HOA Karen Tried to Remove My Mobile Home—Too Bad It Was FEMA Property After the Storm…

At 6:00 in the morning on a Tuesday that started way too early, a flatbed tow truck idled outside my lot while a woman with a pearl visor waved a clipboard like some kind of magic wand. Her perfectly manicured nails caught the sunrise as she pointed at my mobile home. “Hook the wheels,” she ordered. The driver with the kind of authority usually reserved for military generals.

The driver, a heavy set guy with a confused expression, stared at the bright blue FEMA stencil on my mobile home and whispered nervously, “Ma’am, that’s a federal logo.” I watched from my window as she smiled in that way that makes your stomach drop three floors. “So is the post office, and I’ve yelled at them, too,” she said with a tone sharp enough to cut diamonds.

I’m Evan Cordell, a quiet information technology guy who moved to Cypress Hollow for the kind of piece you can mow on Saturday mornings without anyone bothering you about blade height regulations. Then Hurricane Merritt showed up like an uninvited guest with a wrecking ball and shaved my house down to splinters and marsh grass.

Everything I owned ended up scattered across three counties. FEMA placed a temporary mobile home on my lot so I had somewhere to sleep that wasn’t the backseat of my truck. It wasn’t pretty, but it had running water and a door that locked, which felt like luxury after 2 weeks in a shelter. Enter Dear Draloan, HOA president, whose perfume smelled like lemon pledge mixed with impending litigation, and whose smile could freeze hell.

Manufactured housing violates the aesthetic covenant. She chirped at my door on day three, holding a binder thick enough to stop bullets. I explained as calmly as possible that it wasn’t mine. It was FEMA property under federal disaster relief protocols. She tilted her head like a confused parrot and said with a sugary voice of someone about to ruin your day, “That’s a cute opinion.

” Deardra launched a campaign that would have put a middle school rumor mill to shame. I collected violation slips like baseball cards, each one more ridiculous than the last. First came non-compliant skirting because apparently the federal government’s installation didn’t meet her exacting standards for decorative panels.

then improper wheel posture, which I didn’t even know was a thing a person could be cited for until it showed up in my mailbox with photos attached. She sent me a citation for unauthorized ventilation placement because the FEMA unit’s roof vent didn’t align with her approved architectural guidelines. And my personal favorite, apocalyptic vibe, which she claimed my mobile home projected onto the neighborhood and was affecting children’s emotional development.

She posted photos of my unit on the neighborhood Facebook group multiple times a day with captions like blight on our community and this is what happens when standards slip and we allow exceptions. She even created a dedicated album called neighborhood concerns with 37 photos of my mobile home from different angles and times of day like some kind of obsessive surveillance project.

A volunteer decorum patrol that she personally organized started measuring my grass with tape measures that matched their uptight personalities, taking photos like crime scene investigators documenting evidence. They’d show up at 7:00 in the morning with clipboards, measuring tapes, and matching polo shirts with the HOA logo embroidered on them.

One morning, I woke up to find a bright orange boot clamped to a federal axle and a sign that read in bold letters, “Removal scheduled. Community standards enforced.” The boot had a lock the size of a softball and a phone number that went straight to Deerra’s personal cell. She even trespassed onto my property multiple times to zip tie a notice to vacate sign directly on the FEMA door, which I’m pretty sure violated about six different laws, including federal tampering statutes. I didn’t rip it off.

Instead, I photographed it from every angle, every zip tie, every act of trespass documented with timestamps and GPS coordinates. I even set up a cheap security camera that caught her returning twice more to check if I’d removed her notices. Deardra filed a formal complaint with the county claiming the mobile home endangered property values by up to 30% according to her own calculations and obstructed ocean breezes, which was absolutely hilarious since we’re 3 mi inland and the ocean has never breezed anywhere

near us. She attached 17 pages of documentation, including property value projections and resident surveys she conducted without telling anyone they were surveys. She also told a local towing company called Reliable Recovery that my mobile home was abandoned property that needed immediate removal for safety reasons.

What rolled up to my lot wasn’t just a tow truck. It was an industrial crane with heavy duty slings and hydraulic stabilizers like something designed to move shipping containers or small buildings. The operator hopped out with a work order in hand, squinted at the bright blue FEMA barcode plate riveted to the side, and his confident expression melted like ice cream in August.

He immediately pulled out his phone. He called his boss, who called the company’s lawyer, who probably called his mother for moral support because this was clearly above everyone’s pay grade. I stood on my temporary porch in my bathrobe and slippers, and called the FEMA disaster assistance line, my assigned case worker named Patricia, who’d been helping me navigate the rebuild process, and because I’m no longer naive about these things, the county emergency management office.

I explained the situation calmly while watching the crane operator pace back and forth, looking increasingly nervous. 30 minutes later, a white SUV with government plates and more antennas than a radio station pulled up like the cavalry arriving at the last minute. The FEMA agent stepped out in a crisp uniform with patches and badges that meant business.

took one long look at the orange boot clamped on federal property and the crane operator sweating bullets in the morning heat and radioed in phrases like federal property interference, Stafford Act violation, and possible obstruction of disaster relief operations. Deardra marched up in her tennis whites and designer sunglasses that probably cost more than my monthly insurance premium, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, and announced with all the confidence of someone who has never faced real consequences in her entire life, “We

have full authority here under our covenants.” The agent held up a badge that caught the sunlight and made it look like it was glowing and said in a voice that could freeze lava midflow, “No, ma’am, we do.” And interfering with federal disaster operations is a federal offense. My attorney filed for a temporary restraining order against the HOA for trespass, harassment, and interference with federal disaster operations.

He stapled Deardra’s Facebook posts right on top of the filing like sprinkles on a legal Sunday, each one showing her escalating campaign. The judge read through it during his morning session and signed the order before his coffee cooled, calling the HOA’s actions beyond the pale. The towing company fled the scene so fast they left tire marks, and the crane sat abandoned at the curb like a rejected puppy nobody wanted.

The HOA’s insurance carrier took one look at the case file and politely performed a backflip out of the claim. Their letter stated clearly, “Willful acts of interference with federal operations not covered under any circumstances. FEMA’s legal council sent a letter that was more weapon than correspondence, filled with words that made board members whisper personal liability like it tasted of spoiled milk.

Overnight, Deardra’s most loyal allies discovered a sudden biblical interest in due process and proper procedure. People who had rubber stamped every one of her decisions suddenly developed memories like goldfish. At the emergency HOA meeting held in the clubhouse, decorated like a dentist’s waiting room with generic beach paintings and motivational posters about teamwork.

Residents showed up angry, tired, and very done with the drama. Half of them were still living under blue tarps, sleeping in their cars, or bunking with relatives while Deerra had been obsessing over my mobile home for 3 weeks straight. The room smelled like stale coffee and suppressed rage.

People filled every folding chair and lined the walls, arms crossed, faces set in expressions that could curdle milk. One elderly man in the back had brought a literal rain bucket that had been catching leaks in his living room and set it on the floor with a loud thunk for emphasis. The FEMA agent attended as a professional courtesy, sliding a thick packet across the table with the kind of calm that comes from having federal law on your side.

He explained in excruciating detail using PowerPoint slides he’ brought on a thumb drive that tampering with federal disaster housing could trigger civil penalties up to $50,000 per incident plus potential criminal referral to federal prosecutors. He clicked through examples from other cases, his laser pointer highlighting relevant statute numbers.

Then the county code enforcement officer, a woman named Margaret, who looked like she’d seen everything twice and believed none of it, added that the HOA’s unauthorized boot violated local ordinance 316.4. The fine printed on the citation she slid across the table looked like a down payment on a luxury car. $1,500, she said flatly.

Per day, the boot remains in place. Deardra tried to give a speech about curb appeal unity and maintaining neighborhood values and how sacrifices must be made for the greater good. her voice rising with desperation like a preacher who’d lost the congregation. Her hands shook slightly as she gripped her notes, but technology betrayed her spectacularly when the projector, which she’d set up herself to show a presentation about property values, autoplayed her own phone video instead.

The title appeared in big letters on the screen, Crane Day, with three exclamation points. The audio came through the clubhouse speakers crystal clear with her voice yelling excitedly, “Get it out before the feds notice. Get it out now. I don’t care what it costs. Someone in the back row actually gasped. The room went silent in that special way that precedes thunder.

You could hear someone’s watch ticking. You could hear the air conditioning click on. The elderly man with the rain bucket started slow clapping until his wife stopped him. The board voted to remove Deerra from her position on the spot 11 to zero with her own second in command, a man named Robert who’ rubber stamped everything for two years.

Moving for the vote himself, his hand shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass. The FEMA agent walked outside and personally unclamped the boot with industrial bolt cutters he pulled from his vehicle, the metal shearing with a satisfying crack. The crane backed away slowly like it had seen a ghost carrying a subpoena.

the operator waving apologetically as he left. Deardra Sloan now has a one-year probation period for filing false complaints with the county, a permanent no trespass order for my property with criminal charges if violated, and 200 hours of community service sorting donated tarps at the relief warehouse she publicly called an isore on three separate occasions.

She’s barred from serving on any HOA board in the county for eight full years and must complete AFMA disaster awareness course with a passing grade. When the judge read the sentence in open court, her face went from pink to white to a shade of red I didn’t know existed on the human spectrum. She opened her mouth twice, but nothing came out except a small choking sound like a dying balloon.