I had leaded-glass windows fabricated to match the originals.
Every room had photographs, measurements, receipts, and three-dimensional scans because documentation was already part of my professional life.
I wasn't restoring it for resale.
I was restoring it because some things deserve to survive.
Celeste Whitmore never understood that.
She had been president of the Ashcroft Ridge Homeowners Association for almost eight years.
To her, my house was the old house.
The wrong house.
The one that refused to become beige enough.
The first violation notice arrived three weeks after I finished the porch.
Then another.
Then another.
Trim color.
Construction materials visible from the road.
My pickup truck.
Salvaged lumber.
A temporary dumpster.
A work trailer.
Every time, I responded in writing.
Every time, I kept a copy.
Celeste eventually stopped pretending the problem was any individual violation.
At one meeting she told me, almost proudly, that Ashcroft Ridge was “moving toward a more unified architectural identity.”