Priscilla’s desperation reached new heights when I woke up Monday morning to find a Channel 9 news van parked across the street, complete with a perfectly coiffed reporter practicing her lead-in while pointing at my house. She’d actually called the media on me for snowblowing. The reporter, Jessica Finley, knocked on my door around 9:00 a.m. with that particular smile television people use when they smell a David-versus-Goliath story. The cold morning air carried the diesel exhaust from her news van as she explained her assignment. “Mr. Kellerman, we’d like to hear your side of this HOA dispute that’s got the neighborhood divided.”
I invited her in for coffee, genuinely curious how Priscilla had pitched this. According to Jessica’s notes, I was a troubled widower whose grief had manifested as aggressive property maintenance and harassment of young families. Priscilla had painted herself as a concerned community leader protecting children from my escalating mental health episodes. “Your HOA president seems genuinely worried about community safety,” Jessica said, her pen hovering over her notepad. That’s when I decided to give her a real story. I pulled out grandfather’s 1950 survey map and spread it across my kitchen table, the yellowed paper crackling under the morning light like autumn leaves. The musty scent of old documents filled the room as I traced the property boundaries with my finger.
“See this western boundary line? That’s where Oak Street runs now.” Jessica leaned closer, her media training kicking in as she recognized something bigger than a neighbor squabble. “Are you saying—” “I’m saying 47 families might want to call their title insurance companies.” The change in Jessica’s expression was immediate—from bored obligation to investigative hunger. She spent 20 minutes photographing the survey maps, asking surprisingly informed questions about easement law. From my surveying days, I remembered that Colorado follows the recorded deed principle. If it’s not properly documented and recorded, it doesn’t legally exist. When she left, I could see her already crafting a completely different story than the one Priscilla had sold her.
But Priscilla wasn’t finished escalating. Tuesday afternoon brought her newest creation: a “community safety patrol” consisting of herself and two other California transplants armed with clipboards and measuring tapes. They started by documenting my “violations”—fence heights, equipment storage, even the placement of my garbage cans. The scratching sound of pencils on paper echoed across the neighborhood as they worked. Mrs. Henderson watched from her kitchen window, shaking her head in disgust. Three other longtime residents made pointed comments about newcomers with too much time on their hands. But Priscilla’s patrol pressed on, convinced they were gathering evidence for some grand legal strategy.
