In her first month as president, she sent a newsletter with the subject line, "A New Era of Excellence Begins," to 112 families who just wanted their trash picked up on time. I first met her on a Saturday morning in June. I was on the tractor cutting the hay field that runs along the north fence line, the field closest to Ridgewood. She was standing at the fence in white jeans and a turquoise blouse, waving at me like she was flagging down a taxi. I killed the engine and walked over.
"Hi there. I'm Diane. I'm the president of Ridgewood Estates, your new neighbor." She smiled the way realtors smile with every tooth and no eyes. "I just wanted to introduce myself and ask about that little dirt road that runs through your property."
"That's my farm road," I said. "Right. Right. So, here's the thing. A few of us have noticed that your road connects right to County Road 118.
And we've been thinking, wouldn't it be wonderful if we could use it as a shortcut just for residents? It would save everyone so much time in the mornings." I looked at her. "That's a private road on private property. It's not a shortcut.
It's how I get my equipment to the fields." She tilted her head. "Oh, I understand. But it's just sitting there most of the day, right? And it would be such a win-win.
We'd even be willing to chip in for maintenance." "Ma'am, I appreciate the introduction, but the road isn't available for public use. It never has been." She held the smile for three more seconds, the way a light bulb holds its glow after you flip the switch. Then she said, "Well, think about it."
And walked back to her Escalade, her heels sinking into the grass with every step. I thought that was the end of it. I was wrong by about 14 months. The first tire tracks appeared on a Monday morning in October. I was driving the flatbed to the south gate to meet a feed delivery, and I noticed fresh tracks in the clay, narrow, low-profile tires, the kind that come on SUVs and crossovers, not farm equipment.
Two sets. Someone had driven up my road during the night or early morning and turned around near the hay barn. The next morning, three sets. The morning after that, five. By Friday, I counted 11 distinct tire patterns in the soft clay, and the ruts were getting deep enough to catch the edge of my hay trailer.
I parked at the south gate before dawn on Saturday and waited. At 6:42 a.m., a silver Toyota Highlander turned off County Road 118, drove through my open gate, and headed north up my farm road at 35 mph, trailing a plume of red dust that settled on my fence line like rust-colored snow. Three minutes later, a black Ford Explorer, then a white minivan, then at 7:15, a white Cadillac Escalade with Dallas dealer plates doing 40 mph up a road designed for tractors. Diane Prescott leading the parade. She didn't slow down when she passed me standing by the gate.