Tales from the HOA Crypt, Vol. 2: The Forbidden Corn

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by Glen Maylone

Volume 2: The Forbidden Corn Chronicles

They say if you touch the stove once and get burned, you won’t touch it again. Apparently, I’m the guy who tries the second burner.

OK, technically, it was more like my employer forcing my hand on the burner. Not me willingly reaching out. Same burn.

Some years after my original run-in with Thing 1 and Thing 2 (see Volume 1: The Driveway Inquisition), I found myself once again living in an HOA-governed townhouse.

Different town. Same mission. Same temporary assignment. And, unbeknownst to me, the same flavor of ridiculous. (But amen, here I could park in the driveway at least.)

This time, I read the bylaws—all of them. OK, well, most of them… alright, I skimmed them. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I end up a political prisoner in my own garden.

We’ll get to that in a minute.

The packet was thick and dry, but somewhere between the pages in what I like to call The Book of NO!—"No Grills," "No Planters," "No Hanging Flower Baskets," "Flags Must Be Board-Approved"—

I found a brief beacon of freedom: residents may have one 4x8-foot garden plot in their backyard.

Can I get a virtual amen? I mean, this was “Let my people go”–level of HOA freedom compared to what I’d experienced before.

So, I rolled up my sleeves and did what any self-respecting Iowa farm boy would do.

I measured exactly 4 feet by 8 feet, tilled it with a manual cultivator, edged it with treated wood, and planted sweetcorn, beans, tomatoes, onions, peppers, and herbs.

The classics.

I had black soil, good sun, and hope. For a few weeks, life was peaceful.

I was enjoying coffee on my deck each morning, a beer or two on the patio in my tiny yard.

I’d even made a few local acquaintances. It was almost enough to fool me into thinking HOA living might be inconvenient—but not quite evil.

Enter Curler Hag and Linda the COSCO Kid. (Linda—not her real name to protect the guilty—was one of those women who wanted to offer daily free samples.)

Curler Hag was my rear neighbor, two doors over, technically on the other block, but we shared backyard space.

She was a classic: thick blue robe, plastic curlers the size of soda cans, and slippers I assume matched the rest of the mid-‘80s glamour ensemble.

She had a man in the house—he was like a houseplant. I’d see him through the windows occasionally, walking around or watching TV, but never—not once—in six months did I see him outside.

Their patio and deck were completely barren. Not a chair, not a flowerpot, not even a welcome mat.

Only once did Curler Hag come outside that I am aware of. It was 6 a.m., and I was enjoying a quiet coffee on the deck before work.

She slid open her door and stared.

“You seem to be up awfully late a lot.”

That was her opening line.

I blinked. Paused. Waited a moment or two—I mean, there has to be more to this introduction and statement about my perceived nocturnal habits, right?

Umm… well, no there wasn’t. Just her I challenge you to answer me glare.

So, I finally said, “Well, good morning. If you know that, it must mean you’re up pretty late too and watching me. May I ask why?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “That’s none of your damned business… Smart ass.”

Then she vanished back inside like the ghost of Christmas Petty.

Linda, aka the COSCO Kid, and her husband were my next-door neighbors. Friendly at first, talkative, often on the deck.

I even had beers with her husband a few times—good guy, made killer ribs.

I mean fall-off-the-bone, killer ribs.

But Linda soon took a different turn. Daily deck chats shifted to braless peep shows with plunging tops, then subtle whispers of long days alone, absent husband, kid-free weekends.

She dangled the bait with all the subtlety of a neon sign.

I tried to say no gracefully.

Told her I was flattered, told her I had a girlfriend, and finally that I never mess with married women.

From that day forward, no more hellos, no more chats—and no more BBQ invites from her husband, who suddenly went from friendly to stone-faced.

When the ribs disappear, the war drums start beating.

The Garden of Good and Evil

One evening, the doorbell rang. A woman and a man stood on my stoop. He handed me a business card—President of the HOA or some such prestigious title for an HOA overlord.

She introduced herself as the Committee Chair or something, both appearing like diplomats forced into unpleasant duty.

She spoke gently, almost mournfully. “We’re here on unfortunate business and need to inspect your backyard.”

My brain instantly screamed: NOOOOOOOO!

PTSD flashbacks of pastel-wearing HOA enforcers, cherry red Chevy Chevettes, and Miami Vice–level porn staches, conducting an oil spot inquisition that Tomas de Torquemada himself would be proud of, all came flooding back.

“May I ask what you’re looking for?” I said, trying to keep it civil.

The man launched into HOA bylaws, inspection rights when reported violations were received.

“What’s the violation?” I pressed.

The woman looked like she was delivering news of a family tragedy.

“We’ve received a complaint that you’re growing… prohibited plants.”

“You mean someone reported me for growing drugs in the backyard?” That is ridiculous!

The man cut in: “We just need to take a look to verify.”

I’m thinking we’ll clear this up right now. This is crazy.

I grabbed my tape measure, prepared to show how exacting the 4x8 garden was and how wholesome the crop was, and led them out back.

There it was: my lovely garden—healthy, green, law-abiding.

The woman gasped.

The man’s eyes narrowed. He pointed. “That is a violation.”

“The garden is exactly 4x8,” I said, tapping my tape measure.

“It’s the corn,” he said. “Nothing in the garden can exceed 60 inches in height. No plants can be taller than the privacy fence.”

“But the fence is 6 feet tall,” I protested. “The stalks aren’t even visible to neighbors unless they’re looking down in the yard, and they’ll see the garden—60 inches or not.”

He pulled out the fine print. “Corn is expressly forbidden in personal gardens, along with blah, blah, blah,” is what I heard.

“These items must be grown only in the communal garden plot; you are welcome to rent space there. This corn must be removed…”

I sighed. “How long do I have before this becomes some kind of action?” (Secretly hoping to buy just enough time for an ear or two.)

“We need to witness the removal. Completely. Today,” he snapped. “We prefer to just clear this up now.”

I couldn’t resist: “So… you like to watch?”

The lady chuckled. The man didn’t.

I suggested I could send a photo proving completion of the maize murder. Like a hit man, showing proof to the Boss.

“We prefer to be present and validate in person,” he said.

“Alright,” I said. “I will need a few minutes.

Wait in your car. I’ll let you know when the crime scene has been… cleansed.”

They huffed off. I grabbed a beer. Sat at my patio table.

Apologized to the Maize Gods.

I gently unwrapped the bean vines from the stalks.

Pulled the corn. Laid the green corpses in my garbage can—martyrs to the HOA empire.

Not one sweet kernel lived to fulfill its purpose.

I sat, finished me beer, then after about fifteen minutes, I waved them back.

They could see the devastation and report back that the mission to keep the community safe from the potential of overreaching vegetables was complete and everyone was safe.

I asked if they needed to take a photo, or did I need to sign anything.

The now-throbbing vein on the guy's forehead said no—their work here was done.

As they were walking out, the woman placed her hand on my arm as she left.

“I know,” she whispered. “I love sweetcorn too.”

She said it like she’d just watched me bury a beloved pet. It was real. It was in her eyes.

She got it.

Aftermath

I never found out who reported me. Curler Hag? Linda the COSCO Kid, spurned and sour?

Maybe the HOA Gods themselves, with DeVine intervention to keep their HOA worshippers safe?

But Linda made sure I saw what I was missing. Her deck routines evolved into silent shows—skirts with nothing underneath, positioned strategically while I was in the yard.

She never spoke again, just made sure to… advertise. Message received. Still not interested.

Curler Hag never stepped foot on her deck again during my time there. But I’d see the curtain twitch and her peeping out when I was out on my deck. And I always waved, smiling wide, just for her.

Word of my garden’s demise spread quickly.

A few neighbors offered condolences. The story became cautionary legend for any resident foolish enough to plant forbidden crops in their yard and tempt the wrath of the HOA Federation.

That was my last HOA experience. I’ve sworn off them like bad tequila. No more pastel enforcers. No more clipboard tyrants. No more oil spot interrogations. No more forbidden corn.

Two chapters.

One Glen.

A lifetime of stories. And a personal garden, buried with honor.

I hope this cautionary tale helps someone contemplating signing over their rights as a human being—and homeowner.

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