Chapter 12 - The Storm Drain
A thunderstorm rolled through Creekbend on Saturday, sending water down the walking trail in thin brown rivers. The raised pavement by Helen's fall collected leaves and berries. Water spread across the low section, then backed up toward the service gate.
I pulled on rain boots and went out with a rake. Ben was already there, holding a flashlight while two teenagers carried sandbags from the clubhouse storage room. Nobody had asked me to save the association's path, but the water was edging toward the lower yards, including ours.
“Don't step on the loose slab,” Ben warned. “The maintenance guy says the base has washed out.”
“Since when?”
He looked uncomfortable. “He reported it last month.”
We worked for an hour with Pilar and four neighbors to clear leaves from the grating without getting near the fast-moving drain opening. The county stormwater crew, called by Pilar, arrived and dealt with the blockage farther downstream. No heroic rescue. Just wet people in raincoats and a problem that should have been handled before the storm.
Afterward, Ben and I sat on the clubhouse steps while water dripped from our sleeves.
“I agreed with Cynthia because I thought we had to act,” he said. “My kid rides that path. I wasn't inventing the safety concern.”
“I never thought you were.”
“But I let her make it about one tree. Easier than the drain, the uneven concrete, and the budget.”
He leaned forward, hands clasped. “I signed the original vote for an assessment. I didn't sign off on what they did in your yard.”
“Then say so to the others.”
“I will. And it may cost me the seat.”
On Monday the board finally closed the low stretch of trail pending repairs. A handful of residents blamed the closure on my complaints. Others brought their children around to see why the path had been dangerous in the first place.
Pilar sent a notice that the HOA would inventory all trees with branches extending over common paths so it could write a consistent maintenance policy. Cynthia had pushed for uniform enforcement after being accused of singling me out.
May you like
A week later, the first round of courtesy letters went out. I didn't know who else had been notified until I saw Cynthia on her front walk, holding an envelope in both hands.
Across the sidewalk her enormous magnolia dropped slippery seed pods. Somebody had marked the overhanging branches with orange tape.
