“You cannot make emergency access dependent on whether you happen to be home.”
The Farm Owner looked at her.
“If the county wants formal emergency access, the county can call me.”
“I represent more than three hundred homeowners.”
The Farm Owner nodded toward the tractor.
“I represent one farmer who needs to finish before rain.”
Then he drove away.
The third incident happened the following Saturday.
A silver sedan entered the farm road.
Then another SUV.
Then a minivan.
The Farm Owner was repairing fencing near the pasture when he saw them.
He waved the first driver down.
The woman lowered her window.
“Road closed?”
“Private.”
She looked confused.
“The HOA said we could use it.”
The Farm Owner stared toward the subdivision.
“Who?”
“Our president.”
The Farm Owner stepped aside.
“Turn around.”
The driver looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
She backed carefully.
The other vehicles followed.
That afternoon, the Farm Owner called the HOA management company.
The Property Manager answered.
He explained.
Silence.
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
“Did your board authorize residents to use my road?”
Another pause.
“I need to check.”
The Farm Owner laughed softly.
“That answer worries me.”
“I understand.”
“Call me back.”
She did.
Two hours later.
“The board discussed possible access.”
“Discussed?”
“Yes.”
“Approved?”
“No formal agreement exists.”
“Did the President tell residents the road was open?”
“I cannot confirm what she personally told residents.”
The Farm Owner sat on his porch.
“Can you confirm the HOA does not own my road?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Can you send that in writing?”
The Property Manager hesitated.
Then:
“Yes.”
The Farm Owner printed the email.
Placed it in a folder.
Old habits.
Documentation.
Dates.
Photographs.
Names.
He hoped he would never need any of it.
Two weeks later, he needed all of it.
A delivery truck arrived carrying fencing material.
The driver called from the gate.
“I can’t get through.”
The Farm Owner drove down.
The white SUV sat across the road again.
Empty.
He stared.
No HOA President.
No note.
Nothing.
The delivery driver leaned from his truck.
“Know whose?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to wait?”
The Farm Owner checked the time.
The truck had another delivery.
“No.”
The Farm Owner called the number he now had for the HOA President.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Yes?”
“Move your SUV.”
A pause.
“Oh.”
“You forgot?”
“No.”
“Then why is it on my road?”
“I’m at a committee luncheon.”
The Farm Owner closed his eyes.
“Where?”
“Clubhouse.”
“Move it.”