Within a year, she was president of the Pinebrook Estates HOA.
Her campaign slogan was something about elevating the community’s standards.
What that meant in practice was that Sloan began treating the surrounding area as if she owned it.
Mailboxes.
Roadside signs.
Landscaping visible from Pinebrook.
Old farm equipment.
She had opinions about all of it.
My property was not part of Pinebrook Estates. I had no HOA agreement, no deed restriction from their association, and no obligation to meet Sloan’s preferred “aesthetic.”
That fact bothered her more than it should have.
She once stopped at the end of my driveway while I was trimming brush and told me my workshop’s exterior was “visually inconsistent with the neighboring community.”
I looked at the barn.
Then I looked at her.
“It was here before the neighboring community.”
She smiled the tight little smile people use when they believe patience is something they are giving you.
“I’m just asking you to consider the broader appearance of the area.”
“I have considered it.”
“And?”
“I like my barn.”
She drove away.
I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Trash pickup on our road happened Friday mornings. Every Thursday evening, I rolled our standard ninety-six-gallon black can down to the roadside and positioned it inside our property line.
On Friday, April 15, 2022, I was drinking coffee on the porch when Sloan’s Escalade came down Township Road 167.
Her vehicle drifted right.
The front wheel struck my trash can.
The can folded underneath the SUV like an empty cardboard box.
Plastic cracked. The lid flew into the ditch. One wheel bounced toward the mailbox.
Sloan never stopped.
I stood there holding my coffee, watching the Escalade disappear down the road.
At first, I assumed distraction.
People drift.
People look at phones.
People make mistakes.
I walked down, gathered the pieces, and ordered a replacement from the county.
The following Friday, she hit the replacement.
Same time.
Same vehicle.
Same side of the road.
Again, she didn’t stop.
The Friday after that, she did it again.
By the middle of May, five cans had been crushed.
Hazel watched me collect the plastic pieces after the fifth one.
“You still think it’s an accident?” she asked.
“No.”
“What do you think it is?”
I looked down the road toward Pinebrook.
“I think she enjoys it.”
I called the sheriff’s office.
Deputy Holly Brewster came out later that morning. He inspected the debris, measured the distance between the can position and the road, and listened while I described the pattern.
He was patient, but realistic.
“You have video?”
“Not yet.”
“Get video.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you. A prosecutor needs more than that.”
He pointed toward the road.
“If she says the cans were sticking into the lane, I need something showing they weren’t. If she says she swerved because of traffic, I need something showing she didn’t. If this is deliberate, give me deliberate on camera.”
That afternoon, I ordered a security camera.
I mounted it near the mailbox the following day.
The next Friday, Sloan provided exactly what Deputy Brewster wanted.
The video showed her Escalade approaching normally.
Then, about two car lengths before reaching the trash can, the SUV changed direction.
Not much.
Maybe a foot.
But enough.
She steered toward the shoulder.
Her right front wheel hit the can squarely.
Then the Escalade corrected left and continued toward Millersburg.
I watched the clip four times.
Hazel watched once.
“Well,” she said. “That seems clear.”
I emailed the video to Deputy Brewster.
He filed the first formal incident report.
Then he contacted Sloan.
She claimed the trash can had been sitting in the road.
The video showed otherwise.
She claimed she had been unable to avoid it safely.
The video showed no other traffic.
She claimed it was an accident.
The previous crushed cans made that explanation difficult, but not impossible to argue.
The sheriff’s office kept the report open.
The following Friday, Sloan crushed another can.
I sent the video.
Then another.
I sent the video.
Some weeks she missed because my can had already been collected before she passed. Some weeks she apparently chose not to hit it.
But across the next eighteen months, she struck my cans twenty-three times.
Every incident happened on Friday morning.
Nearly every one occurred within a few minutes of 7:30.
Every one involved the same white Escalade.
Every one was captured on camera after I installed the system.
I replaced twelve cans.
Several of the later impacts damaged cans that had already survived previous strikes.
My complaint file grew thick enough that Deputy Brewster eventually brought it to my house in a folder with a rubber band around it.
He sat on the porch with me in February of 2024.
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