High grass and Camaros: The story of HOAs and their Uselessness

When I lived in Athens, I lived in a neighborhood that required membership in a Homeowner’s Association. It was not an independent HOA, this was created by and run by residents in charge of their own neighborhood. We would have monthly meetings to discuss neighborhood business and vote on certain issues, usually regarding lawn care, covenants, and the spending of our $85 per month dues. We elected officers to oversee the operation and every resident had an equal say in the goings-on of our little community. Sounds like the epitome of democracy, right? Yeah, if democracy was scrubbing out my eyes with a Brillo Pad, then yeah, it’s democracy.

I call shenanigans on HOA membership in its entirety. I have never been to a 3-hour monthly meeting that accomplished less and drove more wedges between people than an HOA meeting. Neighbors telling neighbors what to do, when to do it and how? Like a lead balloon. You have distinct types of people in the HOA, and when these types must interact and money gets involved, watch out. If you never thought that a retention pond could lead to a physical altercation, think again brother. You want speed bumps on the street to slow down the teenagers? You have to figure out who is going to do it, when they are going to do it, what it will cost, should they be made of asphalt or plastic, how far apart, how many, will it violate city codes and for God’s sake, what about the children? This has to be put to a vote. Cue the Brillo pads to the eyes.

First, you have to understand who you are dealing with. You have the old people in the neighborhood. They have seen it all, been members of HOA’s before and know way more than the “Just out of college, First time homebuyer, Slightly hungover from last night” (JFS) crowd. Then you have the people with kids, people without kids, people who work all the time, people who do not work at all, housewives, people who love dogs, people who hate dogs, the guy who gets drunk and likes to shoot his rifle at 2 AM, the lady who stays jacked on pills and fights her boyfriend at the drop of a hat, the guy in the first house on the right that has a party every Friday (which pisses off the old people, housewives, and people with dogs), and the numerous randoms who pay dues late, have an immobile vehicle in their driveway or tape measure their property line so when a dispute arises (which it will, usually with people with kids, dogs and the guy who has the parties), they are fully prepared.

All of these people have a right to have their voice heard. They also group together with like minded residents to form cliques and form voting blocs. The old people band together against the teenagers. The people with dogs and kids against the rifle shooter and the pillhead. It’s a colossal disaster, which is why I ran for and won the vice-president election in my second year in the neighborhood. I am a glutton for punishment. Plus, I was a member of the JFS crowd and we needed to be represented. The speed bump problem was thrown on me after four months of filibustering. After the last two hour discussion that ended in walkouts, a nasty rift arising between the people who work all the time and the housewives, and three people proclaiming they would quit paying dues, they just said, “Screw it, Stephens, you got it.” I got it done in 48 hours. Called a guy I knew, he installed them at 2:00 one afternoon, and charged us cost of materials plus a few extra dollars for himself. Problem solved. You know why? I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t run it by anyone. I didn’t get out an Excel spreadsheet to compare and contrast the benefits of asphalt vs. plastic. I let a man who knew exactly what we needed install the right speed bumps and I wrote him a check.

Was that the end of it? Nope. Several groups were angry with me that I didn’t present the information to the entire neighborhood to approve the work. Some people thought the speed bumps should have been staggered. Some thought they should be black instead of yellow. The JFS crowd stood and made a gauntlet for me to run through before I was stoned to death like a witch in Salem. That was my first and last time as an HOA member. I never went back to another meeting and we moved about six months later. I still get the lowdown from my fellow JFS (now a part of the people with kids group) members. They’ve fired three different lawn care companies, it’s been discovered that our back property line has been encroached by ten feet and the cops go to the pillhead’s house once a week now, which really angers the old people, the housewives and the property line guy. Aaaaah, memories. Now I live in a ‘hood with an HOA run by a property management company. They issue the rules. They get the grass cut. They fine people for breaking covenants. There are no meetings or officers. We have no say-so in anything and it’s freakin’ beautiful. Totalitarianism at its finest.

I could not imagine an HOA back home in Cassville. First of all, nobody would attend the meetings. People in Cassville are not interested in what you think about the appearance of their property. We are going to have an immobile vehicle in the yard, so deal with it. In fact, this is a requirement to live on some streets. Every guy has a car they are “gonna fix up one day and that baby gonna run like a damn top.” This is usually a Camaro or a Mustang. All it needs is new paint, wheels, a windshield, all brakes replaced, head gaskets, odometer, radio, gear shift, new pistons, axles and a passenger seat (which was taken and used as a tailgating chair at Talladega). It’s like the Building Fund at the church, nobody knows its true purpose, but it will always be there.

Second, lawn care is optional. If you live a mile from your nearest neighbor, why should you care about his property value? What if we like six foot stalks of polk salat in our yard? It’s better than growing corn in the front yard, which some people are apt to do. That can be dangerous though. After a particularly violent thunderstorm the night before, I was working at the store the next morning and listening to everybody’s stories. One man, who had his corn planted in his front yard, informed me that the “got dam storm blowed his got dam corn in the got dam road.” Imagine having an HOA on that one. The thoroughfare covered in ears of Silver Queen. The horror. Let’s vote on it.

Third, and most important, is the dues issue. $85 a month. That’s about five cases of Budweiser. That’s two cartons of Marlboros. That is gas money to get to Panama City Beach (pronounced Pan-a-maw and dropping the City and Beach completely, of course). We have better things to do with our money, clearly. We’ll keep our cars rusty, our grass knee high, and our vices.... you can have your HOA.