HOA Sold Me Their Dried-Up Lake for $9,000 — Then Tried to Take It Back After a $41M Find
Chapter 3
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Every afternoon, a boy named Owen watched from the fence behind a Willow Ridge house. He finally asked whether I would chase him away if he helped. I handed him gloves and told him broken glass was my job, not his.His mother, Melissa, came down looking worried. She explained that Owen's father had moved out and the boy had been getting into trouble at school. She offered to pay me for watching him. I told her I could use company, but she needed to stay while we worked. Soon all three of us were filling bags, and Owen was asking whether turtles could live in the pond I hoped to make.Those were good afternoons. I slept better after working outside, and I stopped eating supper over the kitchen sink.Lucy came on Sundays with sandwiches. We cleared enough brush to uncover a stone bench, and beneath its seat, I found the initials of people who had probably grown old by now. The place had held happy days for other families. I wanted it to hold a few more.Patricia appeared on the tenth day and told Melissa that association residents were not permitted to work on my property. Melissa asked where that rule was written. Patricia changed the subject to dust blowing toward the houses. I offered to wet the access road when I hauled loads; she seemed disappointed by that answer.Before leaving, she asked if I had gone inside the pump building yet. I said the door was locked and none of the keys fit.She answered too quickly, "Probably for the best. It's unsafe." Then she looked toward the building for several seconds.That night, I checked the papers again. It was listed as part of the sale with no special warning beyond the general condition of the property. I decided to inspect it before anyone else wandered near it.Walter came the following morning carrying a tin of homemade biscuits. His wife, June, had sent them along with instructions that I return the tin. We ate on my tailgate while I asked about the missing records. Patricia had supplied only the last four years, mostly mowing bills. Walter said the lake began dropping much earlier, and crews had worked near the pump building shortly before that happened."What kind of crews?" I asked.He stared across the dry lake before answering: men with drilling equipment had taken samples from several spots. He had assumed they were checking the dam. Then a fence went up around their work, and he was told to keep away. A few weeks later, the drilling stopped. By the next summer, the fishing dock rested on mud.Walter offered to bring old photographs so I could see where the waterline had been. Before he left, he pointed out something I had missed: a deep ditch hidden behind the pump building. Willow branches covered most of it."That wasn't always there," he said.I walked him back to his car, noticing how carefully he stepped. He refused help until I offered my arm instead of taking his.