Throwaway because this is still ongoing and small-town gossip travels fast. I’m Nathan Brooks, 42M, living in Burlington, Vermont. We bought our house here eight years ago—classic New England two-story with a decent-sized driveway, attached garage, and a nice flat yard that backs up to a wooded lot. It’s the kind of place you dream about when you’re tired of city apartments. My wife Tara (40F) and our two kids (13M and 10F) love it. We shovel, salt, clear the cars, the usual winter routine.
Our neighbor to the right, Greg Harlan (mid-50sM), moved in about three years ago. Single, works some kind of IT job from home, keeps to himself mostly. At first he seemed fine—waved hello, didn’t blast music, took his trash out on time. But when the first real snow hit that winter, things changed.
Vermont winters are no joke. We get heavy, wet lake-effect snow off Champlain, sometimes 12–18 inches in a single storm. Shoveling is a workout. Greg has a long, narrow driveway that slopes slightly toward the street, and his garage is at the back. Clearing it properly means moving a lot of snow to the sides or the front apron.
Instead of piling it on his own lawn or using a blower to send it into the street (legal here as long as you don’t block sidewalks), Greg started shoveling his entire driveway—every flake—straight onto our shared property line and then pushing it all onto our driveway and front yard. Not just a little spillover. Deliberate, repeated dumps. He’d finish his side, walk over, and use his wide metal shovel to transfer piles directly onto ours, sometimes even onto our walkway and steps.
The first time it happened I went out and said, “Hey man, mind keeping your snow on your side? It’s making it double work for us.” He gave me a tight smile and said, “Sorry, my blower’s broken and I’ve got a bad back. Figured we’re neighbors, right?” I let it slide once. Politely.
It kept happening. Every storm. By mid-January our driveway looked like a snow dump site—huge mounds blocking the cars, ice forming under the weight, kids slipping trying to get to the school bus. I had to wake up at 5 a.m. to clear enough space so Tara could get to her nursing shift. Greg’s driveway? Spotless. Clean lines, bare asphalt, like he’d never seen snow.
I tried talking again. Knocked on his door one Saturday after another dump. He opened it halfway, wearing headphones. I said, “Greg, seriously, the snow on our side is becoming a hazard. Can you please stop pushing it over?” He shrugged. “I’m just trying to keep my insurance happy. They say clear access to the garage. Not my fault your driveway’s lower.” Then he closed the door.
I called the city non-emergency line. They said snow placement between private properties is a civil matter unless it blocks a public sidewalk or road. No violation. I checked HOA rules—none, we don’t have one. I even offered to help him buy a new snowblower or split the cost of a plow service. He never responded to the text.
By February I was furious. Our front yard had a ridge of ice four feet high along the property line. The kids couldn’t sled there anymore. Tara twisted her ankle slipping on black ice I hadn’t seen under his dumped snow. I decided enough was enough.
I’m not proud of the petty side of me, but I’m also not sorry.
First, I documented everything. Photos with timestamps, videos of him actively shoveling onto our side, measurements showing the snow pile encroaching 8–10 feet onto our property. I kept a log: date, storm amount, how much he moved over. I even borrowed a friend’s drone and got overhead shots showing the imbalance—his driveway pristine, ours buried.
Then I went passive-aggressive engineering.
Our property line is marked by a low wooden fence, about three feet high, with a gate we never use. The ground slopes very slightly downward from his driveway toward ours—maybe a 2% grade. Perfect.
I bought several rolls of heavy-duty plastic sheeting (the thick 6-mil kind contractors use), landscape stakes, and a roll of bright orange caution tape. Late one night after a 10-inch storm—when Greg had already gone inside—I went out in the dark and lined the entire property-line fence on our side with the plastic, staking it tight to the ground and folding it up over the top rail like a giant snow-catching apron. I secured it every foot so it wouldn’t blow away. Then I ran orange tape across the top with “NO DUMPING – PRIVATE PROPERTY” written in Sharpie every few feet.
Next morning he came out, saw it, and just stared. Shook his head, went back inside. That night he shoveled again—pushed a huge load right up against the plastic. It slid right back onto his own driveway because of the angle and the slick surface. He tried again. Same result. He got frustrated, started stabbing at it with the shovel. Plastic held. He gave up, left the pile on his side, and stomped back in.
I thought that might be the end. Nope.
Two storms later he escalated. He bought a gas-powered snowblower—the loud two-stage kind. Fired it up at 7 a.m. on a Sunday (when our kids were still sleeping), aimed the chute directly over the fence, and blasted snow across like a cannon. The plastic caught most of it and sent it sliding back, but some blew over the top and dusted our cars. He kept going for twenty minutes, engine roaring. Neighbors started coming out to watch.
I walked over in my robe and slippers, stood at the fence line, arms crossed. He shut off the blower.
“Morning, Greg.”
He wiped sweat. “Your plastic thing is blocking me.”
“It’s on my property. You’re welcome to keep your snow on yours.”
He glared. “This is ridiculous. I’m just trying to clear my driveway.”
“So am I. Difference is, I’m not dumping mine on you.”
He muttered something about “uptight city people” (I’ve lived here longer than him) and went inside. Blower stayed off the rest of the day.
But he wasn’t done.
Next storm—big nor’easter, 20+ inches—he waited until midnight. I heard the blower start up, looked out, and saw him in full gear with a headlamp, deliberately piling snow high against the plastic barrier, then using a rake to try to pull it over the top. When that didn’t work, he started throwing shovelfuls over by hand. Some landed in our yard, some on the plastic, which sagged but held.
I called the non-emergency line again—this time for noise ordinance violation after 11 p.m. A cop showed up twenty minutes later. Greg shut off the blower when the cruiser pulled up. Officer talked to both of us. Greg claimed “equipment malfunction” and “necessary clearing for medical access” (he has no medical condition I know of). Officer looked at the plastic, the orange tape, my photos, and told Greg snow disputes are civil but operating loud equipment after hours could earn a citation. Greg got a warning. Cop left.
The next morning I added a second layer of plastic and zip-tied a 2×4 along the top rail to reinforce it. Also put up a cheap security camera pointed at the fence line (visible, with a sign: “Smile! You’re on camera”).
That camera caught everything next.
Two weeks later another storm. Greg came out at 2 a.m., blower roaring again. This time he tried something new: he scooped snow into big contractor bags, carried them around the block, and dumped them on the public sidewalk in front of an empty lot—illegal dumping on city property. The camera got clear footage: him in his red parka, face visible under the streetlight, bag after bag.
I sent the clip (with time stamps) to the city public works department, copied the police, and attached my snow log. Public works responded within two days: they fined him $250 for illegal dumping and warned that repeat offenses could mean towing his vehicle if found blocking access.
Greg got quiet after that.
But the real lesson came in March.
We had a freak warm spell—temps hit 45°F for three days straight. All the snow melted fast. Greg’s driveway drained poorly because he’d never bothered to clear the piles he’d left on his own side after the plastic blocked him. The meltwater pooled, froze at night, and turned his entire driveway into a solid sheet of ice. On the fourth morning he came out, slipped hard on the black ice near his garage, fell backward, and cracked his elbow. I heard the yell from inside our house.
An ambulance came. He was out of work for weeks—arm in a sling, couldn’t type. Neighbors whispered he’d been complaining about “that damn neighbor with the plastic” to anyone who’d listen.
When he got home from the ER, he knocked on our door—first time he’d ever come over voluntarily. Tara answered. He stood there looking smaller than usual.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about the snow. I was being a dick. I’ll stop. Can you… take down the plastic? And maybe delete the camera stuff?”
I came to the door. “I’ll take down the plastic when the season’s over and the ground thaws. The footage is backed up. If you dump again, it goes to the city and your insurance company. Deal?”
He nodded, shoulders slumped. “Deal.”
He’s kept his snow on his side ever since. Even bought a quieter electric blower. Waves awkwardly when we pass. Last week he actually shoveled our walkway after a small storm while we were out—left a note saying “Figured I owed you one.”
I’m not ready to be friends. But the driveway stays clear, the kids can play in the yard again, and Tara doesn’t have to wake up at dawn cursing anymore.
Sometimes the best revenge isn’t loud. It’s just making sure the consequences stay on the right side of the fence.
