I am giving you a formal warning. Next time, it is a fine.” I looked at her. I looked at the tractor. I looked back at her. “Brenda,” I said, guessing her name before she even offered it, “I do not live in Whispering Pines.
I am not in your association. This is a working farm. ” She adjusted her visor. Her smile was tight and completely devoid of warmth. “We will see about that,” she said.
She turned on her heel and marched back toward her subdivision, dodging mud puddles with the precision of an Olympic gymnast. I thought that would be the end of it. I really did.
I figured she would go back to her desk, pull up the property maps, realize I was right, and find someone else to bother. I underestimated the sheer, relentless stubbornness of an entitled woman with a clipboard.
Over the next 3 months, my mailbox became a dumping ground for her delusions. I received printed notices about the length of my grass in the south pasture. I received a strongly worded letter about the smell of livestock.Internet & Telecom
