Karen Cut Down My Ranch Fence for “Access”, So I Banned The HOA From Using My Roads!

 

I never thought I’d live to see someone take a chainsaw to my family’s history. But that’s what it felt like—watching a pack of clipboard-wielding suburbanites slice through the old cedar fence that marked the edge of our ranch, the same fence my great-grandfather built with his bare hands. They said it was for “community safety.” What they really meant was access.

Access to my land.

And when they found out I wasn’t going to roll over, they learned what it means to pick a fight with a fourth-generation rancher who’s already buried too many people to care what the neighbors think.

I grew up on this land—our land. Not a sprawling Texas empire, but a working ranch wide enough that the horizon swallowed you whole when you rode out before dawn. If you kept walking long enough, you’d forget what fences even were. My father used to say, “The land will outlast us all, if we take care of it.” He was right.

For as long as I can remember, the soundtrack of my life was wind through cottonwoods, lowing cattle, and the distant hum of a tractor before supper. When the night fell, coyotes would sing, and Mom would hum along as if she knew the words.

Dad taught me everything worth knowing: how to mend barbed wire in a storm, how to read a thunderhead from ten miles away, how to tell if a calf was in trouble just by the way the herd shifted. Mom ran the books and deliveries but had instincts sharper than any vet in the county. She’d be halfway through dishes when she’d stop, dry her hands, and say, “Heifer’s having trouble.” She’d already have the lantern lit before anyone could ask how she knew.

That’s the thing about people born to the land—you don’t just live on it. You listen to it. You understand it like a second language.

My sister, Lucy, understood it best of all. Three years younger, twice as stubborn. She could outrun any of us, outwork any hired hand, and she never once backed down from a dare. I used to tease her that she’d been born with a wild streak of barbed wire in her veins.

When we were kids, we’d race to the creek down by the southern line—the same one marked on our deed since the county first carved up the map. She’d always win, skimming rocks farther than I thought possible. “Try again, slowpoke!” she’d call, grinning as her braid swung like a whip behind her.

We lost her, and both my parents, years later in a car wreck coming back from town. I’d give anything to hear her call me that one more time.

After that, I kept the ranch running alone. The place became quieter—too quiet—but I stayed because this was more than home. It was the last piece of them I had left.

For decades, this ranch stood alone, surrounded by pasture and open sky. But slowly, the horizon started to change. First came the survey flags—pink plastic markers slicing across our view like wounds. Then came the trucks, the noise, the endless parade of men in hard hats and reflective vests.

One afternoon, I found my father sitting under the barn eaves, rubbing his bad knee, watching the trucks like they were storm clouds.

“They’re putting in a planned community north of us,” he said. He made the word “planned” sound like poison.

Mom didn’t say a word, just stared at the ridge line where the new development was rising. Lucy climbed onto the fence rail, squinting into the sun. “Those people don’t know the wind turns west by four o’clock,” she muttered. Which was her way of saying: They don’t belong here.

Soon enough, the prairie turned into grid paper. Streets named after trees that had never grown here—Birch, Maple, Cedar. I haven’t seen a maple in seventy miles, but somehow, they named three streets after it.

Then came the signs: Model Homes Open. Tour the Clubhouse. Amenities Include Pool, Gym, and Private Trails.

Private trails. On land they hadn’t even finished surveying.

Still, we kept to ourselves. My folks always believed in neighborly distance—you help when needed, but you don’t meddle.

That peace lasted until the day she arrived.

She came marching up our driveway like she owned the place, clipboard in hand, heels crunching against the gravel. Blonde hair stiff as straw, sunglasses that didn’t leave her face even when she smiled.

And that smile—God help me—it was all teeth and no warmth.

“Hi!” she chirped. “I’m the president of the homeowners association for—” she rattled off a name I won’t repeat, because I don’t want to give their lawyers free publicity. “We just wanted to welcome you and see if you’d be interested in joining our HOA!”

Mom wiped her hands on her jeans and leaned against the garage doorway. “We’re not part of your HOA.”

Karen—because of course her name was Karen—didn’t flinch. She smiled wider. “Not yet, but we think it’d be such a benefit for you! Shared resources, trash collection, snow removal—oh, and we’re negotiating a deal to include your road in the maintenance plan!”

Mom’s brow furrowed. “Our road?”

Karen blinked like she didn’t hear the warning in that tone. “Yes! The east access that goes out to County Road 12. We’ve been maintaining it for months.”

That was the moment my father—God rest him—would’ve laughed. The kind of laugh that had no humor in it, the kind that meant someone was about to regret opening their mouth.

Because that road?
That gravel stretch?
It was ours—written into the deed, surveyed, and recorded before Karen’s precious HOA even existed.

And if she thought for a second she was going to claim an inch of it, she had no idea what kind of fire she’d just lit.

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 Maintain? We had been filling it, grading it, and cutting back the brush on our side since I could hold a shovel. We maintain our own road, I said. She tilted her head. We have invoices. I didn’t know back then, but that was their thing. Talk first, talk fast, act like something is already true, and then see if you flinch.

 If you don’t, they act offended, but if you do, they proceed like you gave permission. It’s like some weird social judo, but my mom did not flinch, she said. We won’t be joining any association. We’ve had this ranch longer than that neighborhood has even existed. We don’t need your services. Karen smiled, but her jaw tightened. We are just trying to be neighborly.

There’s also the matter of the fence on your north side. Our survey shows it encroaches on our property. And yes, she actually said encroaches. I remember because my mom’s eyes went flat. My mom turned, pointed at the fence line along the top of the drawer, and said, “That fence sits on the line. The line your builders put on their plan matches that.

We’ve got the county plat. It’s been there for 50 years.” Karen flipped through her clipboard like she was checking a magic spell book. Our HOA bylaws require uniform fencing and easements for pedestrian access. My dad stepped forward, hooked his thumb in his belt, and said, “We’re not in your HOA, and our kettle don’t do pedestrians.

” She didn’t laugh, though. I will give her that. She just made a note and left. That’s how it started. Not with fireworks, but with a woman and a clipboard and a smile that did not reach her eyes. They kept coming back. Different people, same pitch, though.

 Sometimes a guy with a polo shirt and loafers would talk about synergy and community standards. Sometimes they would drop off a flyer in our mailbox about protecting property values. They always walked out to our place, by the way, like they had an appointment we had missed. The only appointment they had was with the gate we had to start locking from now on.

 The weirdest part was how they talked like the ranch was a problem they needed to fix. Like we were an eyesore in their brochure. They wanted us to pave the road. They wanted us to change our fence so it matched their white picker jokes. They wanted an easement across the north side so they could walk their dogs down to the creek. They wanted our hay bales moved so they didn’t smell when the wind blew south.

They wanted our roosters to shut up at dawn. And they wanted cows to stop being cows. I guess it never occurred to them the ranch was here first. Or maybe it did and they didn’t care. And we said no so many times I started doing it in my sleep. Some of them got mean about it.

 They left notes taped to our gate saying things like, “Your non-compliance affects us all and join or face legal action.” One guy cornered me at the feed store and said, “You’re dragging our neighborhood down.” I told him to drag himself out of my face. He told me I would be hearing from a lawyer. I told him I had heard worse from a bullf. They tried county code complaints next.

 We would get a letter saying untidy property and vegetation overgrowth. We would clean up, not because they told us to, but just because we had a lot to do. And sometimes the south hatch row got away from us. They would complain about animal noise. The county guy came out and said, “It’s a ranch.” He smiled, shook my dad’s hand, and left.

 He was one of the oldtimes, too. He got it. He knew the difference between a nuisance and the way a place actually works. I wish this story was just about them being annoying to us. That would be easy. You roll your eyes, you lock your gate, you put up a sign that says no soliciting, and you go on with your life. But life didn’t give us that.

What happened is my parents died in a car accident in late November 2 years ago. And it was that time of year when dusk comes early and the deer get jumpy and my dad was driving. Mom was texting my sister a picture of the sunset over the west pasture. It was the last thing she sent. A buck leaped out from the ditch on County 12 and they swerved.

They hit a cottonwood. They didn’t make it. People talk about grief like it’s a wave that hits you sometimes. Maybe that’s true for some folks, but for me it was like the air itself got heavy. Every step took effort. Every room had an echo that kept saying their names, but they were not in the room to answer.

 I had to handle the ranch, the funeral, the finances, the animals, and a thousand questions I didn’t know I was supposed to ask. People came by with casserles and folded dollars and hugs. My sister sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee she never drank and stared at the door like mom and dad were going to walk in late from checking the south gate.

 We held each other and cried until my shirt was stiff with salt. The Hway send a card. It was one of those generic sympathy cards with a watercolor bur on the front. Inside someone had written, “We are so sorry for your loss. Please let us know how the HOA can support you in this difficult time.” There was a business card stapled to it.

 the HOA president Karen. We didn’t answer. We were busy with life and death and practical things, and with crying in the shower so no one would hear, and with standing in a barn at night because the hay smell felt like a hug, and with staring at the sound of our own heartbeat, and wondering how to make a life now that the two people who told you how were gone.

 After the funeral, a couple of HO board members came over with food and a pitch. They did it at the same time. Like grief was a sales opportunity. We can help, the man said, one of those polo shirt guys with hair that didn’t move. We can cover snow removal and road maintenance and help you with security.

 The HOA Karen stood slightly behind him, hands folded over her clipboard like she was at church. It would take so much off your plate, she said softly. You’ve lost so much. Let us lighten the load. My sister stared at them like they were a buck on the counter. I was too tired to fight back. I said, “We can handle it.

” The polo guy said, “Are you sure? It’s a lot running this place.” He gestured like the ranch was a messy room that we had left unclean. I said, “We are sure.” They left their casserole in a folder with glossy pages. I put it in the trash. We ate the casserole though. I guess grief makes you eat anything that’s not a problem. We managed through winter.

 It was half a blur and half this sharp right thing. Every chore felt like a ceremony. Settle the horse my dad trained. Feed the cows my mom used to sing to and check the fence my dad taught me to check. I did it because it was mine to do and because not doing it felt like I was letting them down. My sister did half of it before I woke up.

 We work like we could outrun sadness if we just move fast enough. Spring came and with it a sense that maybe we were going to get through. The calves came, the grass turned that bright green that always makes me think of hope. The prairie chickens did their dumb dance in the upper field and we sat on the back of the pickup and watched and laugh. We started to talk about plans.

 Maybe we would plant a windbreak on a north side. Maybe we would finally put in the better squeezed chute. Maybe we would take a day to go to the lake like we used to when we were kids. Then the river took my sister. She was not drunk. She was not high. She was not running away from anything except silence.

 She drove out at night and took the curve by the old bridge too fast. That’s what the sheriff said. She must have misjudged it. Maybe the tires hit gravel. Maybe she meant to hit the brake and hit the gas. I don’t know. I will never know. The truck went through the guard rail and down into the water. They pulled her out the next morning. I don’t have words for that.

 People say devastated, heartbroken, shattered, and they all feel like they belong in a greeting card. I felt like air did not work anymore. Like the sound of my own breath was someone else’s. The house was a tomb. The barn was another tomb. The fields were too wide and too empty.

 I couldn’t look at the creek without thinking of a different water in a different night. The hway sent another cart. I didn’t even open it. I tossed it into the drawer with the old twine and unopened junk. I stopped going to town for a bit. The neighbors, real neighbors, the ones who had been here, brought food and tools and awkward silence that felt like respect. The HOA people drove by even more slowly. I could feel their eyes on the house like a draft.

The first time they showed up after that, Karen brought muffins and also an agenda. We are convening a special meeting. She said, “We want to help you. If you join, we can legally help you with the fence maintenance and the roads and security. We are worried about breakins. There’s been a rash lately.” I stared at her.

 I slept maybe 3 hours in 2 days. And I said, “Please go.” She gave me that soft voice again. We understand you’re grieving. This is about making sure you are safe. We will handle the paperwork. You don’t have to deal with anything. I said louder, “Go now, please.” She pursed her mouth like a lemon, but she left. That night, I locked every door and put a chair under the knob like I was afraid of ghosts. And maybe I was.

 They looked like my family and sounded like wind in the cottonwoods. I guess that’s when they started thinking they could take the ranch. I can’t know what they said to each other in their meetings. I’m pretty sure the words opportunity and expansion came up. They started firing off letters again. Your fence encroaches on the Hway boundary.

 Consideration of Eastman’s mandatory compliance with noise standards. Mandatory for a person not even in their sick club. I took the letters to my lawyer. I say my lawyer like I had one, but it was the same guy who did the estate paperwork and the water rights and the weird old cow deal my dad made with the guy who owed him a tractor.

 He read the letters, snorted and said, “They don’t have a rot to stand on.” Then he said, “But they can make your life miserable.” I said, “They already have.” He said, “Then we make it hard to make it worse.” He filed a couple of quiet things with the county notices, and we refreshed all the recorded easements and boundaries the ranch had.

 We recorded for the hundth time that the road that cut along our east boundary and then north up to County 12 was privately owned by the ranch. It was written in old ink and new. It was recorded in 1973 and again in 1999 when my dad cleaned up some paperwork and again now we did that because we had always let people use the road.

 It was one of those neighborly think that’s not on paper because you know your neighbors but after the hway started sniffing around like coyotes. We put it on paper twice. Folks can use it by our permission. That’s different from right. I wish the story ended there. Paper versus clipboard, but of course it didn’t.

 The Hway escalated and then life hit me again so hard it put me in the hospital and while I was gone that it’s something I’m still mad about even writing this. I got a stomach thing bad that summer. I will spare you the details but it felt like a mule kicked me in the gut and then set my insides on fire. I tried to tough it out because that’s what we do out here.

 But after 2 days of refusing to eat, throwing up water, and seeing spots, my neighbor convinced me to go to the hospital. And it turned out I had appendicitis. It got gnarly. I had to get emergency surgery. And then there was a complication because of course there was. I was in the hospital for a week high as a kite and stupid from the pain. I told two neighbors.

 They fed my animals and they checked the south fence. Then they locked the gate. We thought that was enough. Karen must have noticed that I was not around though. She must have noticed the pickup was not moving. I don’t know which of her board members texted which gossiping friend who knew which nurse or saw which neighbor go in and out, but they knew I was gone.

 And when I got home, I found chainsaw sawdust in a pile by my north fence like someone left a calling card in wood chips. My head hurt before I even saw it. I thought it was postsurgery until I followed the tracks, their tracks, stupid little SUV tires that left a dumb little chevron pattern in the dust and turned the corner at the drawer. They cut my fans.

 Not like a cowboy cuts a strand to get a truck through and leaves it spooled nicely for you to fix later. They cut six posts and 50 yards of wire clean. Fell four posts inwards like they were clearing a path like they were opening a gate that didn’t exist. Also, there were bootprints everywhere.

 A couple of lawn chairs on their side in the grass on the HOA site as if they’d been watching a discarded Gatorade bottle on my side. I bent down and picked it up without thinking and then cursed because now my fingerprints were all over it. I set it back down, made myself breathe, and called the sheriff.

 He came out and he is the same guy who pulled my sister out of the river. So, devolving into a puddle in front of him, felt unprofessional. He looked at the fence, the cut post, the tire tracks. He looked at me like I was a dog that’s been kicked too many times and doesn’t know whether to bite or roll over.

 He said, “We got a call last week about a dangerous animal situation on the HOA trail belongs to HOA development. A woman said she called because livestock was threatening the safety of residents and needed access to flee if necessary.” I stared at him. “What livestock?” He shrugged. “Your cows?” She said, “Your cows looked aggressive.” “My cows are angers mixed with the personality of a loaf of bread,” I said.

 He cuffed in a way that sounded like a laugh he wasn’t allowed to have. She said she had to create an emergency aggress through your fence. Her husband brought a chainsaw. I had to shut my eyes. They trespassed. They destroyed my property while I was in the hospital. He nodded. I know. We can take your statement.

 We can talk to them. And I can write a report. You want to press charges? I stood there with my hands on my hips, feeling the old fence in me like a spline. People out here settled some things themselves. I could feel my dad’s voice telling me to think long term to keep the peace if I could to put up a new fence post and just move on.

 But my mom would be standing behind me saying, “This is not a little thing. This is about the line.” And my sister would be there somewhere saying, “Try again.” I said, “Yes, I want to press charges.” He nodded and wrote, “We will go talk to them. Get your fence fixed today if you can. I don’t want your stock wandering over there. They will use it against you if they can.

” I called my neighbor with the post driver and he came over. Did not say a word. just set up the Tposts and ramped them down like he was hitting someone in the face with every stroke. I rerung the wire with one hand because the other still hurt. It felt good to do something. It felt like stitches in the land.

 The next afternoon, the HOA president and two board members were in my driveway again. No muffins this time. No soft voices. Clipboards like shields, arms crossed. Karen didn’t even pretend to be sorry. She said, “We created a temporary emergency access due to your aggressive livestock.” I laughed. It came out like a cuff. You trespassed on my property.

 You cut my fence and you’re lucky my horses didn’t get out and get hit on County 12. She waved her hand. We didn’t see any horses. There were cows, big ones. I stared at her. That insane thing happens sometimes where someone lies to your face and your brain tries to accept it because your brain wants to world them makes sense. I said, “Why didn’t you call me? We heard you were in this post.” She said delicately.

We needed to make a decision for the safety of the community. I said, “The community does not include my ranch.” She smiled again with no warmth. It will. You need us. The sheriff said, “You’re pressing charges. I think that’s a mistake. It will make you very unpopular.” I kept my voice level. I’m already not very popular with you.

 Her jaw flexed. We are going to be improving the trail system, and we need access to the creek. Your fence is an eyesore, and it’s on our eastment. The developer guaranteed creek access. I pointed at the plat map I now kept in a folder by the door like a talisman. That’s a lie. There’s no recorded easement on my property.

 The developer cannot grant what he doesn’t own. And if you bring a chainsaw onto my property again, I will see you in court personally. She raised an eyebrow. You will sue the HOA. I will sue you, I said. Personally? Her tone changed then, like the smell you get when a storm shifts and you know it’s going to hail.

 You people are so ungrateful, she said. We’ve been maintaining your road for years out of courtesy and you cannot even cut a little slack for a safety issue. I lost it a little. Not shouting, but the kind of quiet where every word has weight. You think you’ve been maintaining my road? That road is mine. We have let you use it because we thought neighbor meant something. That ends now.

 I didn’t even know what I was going to do until the words were actually out. I felt like flipping a switch. She blinked. Excuse me. You heard me right, I said. As of right now, the Hway and all its members are prohibited from using my road. I’m putting up signs. I’m putting up a gate. Also, I’m notifying the sheriff. This is private property. Use a county road like everyone else.

 She actually laughed at me. You cannot do that. I can, I said, and I just did. She tried to stand taller. You will be hearing from our attorney. I look forward to it. I said, and I did because I had pictures of their sawdust, their tire tracks, their cut posts, and their smug faces.

 And because something in me that had been muffled since the river finally sharpened to a point. If I could protect one line in this world, it would be the line my parents built. The next two days, which is crazy, I called my lawyer. I called the county to confirm the record and I printed letters. I bought 10 giant private road no through traffic signs and ate no trespassing, violators will be prosecuted signs at the hardware store. The guy at the counter said, “Trouble.” I said, “Nuense.

” He nodded like that was a species of bird he had seen before. I rented a postp pounder from the same neighbor and set those signs along the length of the road like tombstones. I ordered a ranch gate wide enough to let my hay deliveries through and mounted it at the mouth where our private road meets county 12. The gate had a heavy chain and a pet lock.

 I made keys for the neighbors who had used the road with permission for years. For example, the old farm to the south, the hunter who helped with coyotes, and the retired teacher who brought pies when my mom was sick. I left the HOA off the list entirely, though.

 I put up a smaller sign at the gate that said in black and white, access by permission only. HOA members prohibited. It further said, “Permission is withdrawn from their HOA and its members, officers, and agents due to a pattern of trespass, property damage, and attempted adverse claims. I CCed the sheriff, the county attorney, and my lawyer. I taped a copy of the letter to the gate, and I mailed a copy certified to the HOA office.

 The first day I sat in my truck with a thermos of coffee and watched. You would think they would adjust to all of this. You would think they would see the signs and go around, but those 7 minutes were apparently the most precious thing in their lives. Car after SUV after minivan pulled up to my new gate, stared, idled, and then did a 12point turn in the ditch, sending grass clots flying and roar back towards the county road like I had insulted their ancestors. A teenager in a convertible yelled, “This is public.

” I yelled back, “It is not.” He flipped me off and stalled his engine in the turn. I almost felt bad until I remembered the gate red bottle by my fence. Around noon, Karen showed up, but not just her. A convoy of three SUVs stopped at the gate and parked like they were staging a protest.

 Karen got out first, sunglasses on, clipped in hand, a man with a phone, who I assume was their lawyer, trading her. Another board member filmed me on her iPad like I was a rare animal. I took a deep breath and tried to think of my dad, saying, “Be calm, son. Be clear.” Karen gestured at the gate like it was a crime scene. What is this? A gate? I said on my road.

 She put her hand on her hip. You are obstructing an established easement. Show me the recorded easement. I said she looked at her lawyer. He scrolled his phone like the easement might be on Facebook. We have a prescriptive, he started. No you don’t. I said we have allowed you to use it by permission. Recorded multiple times. We have maintained it.

 We have invoices for gravel. We have photos. We’ve put up with your traffic out of neighborliness. That ends now. Karen crossed her arms. We will sue. Do it, I said. But meanwhile, don’t use my roach. She stared at me for a long time. The kind of stare that is supposed to make people wilt. I didn’t wilt, though.

 I had lost too much to be scared of a woman with a clipboard. She said, “You’re making enemies.” I said, “I’ve got enough.” They left. Tire spitting rocks once again. The only thing that got through my gate that day was the wind. Things got weird fast, though. I expected angry emails. And yes, I got those. I expected Facebook posts full of lies.

 And yeah, I got those, too. Posts like rancher refuses to be part of the community. Dangerous aggressive animals threaten children. Selfish farmer cuts off emergency access. They used the word farmer like an insult. I didn’t expect their next move. Two mornings later, I woke up to the sound of a diesel engine idling way too close.

 I walked out to the driveway in my boots and old sweatpants and a jacket I hadn’t zipped and stopped. A full-size semi-truck was parked sideways across my gate, not on the county road, which they’d actually have gotten in trouble for, on my property. The driver had backed into my ditch, left ruts like a Godzilla track, and set his cap across my access.

 So, the trailer blocked absolutely everything. The truck was red, the chrome was polished like a mirror, and the license plate had one of those novelty frames about I break for nothing. I stood there, hands on my hips, and stared at the ridiculousness.

 Karen stood on the far side, arms folded, a smirk on her face like she had finally checkmated at me. The driver leaned out his window, cap backwards, and grinned. “Nice place,” he said. “Shame if something blocked your way. Get off my property,” I said. Karen took one careful step like she was measuring distance. “We are exercising our right to protest. You have blocked a major thoroughare. We are making a point.

” I looked at the truck at the driver at the tire tracks in my ditch and at the gate. I felt the old impulse to handle it myself, to hook a chain to the truck and a tractor through the chain and see who won. Then I thought about my dad telling me to use the law when it’s on your side. So instead, I called the sheriff and he came faster than usual.

I think someone had already called, probably one of their own who realized this was a dumb plan. He took one look, took off his sunglasses, and said, “No, no, no, no, no.” Karen smiled with a whole face this time. We are protesting, she said. “This is private property,” the sheriff said. We are on the road. She said, “This is not a public road.

It’s recorded private property. Get that truck off there.” She started to argue. She talked about emergency access and communities and her lawyer, who I learned later had told her this was a bad idea, but she did it anyway because she knew better.

 The sheriff let her words pour over him like rain and then said, “Ma’am, you’re trespassing, and that truck is trespassing, too. If you don’t move it, I’m going to have a toad inside the driver. If he resists, I will arrest him. If you resist, I will arrest you. The driver, who had been grinning like he was in on the joke, suddenly looked less sure. “Hey, I’m just here because she hired me,” he said. Karen spun on him.

 “Don’t you move that truck,” he held up his hands. “I ain’t getting arrested for your HOA,” he said and started his engine. Karen stepped in front of the wheel. He rephed, but you didn’t move. The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose like he was praying for patience. Then he stepped close to her and said quietly, “Step aside.

” She didn’t, though. He signaled to his deputy, who I hadn’t seen behind him, actually. The deputy came forward with that careful, not quite helpful grip cops use when they want you to move and don’t want to shove you. She jerked him away. Don’t touch me, she said loud enough for the assembled board member with the iPhone to catch on video. This is harassment.

This is abuse. I’m the president of the HOA. The deputy said, you are trespassing and obstructing. Move or be arrested. She didn’t move, though, and the deputy cuffed her. She went very still like a cat that doesn’t want to admit it’s being carried. The board member shrieked something about rights.

 The sheriff glanced at me and I shrugged because what do you do? The driver, eyes white now, backed the truck up out of the ditch with surprising grace and pulled onto the county road. The deputy put Karen in the back of the cruiser. She said they are stiff as a fence post. The door shut with that heavy thump. That sounds like consequence. They didn’t charge her with anything that stuck though.

 trespass on obstruction could have been something, but the county attorney made noises about deescalation and community relations. I didn’t really push her for go to jail or something, and I did ask for a report because I wanted a paper trail. Paper matters. Also, the driver texted me an apology later, which I appreciated.

 He said he thought it was a political protest and he didn’t realize he would be on private land. He said he wouldn’t work for them again. I believed him. The seven minutes those people lost were not worth him losing his CDL, which I think is the trucking license or something. And I thought maybe that would end it.

 Reason people would see that as a line you don’t cross, right? You can be mad, you can stew, but you don’t cut someone’s fence and you don’t block their driveway with a semi. You don’t risk someone’s herd or someone’s life. Well, I guess unless you are a crazy hoe Karen. By the way, guys, if you have watched this far, let me know in the comments where you are watching from.

 And please don’t forget to like the video because that would help me tremendously if you enjoy the HO stories. The story continues like this. But these folks were not using reason. They were using entitlement. I fixed my fence again. I drove my road again. I slept in my own bed and woke up without hearing a diesel outside. For a few days it was quiet.

 Then I caught two HOA board members in my pasture by the horse paddock. They were on my side of the fence. They had a bucket and a rope and it looked like they were trying to coax my mass over with grain. But my mans are not dumb. They stood five feet back with their ears turned sideways looking at the bucket like it was a trick.

 I stood on the other side of the yard and called, “What are you doing?” One of the women flinched like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Then put on a fake smile and said, “We are checking on the animals.” She said, “We got a report.” “From whom?” I said, “On whose authority?” She just shouted vaguely. “Ah, the HOA.” I said, “You’re on my land. Just leave.” She glanced at her friend. “We are concerned.

 These horses look neglected. I looked at my horses. They looked like horses, sleek, shiny. Their hooves were trimmed. They were waterfed and hay content. And wore that expression that says, “We are plotting something dumb, but not today.” These women wouldn’t know neglect if it bit them. Get out, I said. They huffed their way back to the other side of the fence.

As they hopped, one of them snacked her yoga pants on a barb wire and yelped. I had the uncharitable thought that the fence was doing God’s work. That night, I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee gone cold and thought about how to make it stop. Fixing fences and calling sheriffs and writing letters had gotten me this far.

 It had not gotten me peace. If they were willing to cut fences while I was in surgery and stand in front of trucks and try to lure my horses with grain, they would be willing to try something else, too. I couldn’t sleep waiting for the next dumb thing. I needed something that would do the job when I couldn’t be in 10 places at once. Electric fencing is not really exotic.

Every rancher knows it, uses it, and has cursed when they forgot to turn it off and got a jolt that made them see stars. We had always used plain barbed wire for the outer lines before. It was cheap, easy to fix, and looked right. But electric works for a reason. It teaches anything touching it a lesson once, and then everything leaves it alone.

 So, I called my feed store and ordered a Galaga unit beefy enough to put a healthy respect into the mind of any living thing with a nervous system. I bought the insulators, the poly wire, the ground rods, and the warning signs. My neighbor helped me set it up along the north fence where they kept messing with things.

 We ran a hot wire about chest height for a human and a second one lower for a dog. We put in big yellow signs that said electric fence in English and Spanish and little graphics of a lightning strike on a hand. You would have to be blind not to know. I did everything by the book. I even checked the voltage. I grounded it properly.

 I put it on a timer so it went off at night and on at sunrise. I informed the sheriff that I was installing it and he said, “Good.” I told my neighbor who hunted on the back pasture that I’d be turning it off if he called me first. I told the retirees who walk their own land that it was on the north line only, I slept that night like someone had turned off a noise I didn’t realize was playing in the background all the time.

 Two afternoons later, as I was in the barn fixing a cracked handle on a shovel, yes, we fix everything, my horses let out a snort and a snap like something surprised them. I stepped out and saw two HOA board members at my north fence again. Not the yoga pants once, though.

 These were the polo guy from months before and a new guy with a beer belly that hung over his belt and a face red enough to pop. They were talking to each other in animated city hands, fingers pointing, heads close. Polo guy reached out and touched the top wire of my electric fans. He jerked back like he’d been hit with a stick. He swore he looked at his hand like it had betrayed him.

 Beer belly reached out like a genius to prove he was stronger than electrons. He grabbed the wirefall palm. He screamed. He fell backwards into the grass and laid there for a second, staring at the sky with this stunned look people get when their world rearranges itself.

 Polo guy shook his hand, then because some people never learn, reached out and tapped the lower wire. He yelled again, hoped from foot to foot, and did this ridiculous little dance like someone who just learned what physics is. I walked towards them, not fast, but not slow. It’s electric, I said. The polo guy glared. You cannot have an electric fence.

 Yeah, I said pointing to one of the half dozen yellow signs on my site and also attached to the post they were standing nearby. I can, he sputtered. That’s dangerous. Well, not if you don’t touch it, I said. It’s a livestock fence rated by the manufacturer. It’s legal. There are warning signs. You’re on the HOA site. If you come on my side and mess with it, that’s a crime.

 Beer belly sat up, still holding his hand like it was going to fall off. You assaulted us, he said. I smiled for the first time in days. It was not kind. No, I said physics assaulted you. I put up a fence. You touched it. That’s on you. He got to his feet swaying a little. We will sue you. Well, please do. I said they did go to the ER.

 I know because the sheriff called me that evening and because their wives posted on the HOA Facebook group about dangerous electrified booby traps like I was Scooby-Doo villain who had wired the whole prairie to a live panel. The sheriff asked me to email him photos of the signs and the fence and the manufacturer specs. I did and he said, “You’re good.” I said, “They keep coming over here.

” “Well, that’s why you installed it.” If the story was only about the fence and the electric shock, that would be one kind of petty. But it’s not. It’s about what happened after. People’s lives got harder without my road. 7 minutes mattered when they were late to work or to soccer practice or to their yoga class or whatever else their days were made of.

 Delivery trucks could not use the shortcut anymore and had to go around, so packages showed up late. The garbage contractor had to renegotiate routes. The traffic on Maple Street, which only has Maples in the sign name, doubled. When there was a big wide county curve that it turns out is not designed for the number of Teslas trying to take it at 45 mph.

 There, of course, were Fender Benders. There were mad posts about infrastructure and community assets, and people started asking questions at HOA meetings. real questions, not the kind where everyone nods at the president’s plan to increase dues to fund a new shrub at the clubhouse.

 On top of that defense thing, made them look bad. I didn’t go to the news. I didn’t post on Facebook. I didn’t need to. They did it for me. They circulated their version of the story so loudly they drowned out their own story. He assaulted us turned into, “We touched a fence marked electric and it shocked us.

” When someone in the comment section said, “Um, that’s how electric fences work.” Somebody posted a photo of my warning signs and got roasted by their own neighbors. Why were you in his site? Why were you at his fence? Why are you still after this ranch? A couple of long-term residents in the development, yes, those exist.

 People who moved here because they liked the view and not because they wanted to make the view into a mall, wrote long posts about how the ranch was here first and how they actually liked hearing my roosters and how they were embarrassed to be represented by people who thought a livestock fence was controversial. The more noise they made, the more people looked at the facts.

 And facts were not on their side. The road is mine. The fence is mine. The creek is not theirs. There’s no easement. They cut my fence while I was in the hospital. They tried to block my gate with a semi. And two of them tried to lure my horses with grain. Two more touched an electric fence and discovered electricity exists. None of that made them look like victims.

 It made them look like the story they were trying so hard not to be. Akaya entitled. I did file several claims, not lawsuits, not yet. claims. I had my lawyer send formal demand letters for the fence repair costs, the time, and the damage to my ditch from the semi. I had estimates. I attached photos. I CCed the HOA’s insurance.

 If you want to mess with me, I’m going to make it expensive. They ignored it at first, though. Then their insurance adjuster called me and said, “What’s the minimum we can pay to make this go away?” I said, “The number I sent.” They paid for the fence cuts. They boked at the ditch. I sent photos again. They paid halfway. Fine. Paper matters.

 There was one other piece of this I haven’t even mentioned yet because it happened over months. The HOA had an election and it turns out people got fed up with being run by people whose idea of leadership is bring your chainsaw. Enough of the HOA folks were mad about the road and the semi thing and the electric fence and the embarrassment of their tantrums making them Tik Tok famous in our small way.

Yes, someone put up a video of Karen getting gently escorted into the cruiser with the caption when HOA Karen meets the real world. It did numbers. It pissed them off, but it also told a lot of the other residents something they didn’t know. Their board was out of control. I didn’t really campaign. I didn’t have to.

 Regular people did instead. People who just wanted to get to work and wanted their kids not to be scared of cows and wanted not to be the butt of every joke at the feed store. They put up flyers that said, “Restore sanity.” They ran two sensible folks, a retired school principal and a guy who runs a small landscaping business.

 They promised to stop trying to eat the ranch like it was a pen cup. They promised to work on internal traffic solutions. They promised not to use chainsaws on fences they did not own and they won. The first thing they did was send me a letter. It said in plain language, “We apologize for the actions of the previous board. We will cease all attempts to claim any portion of your property.

 We would like to request emergency access permissions for the fire department only to be used in actual emergencies. We will stop using your road. We will instruct members to stop using your road, too. We would like to meet and start over. I actually read it twice. Then I called my lawyer to make sure I was not walking into a kind of trap or something.

 He read it and said, “This is what reasonable looks like.” I said, “I barely remember.” And he said, “Me neither.” We met, not at my house, at the coffee place in town with the bad muffins and the good coffee. The principal had a binder. The landscaper had dirt under his fingernails and the kind of sun lines on his face.

 That meant he worked for a living. They did not bring a clipboard. They did not bring a lawyer. But they brought a real apology and a plan for signage inside their development that would reroute their people away from my gate. They offered to reimburse me for the ditch damage without me having to send three more letters.

 They asked nicely, not demanded, if I would consider allowing emergency vehicles through the gate if there was a fire at the far north end where the county road gets backed up. They even proposed putting a NOx box on the gate like businesses do so the fire department can open it. They even offered to cover the cost. I didn’t agree that second.

 I thought about it and I took a couple weeks. I walked the north pasture at dusk where my parents used to walk and my sister used to raise me and listened to the gray birds rustle and thought about how this land had survived a lot of people making demands on it and would survive this as well.

 Then I called the fire chief an old boy with the belly of someone who likes pie and the hands of someone who’s held a hose in January. He said, “I would appreciate the excess for emergencies only.” I said, “Then that is what it’ll be.” We put in the NOx box. The principal wrote a letter to the entire HOA explaining that the road was not theirs and never had been, that permission was permanently withdrawn except in case of emergency and that trespassor would be reported and they posted on Facebook. They took down the angry posts when the old board tried to spin. They banned people from the group

who kept trying to stir it up and they made clear the ranch was not the enemy. They even sent a general, “Be nice to the folks who were here before you.” Reminder, it was like it could work. It didn’t fix everything, but it lowered the temperature.

 The electric fence still hums, the gate still swings, and the seven minutes are gone from their lives, and I don’t feel bad about that. The line holds, though, and when I think about my dad and my mom and my sister, I think maybe that is what we were always doing all along, holding the line one post at a time. The next one is a revenge story that you don’t want to miss.

 It is titled, “He robbed an old man and we delivered him straight to the cops.” So, there’s an old man called Robert in my village who has been a widowerower for years. He lives alone on a small farm just off the main road with chickens, a few goats, a horse, a garden, that kind of peaceful life. He’s one of those people everyone calls a saint.

 He never raises his voice, always has biscuits for the kids, and always helps when someone needs something. When I was a kid, I used to spend afternoons at his place with my friends feeding the animals, running around the trees, and drinking juice from those old school glass bottles. And one of those friends was David, a kid who came from a rough background, but was always welcome at the farm, just like the rest of us.

 Now we are all adults, and David didn’t turn out great. He’s known for petty crimes, always looking for a quick score. He was kicked out of his parents’ house more than once, and most people had already cut ties with him. But not Robert. One night, a few days ago, David knocked on Robert’s door, asking for a place to crash.

 It was cold, and he said he had nowhere else to go. Robert, as always, let him in. He gave him a warm bed for the night and the next morning he went to the local market to buy coepic cereal and something nice to make breakfast for David. But when he came back he found David rumaging through a drawer where he kept some savings.

 Even after being asked what he had put in his pocket, David said no and took off. And seriously, that broke something in me. Me and another friend who also grew up going to that farm tracked him down and pretended we didn’t know anything. I offered him a ride and he said yes as we usually do here.

 But instead of driving him to the center, we drove him straight to the police station. I explained everything to the cops and they arrested him because he confessed while waiting for Robert to show up. He is now in custody awaiting trial and I hope justice is served. Also, Robert cried in front of us not because of the betrayal but because in his words, “I thought you had all forgotten me.

 That broke my heart so badly. We had stopped visiting him as we grew up, just waving instead of stopping by. That made me realize how much a piece of crap I am too. So now I am visiting him at least once a month. He may have been robbed that day, but he also got a reminder. Not all of us turned out like David.

 Some of us remember who raised us and who helped keep us off the streets and away from temptation when we were kids. I protect what matters always. And yeah, guys, thank you for watching. Please don’t forget to subscribe and I will see you again