For three years, the arrangement worked perfectly. I repaired the house, rebuilt the barn, planted corn and soybeans, and bought a small cattle herd. The work was exhausting, but it was honest.
Then, Karen Petton drove into my cornfield.
The first time it happened, I assumed she was lost. It was a Thursday afternoon in late May. The corn had emerged only weeks earlier, standing several inches high in clean, careful rows.
I was repairing a barn hinge when an unfamiliar engine rumbled down my private gravel lane. A white SUV bypassed the house and turned directly into the western field, instantly crushing two rows of crops.
I stepped from the barn and raised one hand. The vehicle continued another thirty yards before parking. A woman climbed out wearing a white blouse, high-heeled shoes, and oversized sunglasses. She locked the SUV and began walking toward the Green Meadows subdivision.
"Ma’am!" I called out. She glanced back. "This is private property. You cannot park here."
"Oh," she said, as though I had informed her of a minor shift in the wind. "I’ll only be an hour. This area has always been used for overflow parking by the HOA."
"The HOA does not own it. I have a recorded deed."
She lowered her sunglasses slightly. "I am Karen Petton. I sit on the Green Meadows board. You probably haven't learned how things work here yet."
"I am Marcus Chen," I replied. "And you are standing in my field."
She waved a dismissive hand, claiming the HOA had maps proving their right to a "community-access buffer." She ignored my demands to move her vehicle and walked away.
That was my introduction to Karen. The first encounter tells you who someone is. The second tells you whether the first was a mistake.