My neighbor thought she could dictate when my children were allowed to swim in our own backyard. She didn’t realize that by declaring war on my kids, she was declaring war on the entire district swim team.
We live in Texas. It is hot. When I bought my house, the shimmering blue pool in the backyard wasn’t a luxury; it was a survival tool. My kids (ages 8 and 10) practically live in the water from May to September.
Then, “Linda” moved in next door. Linda is a woman who wears linen pants, burns sage on her porch, and takes herself very, very seriously. She converted her back patio into a “Sanctuary for Mindfulness.”
The Demand
Two weeks after she moved in, Linda appeared at my front door. She didn’t say hello. “We need to discuss the schedule,” she announced. “The schedule?” I asked. “Yes. The pool schedule. I do my evening meditation and yoga flow from 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM. The splashing and the… joy… coming from your yard is messing with my alignment. I need you to keep the children out of the pool during those hours.”
I stared at her. “Linda, it’s 95 degrees out at 6 PM. My kids are going to swim. I’m not implementing a curfew in my own house.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re disrupting my peace. If you don’t stop, I will make sure you can’t enjoy your yard either.”
The Escalation
The next evening, my kids jumped in the pool at 6:05 PM. Thirty seconds later, a wall of sound hit us. Linda had set up massive outdoor speakers pointing directly at our fence. She wasn’t playing soothing chants. She was blasting death metal. My 8-year-old started crying. I went to the fence. “Linda! Turn it off!” “I can’t hear you!” she yelled back. “I’m meditating!”
She did this for three days. Every time a toe touched the water, the music started. She was holding my backyard hostage.
The Loophole
I called the non-emergency police line, but they said unless it was after 10 PM, it was hard to enforce noise complaints without a decibel reader. I needed a legal way to make more noise than her. A lot more noise.
I called my brother-in-law. He’s the assistant coach for the local high school swim team. “Hey,” I asked. “I heard the community center pool is closed for pump repairs this week. Where are the varsity kids practicing?” “We’re scrambling,” he said. “We might have to cancel.” “Don’t cancel,” I told him. “Come to my place. I have a regulation-length pool, a grill for burgers, and a neighbor who loves energy.”
The “Swim Meet”
The next day at 5:45 PM, a caravan of cars pulled up. Thirty teenagers in Speedos and caps marched into my backyard. At 6:00 PM, Linda came out to her yoga mat. At 6:01 PM, the Coach blew his whistle.
TWEEEEET! “Alright! Laps! Let’s go! GO! GO! GO!”
The water churned. Thirty kids were kicking, splashing, and yelling. But the real weapon was the parents. I had invited the parents to watch. They brought cowbells. They brought air horns. They were cheering for their kids like it was the Olympics.
Linda turned on her death metal. It was cute. You couldn’t even hear the bass over the sound of thirty high schoolers chanting their school fight song.
The Police Visit
At 6:30 PM, a squad car pulled up. Linda had called them, claiming “a riot” was happening in my yard. The officer walked around the side of the house. He saw the grill going. He saw the kids swimming laps. He saw the parents clapping.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” I asked, handing him a hot dog. “We got a noise complaint,” he said, trying not to smile. “Just a community sports event,” I said. “We’re done by 8:00 PM. Strictly within the city noise ordinance limits for daytime hours.”
Linda ran over to the fence, waving her arms. “Officer! arrest them! This is harassment!” The officer looked at her speakers, which were still humming. “Ma’am,” he shouted over the splashing. “It looks like a swim practice. Unless they are breaking the decibel limit—which, judging by your music, you might be closer to doing—there’s nothing I can do. It’s their property.”
He turned back to me. “Good luck with the season, folks.”
The Aftermath
We hosted practice every night that week. By Friday, Linda’s blinds were drawn, and her speakers were gone. She realized that for every decibel of Slayer she played, I could produce ten decibels of School Spirit. She put her house on the market two months later. The listing description said: “Quiet neighborhood, seeking peaceful owner.” I made sure the swim team came over for a “Goodbye Pizza Party” during her first open house.
