I restore vintage motorcycles on weekends, and—the feature that apparently started all this trouble—a beautiful saltwater pool I had installed three years ago. Nothing ostentatious, just a clean rectangular design with natural stone coping and a view of the mountains that makes morning swims feel like meditation.
The property sits uphill from Pine Grove Ridge, a planned subdivision that was built five years ago in the valley below. Two hundred cookie-cutter homes on quarter-acre lots, all beige vinyl siding and HOA-mandated landscaping, connected by winding streets with names like “Whispering Meadow Lane” and “Sunset Ridge Court.” It’s the kind of development that promises “resort-style living” and delivers identical mailboxes and rules about what color you can paint your front door.
My property predates the subdivision by decades—it was originally part of a larger farm that got subdivided in the 1970s—and most importantly, it has never been part of any homeowners association. Not when I bought it, not before, not ever. My deed is clear. My property taxes go directly to the county. My covenants consist of: none.
The subdivision and I are separated by geography, by trees, by a six-foot privacy fence along the shared property line, and by a very clear legal boundary that’s marked on every survey and recorded in the county register of deeds.
Or at least, it should have been clear.
For the first five years after Pine Grove Ridge was built, we coexisted peacefully. I occasionally saw families walking on the trail that runs along the edge of my property—technically a public easement, perfectly legal—and sometimes I’d wave to joggers or dog walkers. Once in a while someone would compliment my pool from the trail, visible through the trees, and I’d thank them politely and go back to whatever I was doing.
Then about three years ago, the HOA got a new president.
Patricia Hendricks. Mid-fifties, recently retired from some corporate middle-management position, and apparently determined to make managing a residential HOA her entire personality. I’d never met her personally, but I’d heard about her from the mail carrier—how she’d instituted new rules about garbage can placement, how she’d sued three homeowners over unauthorized deck staining, how she’d tried to ban political yard signs despite state law explicitly protecting them.
The kind of person who sees authority as a lifestyle and rules as a religion.
I started getting Pine Grove Ridge HOA newsletters in my mailbox about two years ago. I assumed it was a mistake—maybe the previous owner had lived in the subdivision before buying my property, maybe someone fat-fingered an address in their database. I tossed the first few, then finally called the number listed and explained that I wasn’t a member of their HOA and didn’t need their communications.
“Oh, we send them to everyone in the area,” the woman on the phone said brightly. “Just to keep the whole community informed!”
“But I’m not in your community,” I explained. “I’m not part of the HOA.”
“Well, you’re still a neighbor! We like to be inclusive.”
I let it go. It was junk mail. Annoying but harmless.
Then came the “voluntary contribution” requests. Letters asking me to chip in for subdivision common area maintenance, for the playground equipment, for the holiday light display at the entrance. Always phrased as requests, but with an undertone suggesting that participation was expected from “all community members.”
I ignored them. I wasn’t a community member. I didn’t use their playground or their common areas. Why would I pay for them?
The requests got more aggressive. Letters pointing out that “property values benefit everyone” and suggesting that non-contributors were “taking advantage of the neighborhood’s reputation without supporting it.”
I finally sent a certified letter to the HOA board explaining, as clearly as I could, that I was not a member of their association, not subject to their rules, not interested in their activities, and asking to be removed from their mailing list.
The letters stopped. For about six months.
Then, on a Thursday morning in late May, I pulled a thick ivory envelope from my mailbox. Gold-foil HOA letterhead across the top, embossed return address, the kind of stationery that tries to look “official” by being shiny and expensive-looking.
I opened it standing right there by the mailbox, expecting another fundraising appeal or maybe an invitation to some community event I could politely decline.
Instead, I found a single page that made me read it three times to make sure I was understanding correctly:
OFFICIAL NOTICE
Pine Grove Ridge Homeowners Association
Community Event Notification
Dear Resident,
Your backyard swimming pool facility has been selected as the host location for Pine Grove Ridge’s Annual Community Summer Social, scheduled for Friday, June 2nd, at 5:00 p.m.
Kindly ensure the following by 4:30 p.m. on the event date: – Pool gates unlocked and accessible – Pool area cleaned and maintained – Adequate seating arranged for approximately 75-100 guests – Light refreshments and beverages provided – Restroom facilities available
This event is an important tradition for our community, and we appreciate your cooperation in making it a success. Residents will begin arriving at 5:00 p.m. Please plan to be available to greet guests.
We look forward to a wonderful evening.
Sincerely,
Patricia Hendricks President, Pine Grove Ridge HOA
I stood there holding this letter, reading it again and again, waiting for the part where this made sense.
They were telling me—not asking, telling—to open my private property to a hundred strangers, provide food and drinks, and host their party. At my pool. On my land. With three days’ notice.
Like my home was a venue they could just reserve. Like I was a service provider who’d agreed to cater their event.
No greeting that acknowledged we’d never met. No request for permission. No recognition that this was, in any way, an unusual thing to demand. Just instructions, confident and clear, as if my cooperation was assumed.
I did the polite thing first. I’m not a confrontational person by nature. I’ve learned, working remotely for fifteen years, that most conflicts come from miscommunication, and that clarity usually resolves things before they escalate.
I sat down at my computer and wrote an email to the address listed on the HOA letterhead:
Ms. Hendricks,
I received your notice about hosting the HOA summer social at my property. I believe there’s been a significant misunderstanding that I’d like to clear up immediately.
My property at 1847 Mountain View Road is NOT part of Pine Grove Ridge HOA. It has never been part of the HOA, it is not subject to HOA rules or covenants, and I am not a member of your association.
I purchased this property eight years ago, and it predates your subdivision by several decades. It is a separate parcel with its own deed, and there is no legal or contractual relationship between my property and your HOA.
I’m attaching a copy of my deed and a boundary survey showing the clear property line between my land and the subdivision. As you can see, my property is entirely separate from Pine Grove Ridge.
I appreciate that you’re planning a community event, but my pool is private property and not available for use by HOA members or guests. I will not be hosting your social on Friday or any other date.
Please remove my address from your mailing list and direct any future HOA communications only to actual HOA members.
Respectfully, Daniel Mills
I attached my deed—clearly showing my property boundaries—and a boundary map I’d had surveyed when I installed the pool, with the property line highlighted in bright yellow so there could be no confusion.
I sent the email Thursday evening, expecting that would be the end of it. A simple misunderstanding, now corrected with documentation. They’d apologize for the confusion, pick a different venue, and we’d all move on.
I was stunningly naive.
The response came Friday morning, less than twelve hours before their scheduled party:
Mr. Mills,
Your email has been received and reviewed by the board.
While we understand you may not be “legally” bound to HOA guidelines, you are absolutely MORALLY obligated to support your community. Your property directly benefits from the presence of Pine Grove Ridge—our well-maintained subdivision increases property values for the entire area, including your parcel.
The community social is a beloved tradition that brings neighbors together and strengthens our neighborhood bonds. Your refusal to participate demonstrates a concerning lack of community spirit.
We expect you to honor our original request. Residents are already excited about the event, and changing venues at this late date would be extremely disruptive and disappointing to many families.
A refusal to cooperate will reflect very poorly on you as a neighbor and may impact future interactions with the community.
The event will proceed as scheduled at 5:00 p.m. today.
Respectfully, Patricia Hendricks President, Pine Grove Ridge HOA
I read this email three times, my coffee going cold in my hand, trying to process the audacity.
Morally obligated. To let strangers use my pool.
My property “benefits” from their subdivision—as if I should be grateful that a hundred identical houses were built in the valley below me, as if proximity to an HOA was some kind of gift I needed to repay.
And that final line—”the event will proceed as scheduled”—delivered with the confidence of someone who genuinely believed that insisting loudly enough would make it happen.
I called my attorney. Left a voicemail explaining the situation and asking if there was any legal basis for their claim. Then I did something simpler and more immediate: I went outside and locked my pool gate.
The gate is solid steel, eight feet tall, with a commercial-grade lock. I’d installed it for privacy and security, not because I’d anticipated anything like this, but I was suddenly very grateful for it.
I also checked my driveway camera system—four cameras covering the entrance, the gate, and the pool area, all recording continuously to local storage. Then I went back to work, monitoring my email and my security feeds while trying to focus on the code review I was supposed to be completing.
At 4:45 p.m., my driveway camera pinged with a motion alert.
A car was pulling up to the edge of my property. Then another. Then a third.
Within ten minutes, there were a dozen vehicles parked along the public road that borders my driveway—SUVs, minivans, a few sedans. People were getting out, unloading coolers and folding chairs, tying balloons to antennas. Children in swimsuits. Adults carrying covered dishes.
They were setting up for a party. At my property. Like they’d been invited.
I watched on my security monitor, genuinely stunned. What were they thinking? That I’d see a crowd and just… give in? Open the gate because they’d shown up?
At 5:00 p.m., Patricia Hendricks arrived.
I recognized her from her photo on the HOA website—perfectly styled blonde hair, pastel blazer despite the eighty-degree weather, clipboard in hand, walking with the confident stride of someone used to being in charge.
Two other people flanked her—board members, I assumed—and they walked straight to my gate while the crowd behind them watched expectantly.
Patricia pressed the intercom button at the gate. Once. Then again, more insistently. Then rapid-fire, like persistence was a master key that would eventually unlock any door.
I finally answered through the speaker. “Yes?”
“This is Patricia Hendricks, Pine Grove Ridge HOA president. Open the gate please.”
“No.”
There was a pause, a sharp inhale that I could hear even through the intercom speaker.
“Mr. Mills, I presume? This is not a request. We have seventy-five residents here for the community social. Open the gate immediately.”
“Ms. Hendricks, I explained this clearly in my email. This is private property. You weren’t invited, you don’t have permission, and you’re not coming in.”
“We sent you advance notice—”
“Notification isn’t permission. You can’t host an event on someone else’s property just because you told them you were going to.”
Her voice went cold. “Mr. Mills, residents are arriving. Children are excited. This is an important community tradition—”
“Then you should have planned to hold it on HOA property. Or asked permission from someone who actually agreed to host. My answer is no.”
I could see her on the camera, her face flushing, her free hand clenching around her clipboard. She turned back to the group clustered behind her—confused faces, disappointed children, people who’d shown up expecting a party and were now realizing it wasn’t happening.
Patricia said something to the group—I couldn’t hear it through the camera, but I saw her gesture expansively, saw her point at my gate, saw several people nod along like she was making perfect sense.
Then she pulled out her phone.
I watched her make a call, watched her talk for maybe ninety seconds—animated, gesturing, clearly building a case for something. Then she hung up, turned back to the group with a satisfied expression, and waited.
Fifteen minutes later, a sheriff’s cruiser rolled up.
I felt my stomach drop. She’d actually called the police. Called them to… what? Force me to host her party? Arrest me for not opening my gate?
The deputy got out—young guy, maybe late twenties, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else—and Patricia immediately approached him. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I could see her pointing at the gate, at the crowd, at what I assumed was printout of her notice to me.
The deputy listened, nodding occasionally, then walked to my intercom and pressed the button.
“Mr. Mills? This is Deputy Anderson, Davidson County Sheriff’s Office. Could you come out and speak with me please?”
I saved my work, took a breath, and walked down to the gate. Opened the pedestrian entrance—not the main vehicle gate, just the small door beside it—and stepped out to meet him.
“Evening, Deputy.”
“Mr. Mills, I’m trying to understand the situation here. Ms. Hendricks says there’s a community event scheduled for today and that you’re preventing access—”
“There’s an HOA event that Ms. Hendricks planned to hold on my private property without my permission. I declined. That’s the situation.”
Patricia stepped forward. “We sent advance notice, Deputy. Three days ago. He acknowledged receipt—”
“I acknowledged receipt of your notice and immediately declined. I told you this was private property, that I’m not part of your HOA, and that you don’t have permission to use my pool or my land.”
The deputy looked between us. “So to be clear, Mr. Mills, this is your property? You own it?”
“Yes. I can show you the deed if you’d like.”
“And you’re not part of the homeowners association?”
“Correct. Never have been.”
He turned to Patricia. “Ma’am, did Mr. Mills give you permission to use his property?”
“Community access is implied—”
“Did he give you explicit permission?”
Patricia’s lips thinned. “We notified him of the event.”
“That’s not what I asked. Did he agree to let you use his property?”
“He has a moral obligation—”
Deputy Anderson held up a hand. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m not here to adjudicate moral obligations. I’m here because you called saying someone was preventing access to community property. This is not community property. This is Mr. Mills’s private property, and he has every right to deny access to anyone for any reason.”
“But the event is already planned! We have children here!”
“Then you should have secured actual permission from the property owner before planning it. You can’t just decide to use someone’s private property and show up expecting access.”
Patricia’s face was bright red now. “This is ridiculous! We’re his neighbors—”
“Neighbors who don’t have permission to be on his property. Ma’am, I’m going to ask you and your group to disperse. If you remain on or attempt to access Mr. Mills’s property without permission, that’s criminal trespass, and I will have to take action.”
“Are you seriously—”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. This is private property. The owner has clearly denied permission. That’s the end of the discussion.”
Patricia looked like she wanted to argue further, but the deputy’s expression made it clear the conversation was over. She turned on her heel and marched back to the crowd, her clipboard clutched like a weapon.
I heard her announce something—couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear: outraged, victimized, casting herself as someone being unreasonably denied something she deserved.
The crowd dispersed slowly. Disappointed children. Confused adults packing up their coolers. Quiet conversations that I imagined were about what an unreasonable, selfish neighbor I was, refusing to share my pool for one simple afternoon.
Deputy Anderson watched until the last car had pulled away, then turned back to me.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Mr. Mills. For what it’s worth, you were completely within your rights.”
“Thank you, Deputy. I appreciate you clarifying that.”
“Some people get a little authority and forget that it has limits. HOA president isn’t a real position of power—it just feels like one inside their subdivision. Outside those boundaries?” He shrugged. “They’re just another citizen.”
He got back in his cruiser and left, and I walked back through my gate, locked it behind me, and stood in my yard looking at my pool—my private, peaceful, perfectly quiet pool—and tried to process what had just happened.
They’d actually shown up. A hundred people, ready to swim in my pool, use my facilities, eat food they expected me to provide. Based on nothing more than a letter informing me they’d decided to use my property.
The audacity was breathtaking.
That evening, I got an email from Patricia:
Mr. Mills,
Your behavior today was disgraceful. You embarrassed families in front of their children, forced us to cancel a beloved tradition, and demonstrated a shocking level of selfishness.
The Pine Grove Ridge community will remember this. Don’t expect any cooperation or goodwill from your neighbors going forward.
You may think you “won” today, but you’ve made an enemy of an entire neighborhood.
Patricia Hendricks
I didn’t respond. What would I say? That I’d “won” by successfully defending my right to decide who uses my private property? That seemed like a strange definition of winning—it was just… owning property. Having boundaries. Saying no.
But apparently, to Patricia and her HOA, those were acts of aggression.
Over the next few weeks, I learned what “making an enemy” of the HOA meant.
Complaint letters to the county about my “unkempt” property—despite my yard being well-maintained and my property not subject to any HOA landscaping standards.
Reports of “suspicious activity” at my address, resulting in sheriff’s deputies showing up to do welfare checks.
Anonymous bad reviews on local community Facebook pages, claiming I was an “unfriendly” neighbor who “doesn’t care about property values.”
Someone even tried to file a formal complaint with the county planning department, claiming my pool was “unpermitted.” It wasn’t—I had all the proper permits, inspections, and documentation—but it still required me to spend time proving something that was already documented and legal.
It was harassment, pure and simple. Death by a thousand petty complaints, designed to punish me for saying no.
I documented everything. Every complaint, every visit from county officials, every online post. I sent a letter to the HOA board and copied my attorney:
To the Board of Pine Grove Ridge HOA:
I am writing to formally notify you that the harassment I’ve experienced since declining to host your community event constitutes targeted retaliation and potential grounds for legal action.
Since June 2nd, I have been subjected to: – False complaints to county authorities – Malicious online posts – Repeated “welfare check” calls to the sheriff’s office – Attempts to claim my property improvements are unpermitted
All of this because I declined to allow you to use my private property for your event.
I am documenting every incident. If this harassment continues, I will pursue all available legal remedies, including restraining orders, civil suits for harassment, and criminal complaints for filing false reports.
My property is private. It is not subject to HOA rules. I have no obligation to participate in your activities or to tolerate retaliation for declining to do so.
This is your only warning. Further harassment will result in immediate legal action.
Daniel Mills
The harassment stopped. Not immediately, but within a week or two, the complaints dried up, the social media posts disappeared, and the deputy who’d handled the original incident told me, unofficially, that the HOA had been “advised” to stop filing frivolous calls about my property.
Life returned to normal. Quiet mornings swimming while the mountains turned gold in the sunrise. Peaceful afternoons working from my deck. Evenings in my workshop, the smell of motor oil and metal, no one demanding access to my space or my time.
About three months after the failed pool party, I got a letter—not from Patricia, but from the HOA board’s attorney.
It was a formal offer to purchase a “pool access easement” from me. They’d pay me $15,000 for the right to use my pool for up to six community events per year, with specific terms about insurance, maintenance, scheduling notice, and liability.
I read it twice, genuinely stunned. They still didn’t get it.
I wrote back:
Thank you for your offer. It is declined.
My pool is for my private use. It is not a community amenity. It is not available for purchase, lease, easement, or access under any circumstances.
Please direct any future communications to my attorney.
I never heard from them again.
Two years have passed since the incident. Patricia is no longer HOA president—she served one more term and then stepped down, apparently exhausted by the demands of the position. The new president sent me a polite letter shortly after taking office, essentially apologizing for the previous administration’s “misunderstanding” and assuring me I wouldn’t be contacted for HOA matters in the future.
I see Pine Grove Ridge residents occasionally on the public trail that borders my property. Sometimes they wave. Sometimes they don’t. Some of them probably think I’m the unreasonable hermit who refused to share his pool with children. Some of them probably understand that property rights matter and that “community spirit” doesn’t override consent.
I don’t particularly care which group they fall into.
My property is still mine. My pool is still private. My boundaries are still respected, not because people agree with them, but because that’s how property law works.
And every morning when I swim, when the water is glass-smooth and the mountains are reflected perfectly in the surface, I’m grateful I said no. Grateful I didn’t give in to pressure or guilt or the suggestion that being a “good neighbor” meant sacrificing my privacy and my peace.
The HOA tried to claim my pool for their party.
I closed the gate.
An officer showed up and confirmed what I already knew: it’s my property, and I get to decide who uses it.
That should have been obvious from the start. The fact that it required a sheriff’s deputy to explain it to an HOA president with a clipboard says everything you need to know about what some people think “community” means.
To them, it meant access. Entitlement. The assumption that proximity equals permission.
To me, it means something simpler: respecting boundaries, asking instead of demanding, and understanding that “no” is a complete sentence.
I chose the latter. I’d choose it again.
And my pool remains exactly what it was always meant to be: mine.
THE END
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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