Sal let out a long, slow whistle and put the toothpick back in his mouth. “Well, that went about as well as it could have.”

“Sal, you’re a genius,” I said, shaking his hand. “Where did you get that contract?”

“Oh, it’s completely real,” Sal laughed, patting the aluminum clipboard. “My brother-in-law distributes birdseed down in the valley. He’s always looking for organic suppliers. Once you told me what she was planning, I realized we just needed to change the legal definition of your spite fence. You aren’t a rogue homeowner anymore, Mr. Miller. You’re a vital part of the local supply chain.”

For the next four weeks, the sunflowers stood tall and proud. Brenda tried to call two separate emergency board meetings, but according to Tom, who attended out of sheer curiosity, not enough members showed up to form a quorum. The rest of the neighborhood was tired of the constant bickering, and the sight of the giant, happy yellow flowers had actually won most of them over. Children would stop on their way home from school to look for bees, and several neighbors asked Sal if they could lease their own front yards for the next season.

When the harvest time finally came, Sal brought a small, quiet crew. We carefully cut the heavy, seed-filled heads down and loaded them into his truck, leaving the sturdy green stalks to be composted. The fence was visible again, but by then, the message had been sent.

The next board election was held two months later. Brenda lost her seat as interim chair to Tom, who immediately passed a new amendment clarifying that residential gardens could be as tall as nature intended.

Now, every spring, I plant a new row of seeds right along the cedar fence. And every morning, Buddy and I walk out onto the porch, look across the street, and enjoy the beautiful, harmonious view.