So, the house, corner lot, three bed, two bath, nothing fancy, sat at the end of a culdesac in one of those neighborhoods where every house has the same mailbox and everyone mows on Saturday. What made it different, at least for me, was the driveway. Most houses on the street had a straight shot from the garage to the curb.
Mine didn’t. My driveway ran along the side of the property parallel to the street, almost like a little private road. If you were driving past and didn’t know any better, you’d think it was just part of the road, like a lane that belonged to the neighborhood. It didn’t. I had the deed. I had the survey. That driveway, every inch of it sat inside my property line, recorded, documented, mine.
But I’ll be honest, I didn’t think about that much back then. I just liked that I could pull my truck in from the side and still have room to unload without blocking anything. The neighborhood had an HOA, 195 a month. They handled the pool, the landscaping, snow removal in winter, and whatever fell under common areas.
I didn’t ask what common areas meant. I didn’t care. My attitude with HOAs has always been simple. As long as I’m not leaving a couch on my front lawn, these people have no reason to bother me. I paid my dues, kept my yard clean, brought my trash cans in on time. That was the extent of my involvement. First neighbor I actually met was Frank.
