"Treat a tree right," he used to say, "and it'll keep giving long after you're gone."
By the time I inherited the property, my grandfather had been dead for eleven years.
My father was gone too.
But the peach trees remained.
So did the stone wall.
My grandfather built that wall by hand.
Not because he wanted to keep people out.
Because the land sloped toward the road, and heavy summer rain kept washing soil away from the orchard.
He collected fieldstone from the property, purchased additional limestone, and spent nearly two summers shaping the boundary.
The wall stood about three feet high.
It wasn't particularly impressive compared with the elaborate landscaping in the newer subdivision.
But to me, it was one of the most valuable things on the property.
Every uneven stone represented his labor.
Every patch of mortar held a memory.
And when the developers began building expensive houses on the land south of ours, I made sure the wall remained untouched.
That subdivision eventually became Willow Creek Estates.
Two hundred eighteen homes.
Large driveways.
Decorative ponds.
Private walking trails.
A clubhouse.
A pool.
A residents-only fitness center.
And a homeowners association that behaved as though its authority extended well beyond the land actually belonging to the community.
At first, I had no problem with the development.
The subdivision brought paved roads and improved drainage.
Several new neighbors were friendly.
Some bought peaches from my roadside stand every summer.
A few invited me to community barbecues.
I wasn't a member of their HOA, and my property wasn't subject to its covenants, but that didn't prevent ordinary neighborly relationships.
For years, everything remained peaceful.
Then a new HOA president took office.
She was fifty-five.
White.
Wealthy.
Short blonde hair.
Designer sunglasses.
Expensive handbags.
Always perfectly dressed.
And apparently convinced that living in Willow Creek Estates made her the unofficial mayor of everything within walking distance.