HOA Forced Me To Remove My Dam Over $400 In Fees — They Didn’t Know It Held Back The Whole River

Ren drove through the gate Friday evening without calling ahead. I saw her headlights bounce up the ranch road, dust rising pale in the dusk. She parked beside my truck—the same F-350 I’d picked up from impound, the receipt still folded in the glove box like a splinter I couldn’t dig out. She stepped out carrying a backpack that sagged with the weight of printed documents, and a canvas tote stuffed with three highlighters, a legal pad, and a laptop charger. Her face was set in that particular expression she’d worn since she was twelve—the one that said she’d found a problem and intended to take it apart piece by piece.

— You didn’t eat yet, I said.

— I’ll eat when we’re done.

She walked past me into the house, kissed Darla on the cheek, and spread her papers across the kitchen table. Cole glanced at me from the door, raised an eyebrow, and disappeared toward the barn. He knew better than to interrupt Ren when she was hunting.

That night the kitchen became a war room. A single lamp hung over the table, pulling moths against the window screen. The smell of reheated coffee and pinto beans simmering on the back burner settled into the wallpaper. Darla moved quiet, refilling mugs, laying a plate of pork chop sandwiches at Ren’s elbow that went untouched for an hour. Outside, the ranch kept breathing—cattle lowing in the south pasture, a coyote yipping somewhere beyond the creek.

Ren started with the deed. She spread the 1987 plat map flat, anchoring its corners with salt and pepper shakers. Her finger traced the access road, a single paved lane 22 feet wide, running 0.7 miles straight through our land to Saddleback Estates.

— This is the easement, she said. Granted to Garfield Puit LLC for residential ingress and egress. Standard boilerplate. But standard doesn’t mean safe.

She pulled up the Texas Secretary of State website on her laptop, the screen casting blue light across her face. Garfield Puit LLC. Status: Administratively dissolved, 2003. Reason: failure to file annual reports.

— The company’s been dead for twenty years, Dad.

I leaned back, the chair creaking. — So what does that mean for the easement?

— That’s the question. An easement is a property right. When the entity that holds it dissolves, that right doesn’t just vanish—it’s supposed to transfer. But if no one ever assigned it… She flipped open a binder, highlighting a passage in yellow. — Texas Property Code Section 5.024 requires a written instrument to convey an easement. Without it, you’ve got a gap in the chain of title.

— A gap, I repeated.

— A hole big enough to drive 73 families through every day, believing someone held the keys. She set down the highlighter. — Nobody holds the keys, Dad. The HOA has been operating as if they own that road, maintaining it, collecting assessments, installing a gate, but they’ve never had a legal document assigning them the easement. It’s still floating in the name of a dead corporation.

I stood up, walked to the window. The night was clear, stars packed tight across the sky, the way they get over West Texas when there’s no weather coming. Out there, the access road cut a straight line through our pastures, invisible in the dark but there all the same. I thought about Constance Hargrave, sitting in her house somewhere along that road, convinced she ran an empire. I thought about the $340 cash I’d handed over at the impound lot, the way the clerk didn’t look me in the eye. I thought about my grandfather, who’d filed a land patent on this dirt in 1941 with nothing but a mule and a determination I’d spent my whole life trying to honor.

— Keep going, I said.

—

Saturday morning, Ren was up before sunrise. She’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee and arranged her findings into three color-coded binders: blue for the easement and corporate dissolution, red for the HOA’s actions and violations, green for our legal strategy. She’d slept maybe three hours. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there was a smudge of highlighter ink on her cheek. She looked happier than I’d seen her in months.

— I need to find the principal, she said. — The person who dissolved Garfield Puit. If they’ll sign an affidavit confirming the assignment was never completed, we close the evidentiary loop.

— How do you find someone from a company that died twenty years ago?

— Public records. She cracked her knuckles. — Give me the afternoon.

She disappeared into the world of corporate filings and archived databases while Cole and I worked the north fence line. The cedar posts had rotted at the ground line after the last storm, and the wire sagged between them like it had given up. I sank a new post, tamped the dirt, stretched the wire tight. The manual labor was a relief—something I could feel, something I could fix. Every swing of the post driver drove the uncertainty a little deeper into the ground.

By late afternoon, Ren emerged onto the porch holding her phone like a trophy.

— I found him. Prescott Garfield. He’s 79, retired, living in Scottsdale, Arizona. I’m going to call him.

— Now?

— Now. She dialed before I could argue.

I stood on the porch, listening to the ringtone buzz faintly through the speaker. A man answered, voice gravelly but warm. Ren introduced herself, explained the situation—the subdivision, the easement, the HOA, the tow truck, the legal mess. There was a long pause on the other end.

Then Prescott Garfield laughed. Not a chuckle—a full, rolling laugh that went on for thirty seconds. Ren put it on speaker so I could hear.

— Honey, he said finally, — I always figured that’d come up someday. The easement was supposed to be assigned to the HOA at final buildout. Somebody forgot the paperwork. Story of that whole project. I’d sign anything you need.

Ren’s shoulders dropped an inch. I didn’t realize how much tension I’d been holding until I felt mine drop too.

— I’ll overnight the affidavit, she said. — Thank you, Mr. Garfield.

— You tell your daddy good luck. Sounds like he’s been fighting a war with one hand tied behind his back.

I took the phone. — I appreciate you, sir. More than you know.

— That land was always stubborn. He chuckled again. — I remember your granddad, Otis. He never did like that subdivision. Said it was like putting a tuxedo on a jackrabbit.

I laughed, and it felt like the first clean breath in months.

—

The affidavit arrived Tuesday morning. Ren carried it into the kitchen like it was made of glass, spread it on the table next to her binders. Prescott Garfield’s signature sat at the bottom, notarized, crisp, final. The assignment had been intended, never executed. The easement was orphaned. The HOA’s authority over that road existed in a legal vacuum.

I called Harvest Teal that afternoon. He’d been my attorney for exactly three days—a 64-year-old solo practitioner I’d found on the recommendation of a rancher two counties over. His office was a converted house on the edge of town, smelling of old paper and gun oil. The chair across from his desk made a sound like a floorboard giving a slow opinion every time he leaned back.

— Son, he said, after reading Ren’s research for the third time, — you have been playing defense on a field you own.

— I’m starting to see that.

— No, I’m not sure you are. He set down the affidavit, removed his glasses, and looked at me with the calm, flat gaze of a man who’d spent thirty-five years watching human nature operate across a courtroom table. — That road is the only way in and out of Saddleback Estates. 73 homes. Every single family in that subdivision needs that strip of dirt to live their lives. To get to work, to school, to the grocery store. And the legal foundation for their right to use it is a house of cards in a very light breeze.

— So what do we do?

Harvest leaned back. The chair groaned. — First, we talk about what you actually want. Not what you can win. Not what you can take. What you want.

I thought about it. Not for long—I’d been thinking about it since the impound lot, if I was honest. — I want my truck back, I said. — I want the citations stopped. I want that gate off my property. And I want to make sure this can’t happen to the next person who’s just trying to run their land.

Harvest nodded slowly. — That’s clean. That’s reasonable. That’s also not going to be enough for Constance Hargrave.

— I’m not asking Constance.

— No. But you’re going to offer her a way out anyway. Because the alternative is a quiet title action that pulls the rug out from under an entire neighborhood. And you’re not the kind of man who punishes 73 families for one woman’s arrogance. He paused. — I’ve been doing this a long time. I can tell.

I looked out the window at the mesquite and red clay stretching toward the horizon. — Draft the settlement offer, I said. — Drop the lawsuit, remove the gate, stop the citations. Give me back my peace. And I’ll sign a proper easement that gives the homeowners legal access for good.

— And Constance?

— She can keep her blazer and her PowerPoint slides. But she’s done using that road as a weapon.

—

The weeks that followed taught me something about the machinery of conflict. It doesn’t just grind forward—it accumulates. Every letter, every filing, every phone call becomes another gear in a machine you didn’t build but now have to operate. Harvest filed the quiet title action in district court, a public declaration that the ownership of the easement was in dispute and required judicial resolution. The moment that filing hit the county clerk’s office, it became part of the permanent record. Anyone buying or selling property in Saddleback Estates would see it. The uncertainty spread like dye in water.

Constance responded exactly the way Harvest predicted. Not with negotiation—with escalation. She filed an amended complaint adding two new claims: intentional interference with quiet enjoyment and abuse of process. She argued that my attempt to have a court clarify who legally held easement rights on my own land constituted harassment. I read that filing at the kitchen table, the paper slick under my fingers, and for a full minute I couldn’t speak.

— Abuse of process, I said finally, handing it to Darla.

She read it, her lips pressed thin. — She’s saying you’re harassing her by going to court?

— She’s saying I’m the bully.

Darla set the paper down with the careful precision of a woman who’d spent twenty-five years teaching second graders how to use their words. — That woman has never had to face a consequence in her life, has she?

— Not yet, I said.

—

Meanwhile, the gate she’d installed on my land stayed exactly where it was. That was Harvest’s hardest instruction: don’t touch it. Document it. Photograph it. GPS tag it. But do not lay a hand on it. The moment you interfere with property illegally placed on your land, he explained, you become the aggressor in the story. You hand them a narrative. Leave it standing, and it’s trespass. It’s conversion. Combined with the insurance filing—which Harvest had discovered during discovery listed the access road as HOA property—it might be slander of title, a real Texas cause of action that lets you sue for damages when someone files a document falsely claiming ownership of your land.

I drove out to the gate one Tuesday morning, parked on the gravel shoulder, and stood in the early quiet. The air carried the sharp chemical smell of fresh paint on metal. A plastic installation tag still hung from the motor housing, catching the light. I photographed it from six angles, GPS tagged every frame. Then I got back in my truck and drove away, every instinct screaming at me to hook a chain to it and yank it out of the ground.

That restraint cost me something. I didn’t realize how much until later that day, when I found myself slamming a post driver into the earth with more force than necessary, the impact jarring up through my shoulders, Cole watching me from the tailgate without a word. He handed me a new post when I finished. That was all.

—

Inside Saddleback Estates, things were shifting. Doraththa Beal, a retired school principal who’d lived in the subdivision since 1999, had been quietly printing and filing every piece of HOA correspondence since Constance took over. She called me one Thursday morning, her voice calm and measured, the voice of a woman who’d spent three decades managing rooms full of people who didn’t want to be managed.

— The gate’s been malfunctioning, she said. — Three mornings in a row, the entry code failed. Always the same families. The ones who’d spoken against the board.

— Can you prove it?

— I have timestamps. I have emails. I have a pattern. She paused. — I also have nineteen signatures. Under the CC&Rs, ten percent of homeowners can compel a special meeting. I only needed eight.

— What’s on the agenda?

— Review of current legal expenditures. Board leadership. She let the words hang. — I think it’s time the neighborhood understood exactly what’s been done in their name.

The special meeting was set for Thursday evening at the Saddleback Estates community center. I wasn’t invited—not yet—but Doraththa kept me informed. She told me Constance had tried to cancel it, tried to postpone it, tried to rewrite the agenda. The CC&Rs didn’t allow any of it. The meeting was happening whether she wanted it to or not.

—

Thursday arrived with a dry wind out of the west, kicking up dust devils in the south pasture. I worked the cattle until dusk, then sat on my porch and watched the headlights of cars turning into the subdivision, one after another, more than I’d ever seen at once. Doraththa texted me a single word: Packed.

Later, she told me the whole story. The community center smelled like industrial carpet cleaner and burnt coffee—the particular combination that exists in every multi-purpose room in every subdivision across America. Constance had arrived early. She’d arranged the chairs in classroom rows, herself behind a long table at the front, everyone else facing forward in formation. Printed talking points sat at each seat. A laptop was open at the presentation table, title slide already displayed: OUR COMMUNITY, OUR RESOLVE. She was dressed carefully—hair done, good blazer, the complete presentation of a woman who intends to control not just the meeting but the memory of it.

Forty-four of seventy-three households sent at least one representative. That wasn’t attendance. That was a statement. People had arranged child care. People had left work early. One family had driven back from a weekend trip specifically to be there.

Constance opened the meeting, advanced to her first slide. Doraththa raised her hand—not urgently, but with the calm, precise, entirely immovable manner of a woman who’d spent thirty years managing rooms full of people who didn’t want to be managed.

— Point of order, Mrs. Hargrave. Under Robert’s Rules of Order, which our CC&Rs specifically mandate for all official association meetings, the stated agenda item must be addressed before any supplementary presentations can be introduced. The agenda item is review of current legal expenditures and board leadership. Your PowerPoint is not on the agenda.

Constance stiffened. — I am the board president. I determine the flow of this meeting.

— With respect, Doraththa said, — Robert’s Rules do not grant the chair that authority. I’d be happy to read the relevant section aloud.

Three homeowners immediately seconded the procedural position. The HOA’s attorney, a young associate from Midland who by this point probably regretted every life choice that had led him to this folding chair, leaned forward from the back row.

— She’s correct, he said quietly. — The agenda item takes precedence.

The laptop was closed.

Doraththa stood. She had obtained the HOA’s complete legal billing statements through a formal records request—a right guaranteed to every association member under the Texas Property Code. She read the numbers aloud, slowly, one line at a time, the way you read numbers when you want them to be understood and not just heard.

— Forty-three thousand dollars in attorney fees. Eleven months. Against a budget that allocated eight thousand for all legal expenses combined. The reserve fund is twenty-one thousand below its required minimum balance. We have three months of operating expenses remaining as a financial buffer.

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

— I want everyone in this room to understand exactly what that means for the value of your home.

The room understood. The HVAC system cycled. Nobody spoke.

Then the questions started. What was the documented legal basis for the nuisance claims against the adjacent property? What was the HOA’s specific legal authority over the access road? Who had authorized expenditures three times beyond the approved budget?

Constance could not answer the first question with any legal specificity. Her attorney declined to offer an opinion on the second. On the third, she revealed that she had authorized every dollar personally under an emergency spending provision that required board ratification within thirty days. She had not called a board meeting to ratify any of it.

The provision required ratification. The ratification had never occurred. Every dollar spent beyond the approved budget existed in a state of potential legal exposure for the officer who had authorized it.

The no-confidence motion came from Duffy Marsh, a retired contractor who’d lived in Saddleback Estates since 1998. He was a man who chose his words the way a carpenter chooses cuts—carefully and without waste.

— I move for the removal of Constance Hargrave as HOA president.

Under the CC&Rs, removal required a two-thirds majority of present voting members. Forty-four households represented. The threshold was approximately twenty-nine votes.

Constance received twelve.

She sat very still after the count, gathering her papers slowly, with the careful, deliberate movements of someone concentrating very hard on maintaining composure in front of people who have just collectively decided something about her. Then she left without speaking.

Duffy Marsh, as interim chair, took his first official action before the meeting formally adjourned. He had someone pull up Harvest’s original settlement offer on a phone. He read it aloud to the room completely without editorial comment.

— We should have taken this three months ago, he said quietly.

—

Duffy called Harvest at eight the following morning. Harvest listened to everything. Then he told Duffy exactly what I’d instructed him to say: the original settlement offer had expired. A new offer was on the table.

The terms included everything from the first offer plus three additions: a formal public acknowledgement of the improper citations and tow; a community meeting at which I would explain the full history to all homeowners directly; and a conservation easement on 200 acres of Dunore land adjoining the subdivision, permanently preventing development, protecting sightlines, and benefiting every property value in Saddleback Estates for as long as the land stood.

Duffy was quiet on the phone. — That third condition, he said, — that’s not a punishment.

— No, Harvest said. — It’s not.

One final condition: the community meeting would be open. Media invited. The full story on the record, in front of witnesses. Constance Hargrave had spent eleven months trying to control the narrative. It was time to let the facts do it instead.

—

Three weeks later, on a Saturday morning in October, the West Texas air carried that first thin edge of coming cool. Dry grass, something faintly mineral off the plains. The sky so deeply blue it looked like something you could fall into if you weren’t careful. The community center filled quickly. Duffy Marsh had arranged the chairs in a circle before I arrived—his idea, and the right one. No elevated positions, no table between me and the room, just people looking at each other across a ring of folding chairs. A much harder arrangement to perform in than a classroom setup, and a much better one for telling the truth.

Aldis Grigg from the Calhoun County Clarion was there with his notebook. A camera operator from the ABC regional affiliate in Midland had set up quietly in one corner. A representative from the Texas Attorney General’s Consumer Protection Division—Harvest had extended that invitation after the unauthorized expenditure records raised questions about potential breach of fiduciary duty—sat near the back with a notepad and an expression of professional attentiveness.

Ren sat to my left. Harvest sat to my right. Constance Hargrave was not there. She had not responded to the meeting invitation in any form.

I stood up. I am not a public speaker. I am a rancher, which means I know how to explain complicated things in plain language to people who need to act on the information. And I know that the most important thing you can do when you have something real to say is to say it without decoration.

I told them all of it. The 1941 patent, the 1987 sale, the Garfield Puit dissolution, what it meant for the easement nobody had ever properly recorded. The forty-seven citations—for dust, for diesel, for cattle standing too close to a fence. The tow, and the $340 I handed over in cash at an impound lot on a Tuesday afternoon. The lawsuit, the gate installed on my land without a word to me. What Ren found at that kitchen table over one weekend when she refused to stop pulling on a thread. What Harvest found when he pulled the HOA’s own financial records during discovery.

I told them what Doraththa had shown them at the special meeting, but more slowly, with more history behind it. Because some people in that circle hadn’t been at the special meeting, and they deserved to understand how eleven months of decisions had brought their neighborhood’s reserve fund to within three months of insolvency.

Then I reached into my jacket and took out the letter of intent from Lonear Freight Solutions. I held it up so the room could see it, so the camera could see it.

— I want you to understand exactly what this is. This is a signed, notarized offer from a commercial trucking company to purchase the land under your access road. The road with no valid easement. The road you have been driving across every day for thirty years. For use as a freight staging corridor.

Nobody moved. The HVAC hummed. Seventy-three families, one road in, one road out, one trucking company with a signed letter of intent.

I set the letter on the floor in the center of the circle, where everyone could see it.

— I want you to sit with that for just a moment.

They sat with it. The room was very still.

— I didn’t sell it to them.

Someone exhaled. Not a word, just a long breath. The sound of a held tension running down from somewhere.

— Selling it to them would have punished seventy-three families for something one person did without their full knowledge or consent. Most of you didn’t understand what was happening. Most of you trusted that your board was handling a difficult situation responsibly. That trust was broken. Not by this ranch. Not by my cattle or my fence lines or the smell of diesel in the morning. By one person with a clipboard and no accountability.

I picked up the settlement agreement—signed on my end the previous night—and slid it across the circle to Duffy Marsh.

— That’s the new easement. Properly drafted by two attorneys. Properly assigned to each residential lot deed. Your road is legally yours, recorded and permanent, for the first time since this subdivision was built. Sign it. Record it with the county clerk. And this ends today.

Duffy signed it without hesitation. Three board members signed beneath him. Harriet Voss from the AG’s office addressed the room briefly without drama: the office was reviewing the expenditure records and the insurance filing. Homeowners with documentation should contact her directly. She distributed cards.

That afternoon, in the October light, a work crew with a rented excavator came down the access road and removed the gate. It took forty minutes. Several residents stood watching from the gravel shoulder. The hydraulic arm lifted each section clear of the ground with a low mechanical groan. Dust rose in a thin pale column and drifted south toward the pasture. A woman—younger, one of the original petition signers—walked over to where I was standing, watching it come down.

— I’m sorry, she said.

— I know, I said. — Don’t worry about it.

The road was just a road again. Had always been just a road. That’s all any of us ever needed it to be.

—

Three months later, Constance Hargrave listed her house for sale. It sat on the market for ninety-one days. The nuisance suit was dismissed with prejudice—meaning it could never be refiled, not by Constance, not by the HOA, not by anyone. The quiet title action resolved in a court-ordered judgment that established the easement properly, appurtenant to each individual residential lot deed, recorded permanently with the Calhoun County clerk. Harvest called it the cleanest resolution he’d produced from a mess that complicated in thirty-five years of practice. I believed him without reservation.

The $43,000 in unauthorized legal expenditures became the subject of a civil recovery action against Constance personally. The HOA’s own CC&Rs and Texas nonprofit law both preserved that right for the association. The insurance commissioner opened a review of the misrepresentation on the property filing. Neither process moved quickly. Neither was certain to produce a specific outcome. But both were moving, and that was accountability of a kind that hadn’t existed eleven months earlier.

I followed through on the conservation easement. Two hundred acres of Dunore land—rolling prairie to the west of the subdivision, two seasonal stock tanks that fill with migratory waterfowl every October, a stand of old-growth cedar along the lower creek drainage that my grandfather never cleared because he said it didn’t need clearing—placed under a permanent conservation easement held by a regional land trust. No subdivision, no commercial development, no significant surface disturbance. The view from the western backyards of Saddleback Estates protected for as long as the land endures.

It also qualified me for a federal income tax deduction under the IRS qualified conservation contribution program. The deduction calculated against the appraised value of the development rights being permanently surrendered, which in this case was a meaningful number. Ren structured the entire filing. She had not yet finished her degree when she sat down at my kitchen table with three highlighters and started pulling on a thread that changed everything. Watching her walk that final tax filing through with Harvest was one of the better moments of an otherwise expensive year.

—

Duffy Marsh proposed the festival at the first properly-run HOA meeting under the new interim board: an annual fall harvest event on the boundary line between the ranch and the subdivision, celebrating the agricultural heritage of the region, open to the whole community. The vote was unanimous and took approximately forty-five seconds.

The first one happened eight weeks after the gate came down. I hauled in hay bales. Cole grilled beef—Dunore cattle, our own herd, the same animals Constance had photographed with her phone and captioned like they were evidence of something wrong. Darla and the second-grade teachers ran a kids’ table with rope braiding and seed identification and the particular chaos of children briefly fascinated by where food actually comes from. Ren set up an information table on conservation easements and agricultural law resources for any landowner in the county who wanted to understand their options. More people stopped there than I expected, which told me something about how many quiet property disputes were simmering in this county, waiting for someone to explain that there were tools available.

Doraththa organized a book drive. The proceeds endowed a scholarship at the county community college for students pursuing natural resource management or agricultural law. We named it the Otis Dunmore Memorial Award, after my grandfather—the man who filed a patent on 2,300 acres of West Texas red clay in 1941 and trusted that the land would still be worth something to the people who came after him.

He was right.

—

That evening, after the crowd had gone, Cole folding the last of the tables, I sat on the tailgate of the F-350. Same truck. Same impound lot receipt, still somewhere in the glove box. I watched the last light go red over the west pasture. The mockingbird in the cedar elm ran through its whole catalog one more time. Somewhere in the subdivision, a kid laughed at something, a door closed, the ordinary sounds of people going home.

Darla sat down beside me. The truck shifted the way it always does.

— He did right by the land, I said, meaning my grandfather.

She rested her head on my shoulder. — So did you.

The engine ticked as it cooled. The evening air came in off the pasture, smelling like dry grass and mesquite smoke and the faint sweetness of cedar in the dark. Eighty years of land, if you’re paying attention—that’s exactly what it smells like.

—

I still think about that year sometimes, when I’m out checking the fence line or moving cattle through the south pasture. I think about Constance Hargrave and her forty-seven citations, her clipboard, her PowerPoint slides about resolve. I think about the moment she realized the room had turned—forty-four households, and only twelve hands raised in her favor. I think about the gate coming down, the hydraulic arm lifting it clean off the ground, the dust drifting south.

But mostly I think about Ren at the kitchen table, highlighters spread out like weapons, the lamplight catching the ink on her fingers. I think about Prescott Garfield laughing into the phone, a man who’d carried a loose thread for twenty years and was finally given the chance to tie it off. I think about Doraththa Beal, who never signed anything, but collected nineteen signatures anyway, because she understood that silence in a community is not the same as consent.

I think about the $340 cash I handed over at the impound lot, and the receipt I still haven’t thrown away. It’s in the glovebox of the F-350, folded small, the paper worn soft at the creases. Sometimes I take it out and look at it, not because I need to remember what it felt like to be wronged, but because I need to remember what it felt like to decide, calmly and completely, that I was done being wronged.

That’s the thing about leverage. It’s not about what you have. It’s about what the other side cannot afford to lose. Constance needed that road. Seventy-three families needed that road every single day. And for eleven months, she used it like a throne, issuing fines and letters and towing trucks off land that had been in my family since before she was born.

But thrones built on paperwork ghosts have a way of crumbling.

I didn’t crumble hers. She did that herself—one unauthorized expenditure, one deleted Facebook comment, one procedural error at a time. I just held up the mirror and let the reflection do the work.

—

Now, I want to hear from you. Have you ever dealt with an HOA that forgot whose land they were actually standing on? Have you fought a petty authority that held all the cards right up until it didn’t? Drop your story in the comments. I read every one.

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