"When the HOA Told Me My Garden Topiaries Were ‘Inappropriate for the Neighborhood,’ I Took Their Words Personally — and Trimmed My Shrubs Into Life-Sized Replicas of the Entire Board, Right Down to Their Smug Expressions and Clipboard Poses."

“When the HOA Told Me My Garden Topiaries Were ‘Inappropriate for the Neighborhood,’ I Took Their Words Personally — and Trimmed My Shrubs Into Life-Sized Replicas of the Entire Board, Right Down to Their Smug Expressions and Clipboard Poses.”

Homeowner associations are like mosquitoes — harmless in theory, but once they start buzzing around your life, it’s impossible to ignore them.

Mine, the Meadowbrook Lakes HOA, was the loudest swarm of all.

The Warning Letter

It started innocently enough.
I moved into my new house two years ago — a quiet, pretty cul-de-sac with manicured lawns and overly friendly retirees.

I was proud of my garden.
I’d always loved shaping hedges and trimming shrubs into creative designs — animals, abstract shapes, even a dragon once. It gave me peace.

Then, one morning, I opened my mailbox and found a white envelope stamped “NOTICE OF VIOLATION.”

It read:

“Your front yard topiaries are not consistent with the community’s aesthetic guidelines. Please remove or reshape them immediately to align with neighborhood standards.”

Apparently, my hedges were too whimsical.

I laughed at first. Then I saw the fine amount.
$250.

The First Meeting

I went to the next HOA meeting to reason with them.

The board sat behind a long table like a royal court — five people with clipboards, matching polos, and expressions that screamed “we have too much free time.”

The president, Barbara, smiled tightly.
“Mr. Collins, we’re just trying to preserve uniformity. Your topiaries are… unusual.”

“Unusual?” I said. “They’re bunnies.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “Yes, but our community guidelines specify neutral landscaping themes.”

“So trees are fine,” I said, “as long as they’re boring.”

Laughter rippled from the crowd behind me — until Barbara’s husband, Frank, shot them a look.

Barbara leaned forward. “This isn’t personal, Mr. Collins. We just want to maintain harmony.”

“Got it,” I said, standing up. “You want conformity. Not harmony.”

And I walked out.

The Second Warning

Two weeks later, another letter arrived.
Another $250 fine.

Apparently, my “noncompliance persisted.”

I stared at the letter and something in me snapped.
They wanted harmony? Fine. They’d get harmony — my way.

I grabbed my hedge trimmers.

The Plan

My front hedge was tall and full — perfect material.
And after hours of research (and a questionable number of YouTube tutorials on artistic pruning), I had a plan.

Step one: revenge.
Step two: make it look beautiful.

The Sculptures

Over the next month, I spent every evening outside, trimming, carving, shaping.
Neighbors walked by, curious but polite. I smiled and waved.

By the end of the third week, five new topiaries stood proudly in my front yard.
Each one… strangely familiar.

There was a tall, stiff one with arms crossed (Barbara).
A short, round one holding an invisible cup of coffee (Frank).
Another had a ponytail and a clipboard.
One wore a hat (or at least, a leafy version of one).
And the last — my favorite — leaned slightly to the side, like it was whispering complaints.

The resemblance was uncanny.

Every board member was immortalized — in shrub form.

The Reveal

The morning after I finished, I got up early, made coffee, and sat on my porch waiting.
At 8:12 a.m. sharp, Barbara’s golf cart rolled by for her “inspection route.”

She slowed.
Stopped.
Then stared.

I waved cheerfully. “Morning, Barbara! Beautiful day for symmetry, isn’t it?”

Her jaw dropped.
Behind her, Frank’s mouth actually fell open.

They didn’t say a word — just sped off.

The Aftermath

By that evening, my phone was blowing up.
Neighbors were talking.
Some thought it was hilarious.
Others were horrified.

The next day, I got a call from Greg, one of the board members — the one whose topiary had the “leaning gossip” pose.

He sounded half-angry, half-impressed.
“Mark, what on earth did you do?”

“Just following the guidelines,” I said innocently. “You said the hedges needed to reflect community standards. So I reflected the community.”

He snorted. “Barbara’s furious.”

“I’d imagine she’s green with envy,” I said.

He hung up.

The Emergency Meeting

Two days later, another notice arrived.
This one wasn’t a fine — it was a summons.

Apparently, they’d called an “emergency HOA meeting” to discuss my “defamatory landscaping.”

I showed up early, armed with coffee and calm.

When Barbara saw me, her face went red.
“Mr. Collins,” she began, “your actions are not only disrespectful but slanderous.”

“Slander?” I asked. “They’re bushes.”

“Bushes shaped like people!” she snapped.

“People?” I said innocently. “I thought they were… creative representations of leadership and unity.”

The room snickered.

Frank slammed a folder shut. “This is harassment!”

I shrugged. “No one said anything about artistic expression in the bylaws. I checked.”

They went silent.

The Vote

The board retreated into private discussion for twenty minutes.
When they returned, Barbara cleared her throat.

“The board has voted. Effective immediately, all sculptural topiaries are banned.”

I grinned. “So you’re getting rid of all topiaries? Including yours?”

Barbara blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” I said, pulling out my phone, “your backyard has those spiral hedges. That’s a sculpture. Section 4, paragraph two — ‘any form of ornamental trimming.’”

The room went quiet again.

Someone at the back whispered, “He’s right.”

The Twist

Barbara’s composure cracked.
“This is absurd!” she said. “You can’t compare—”

“Rules are rules,” I interrupted. “Uniformity, remember?”

Greg, the “gossip bush,” actually laughed out loud.

That was the beginning of the end.

Within a week, the board dissolved the “topiary committee” entirely.
All existing fines were revoked.
And a new guideline was added: “Artistic expression in landscaping is permitted, provided it is maintained neatly.”

I printed that page and framed it.

The Aftermath

For a while, people came from nearby neighborhoods just to see the “Shrub Council.”
Kids loved taking photos.
Tourists stopped by during their mountain drives.

Even the local paper wrote a short piece titled:

“Resident Turns HOA Feud into Hilarious Living Art.”

Barbara hated the attention.
She tried to have the article removed from the community bulletin — but by then, the story had spread too far.

One afternoon, she passed by my yard again.
She didn’t stop this time.
But I caught her glancing at her leafy double — and I swear, for half a second, she smiled.

The Unexpected Ending

Months later, I got a knock on my door.
It was Barbara.

She stood awkwardly, holding a small box.
“I brought something,” she said.

Inside was a tiny hedge trimmer — engraved with the words:
“For artistic purposes only.”

I laughed. “You’re joking.”

She sighed. “You made your point. And, I’ll admit… it’s pretty funny.”

We ended up talking for an hour on my porch.
Turns out, she wasn’t as bad as I thought — just a little too proud, a little too bored.
Retirement had given her too much time and too many rules.

By the end of the chat, she said, “If I ever leave the HOA, maybe you can make one of me smiling.”

I grinned. “Deal.”

Epilogue — One Year Later

The HOA changed a lot after that.
Less policing, more community.

We started holding garden fairs, outdoor movie nights, even a small art walk.
And right at the center stood my row of topiaries — freshly trimmed, still identical, still hilarious.

Barbara eventually stepped down as president.
Guess who replaced her?

Greg.
The man whose bush leaned and whispered.

Now, every time I walk by the garden, I chuckle.

Because it’s not just about revenge anymore — it’s about reminding people that rules mean nothing without a sense of humor.