Now I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not much of a rule follower when it comes to other people’s rules. I have my own set of detailed do’s and don’ts engrained in the invisible print filed away somewhere in the grey matter between both of my ears that I strictly adhere to, but other than those, I’m not really interested.

In fact, I delight in doing dabbling into doing whatever I want…especially when it comes to approved mailbox colors and acceptable lawn décor throughout the Halloween season. I certainly don’t need someone from the architectural approval committee with the name “Karen” to inform me that my pergola exceeds the allowable height by a quarter inch.

Most of us revel in the freedom of finally having our own place and painting the front door whatever color we want, parking wherever we want in or out of our garage, building a shed, putting up lights, or even drawing our own version of the Mona Lisa with sidewalk chalk on the driveway. However, there may come a time, when even the freest of thinkers crave some order of semblance.

It happens subtly, and quietly and goes nearly undetected…for a couple of days. Until you start to notice. Whether it is the smell, the sound, or the sudden shift in landscape and gravity, you sit up and notice.

The 1974 RV that suddenly appeared next door a few days ago in front of the neighbor’s house, suddenly the RV that appeared next door and has begun radiating a powerful septic-adjacent aroma. Ala Cousin Eddie from “Christmas Vacation,” the seemingly temporary visiting relative seems to have become less temporary and more permanent. You notice the wheels have been replaced overnight with more permanent cinder blocks, and within the week the RV has somehow achieved its own house number.

Soon after you notice the extension cord. I’m not talking about the tasteful six foot orange outdoor cord that discreetly runs the leaf blower a couple of times a month. I’m talking about a questionably engineered electrical lifeline that has stretched across the property with all the confidence of Wile E. Coyote wiring ACME dynamite to a plunger. The cord zigzags through puddles, around lawn ornaments, under a folding chair, and directly past what I can only assume with be a future insurance claim.

Phase No. 2 breaks ground shortly after. This appears in the form of a “classic” car collection, although “classic” may be a bit generous. Frankly, there is nothing at all classic about this bunch of old, broken-down jalopies. These unregistered, unpainted, sans engine vehicles have opened phase two with the look of a Detroit war zone.

Phase No. 3 opens when the indoor furniture starts making its way out. Cable spools become end tables, vintage floral-print sofas from the Nixon administration appear on the front porch, and a once-proud Lay-Z-Boy recliner appears beside the driveway, clearly having had the “Z-Boy” portion of the chair retiring some time ago.

Yet what can be done? I’m the one that didn’t want any restrictions or rules. There is no HOA to enforce any sort of codes. The city code enforcement is so busy policing water usage that they don’t notice the amber waves growing through the bumpers of the car show on the neighbors front lawn. Meanwhile the neighbors compound is one pallet shipment away from applying for statehood.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not advocating for militant HOA rulebooks written by retired accountants named Dennis. But this can seriously effect property values, and values are emotional long before they become mathematical. Buyers notice everything. They notice the yards, the vehicles, the furniture on the front lawn. They want to know if the neighborhood is full of peaceful residences or active salvage operations. Once perception changes, value follows. That is the hard truth about non-enforced neighborhoods.

The beautiful landscaping, remodeled kitchen, perfectly staged family room, and professionally cleaned bathrooms can only compete so hard against an RV permanently mounted on cinder blocks beside a pallet deck glowing under the soft illumination of pre-explosive methane from the outdoor toilet.

Sometimes, even an HOA has its merits.

Jen Fischer is an associate broker and Realtor. She can be reached at 801-645-2134 or jen@jen-fischer.com.