Then Karen Petton drove into my cornfield.
The Woman from Green Meadows
The first time Karen entered my property, I assumed she was lost.
It was a Thursday afternoon in late May.
Young corn had just begun emerging from the soil when I heard an unfamiliar engine.
A white SUV came down my private gravel lane.
Instead of stopping, it turned directly into my western field.
Its tires crushed two rows of corn.
I walked out of the barn.
“Ma'am!”
The woman stepped out wearing a white blouse, high heels, and oversized sunglasses.
“This is private property,” I told her.
“Oh.”
She said it casually, as if I had mentioned the weather.
“You can't park here.”
“I'll only be an hour.”
“That is corn beneath your vehicle.”
She looked down.
Then laughed.
“This area has always been used for overflow parking.”
“By whom?”
“The HOA.”
“The HOA doesn't own this land.”
She lowered her sunglasses.
“I am Karen Petton. I sit on the Green Meadows board.”
“I am Marcus Chen. You're standing in my field.”
She smiled.
“You must be new.”
“I've lived here three years.”
She waved dismissively.
“You probably haven't learned how things work yet.”
I pointed toward my deed.
“My paperwork explains exactly how things work.”
Karen walked away.
“I'll move it after the luncheon.”
“No. You need to move it now.”
She ignored me.
That was my first encounter with Karen.
The second came two days later.
She returned.
And this time, she drove even farther into the field.
Seven Minutes
Karen stopped pretending she was confused.
“The cul-de-sac is crowded,” she told me.
“That isn't my problem.”
“It affects community access.”
“This isn't community land.”
She smiled.
“You farmers are very territorial.”
I looked at the crushed plants beneath her tires.
“That's another word for owning something.”
Karen left her SUV there for nearly two hours.
Soon, other Green Meadows residents began copying her.
A minivan parked beside my irrigation equipment.
Two SUVs entered during a neighborhood party.
A sedan drove around my locked gate by crossing my grass.
The damage accumulated.
Tire tracks.
Compacted soil.
Destroyed seedlings.
A damaged irrigation line.
I photographed everything.
Then Karen brought her dog.
She released the little white animal near my cattle pasture.
The dog charged the fence, barking.
My cattle panicked.
One pregnant heifer named Daisy slipped on wet ground.
She fell hard against a post.
I ran toward her.
“Call your dog!”
Karen shrugged.
“He's playing.”
“He is frightening the herd.”
“Then train them not to be so dramatic.”
I stared at her.
“Get the dog and leave.”