Catherine David Buley v. Randy Kenyon

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not a story about solar panels. This is a story about trust, betrayal, and the moment when “Hey, neighbor, can you cover me?” turns into “See you in court, Randy.” Catherine David Buley didn’t just hand over a lawn mower or lend a cup of sugar—she forked over eighteen thousand dollars so her neighbor could go full eco-warrior with solar panels on his roof. And now, four years later, with nary a penny repaid, she’s not just sunburned—she’s done. Welcome to the Oklahoma version of Neighborhood Wars: The Lawsuit.

Catherine David Buley and Randy Kenyon aren’t business partners. They aren’t family. They’re just two people who live near each other in Pottawatomie County, where the deer are plentiful, the property taxes are manageable, and, apparently, $18,000 loans between neighbors are apparently a thing. We don’t know how long they’ve known each other, or whether they’ve shared sweet tea on the porch or complained about the same raccoons raiding their trash. But we do know this: at some point, Randy had a dream. A shiny, sun-powered dream. Solar panels. Clean energy. Lower bills. The whole “save the planet while saving money” fantasy that makes you feel like a genius every time the sun comes out. There’s just one problem—solar panels cost money. A lot of it. And apparently, Randy didn’t have $18,000 just lying around in his sock drawer. So instead of applying for a loan, or saving up, or maybe—just maybe—not going full Elon Musk on his ranch house, he did what any reasonable adult would do: he turned to his neighbor and said, “Hey, can you spot me?”

And Catherine said yes.

Let that sink in. Eighteen. Thousand. Dollars. That’s not “I’ll cover your groceries this week.” That’s not “Here’s a few bucks for the vet bill.” That’s a new car. That’s a down payment on a house in some parts of Oklahoma. That’s a lot of sweet tea. And according to the petition, this wasn’t some drunken backyard handshake deal. The filing says the “payor, amount, and purpose of the loan are clear and in writings clearly stated.” So somewhere, there’s a piece of paper—maybe a note, maybe a text, maybe a notarized scroll signed in blood—that says, “Randy Kenyon owes Catherine Buley $18,000 for solar panels.” We don’t know if it had interest. We don’t know if there was a repayment schedule. But we do know Randy promised to pay it back. And we know he didn’t. Not one dime. Not a single red cent. For over three years, radio silence. No partial payments. No “I’m sorry, times are tight.” No Venmo, no Cash App, not even a gift card to Home Depot as a peace offering.

Then, on September 1, 2024—because apparently Catherine had finally reached her limit—she made a formal demand for repayment. Not a casual “Hey Randy, when you gonna pay me?” text. This was official. This was legal. This was the “I’m bringing out the big guns” moment. And still? Crickets. Randy didn’t pay. Didn’t respond. Didn’t even send a solar-powered flashlight as a joke gift. So Catherine did what any self-respecting Oklahoma resident would do: she sued.

Now, legally speaking, this is a classic breach of agreement claim. That’s legalese for “you said you’d do a thing, and you didn’t.” It’s not fraud. It’s not theft. It’s not even a fancy contract dispute with 47 clauses about force majeure and indemnification. It’s simple: Catherine gave Randy money under the understanding that he’d pay it back. He didn’t. That’s the whole ballgame. The petition doesn’t say the agreement was in writing, but it does say the terms were “clear and in writings clearly stated,” which sounds like they might have a text thread, an email, or a handwritten IOU that would hold up in court. And since Oklahoma’s statute of limitations for written contracts is six years, and Catherine made her demand in September 2024, she’s well within her rights to sue—especially since the clock on that statute might start ticking from the date of demand, not the date of the loan. (Again, we’re entertainers, not lawyers, but that’s the implication here.)

So what does Catherine want? Eighteen thousand dollars. That’s it. No punitive damages. No emotional distress claims. No request that Randy be forced to power her house with his solar panels for a year as restitution. Just the money. And, sure, attorney fees and court costs—because if you’re going to sue your neighbor, you might as well try to get your legal bills covered too. Now, is $18,000 a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, it’s chump change. Celebrities sue each other for that much in parking disputes. But in the world of neighborly loans? It’s massive. This isn’t “I’ll cover your half of the fence.” This is “I’ll fund your green energy revolution.” And the fact that Catherine is willing to go to court over it tells you two things: one, she’s serious. And two, she probably really needs that money. Or really, really hates being strung along.

Now, let’s talk about what’s not in the filing. There’s no explanation for why Catherine loaned Randy this kind of cash. Was he down on his luck? Was she getting a cut of the energy savings? Was there some unspoken understanding that he’d mow her lawn for the next decade? We don’t know. We also don’t know if Randy has any defense. Maybe he planned to pay her back but lost his job. Maybe he thought the loan was a gift. Maybe he’s disputing the amount. Or maybe—just maybe—he’s sitting on his porch right now, sipping iced tea, powered by solar panels bought with someone else’s money, thinking, “Eh, she’ll get over it.” The petition doesn’t say. And that’s what makes this so delicious. It’s a mystery wrapped in a lawsuit, wrapped in a sun-powered irony.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t that someone loaned their neighbor $18,000. People do wild things for neighbors—especially in rural communities where trust runs deep and banks run far. No, the absurd part is that nobody thought to put this in a real, formal agreement. No repayment schedule. No interest. No consequences outlined. Just a promise. And in 2024, trusting a verbal (or vaguely written) promise for eighteen grand is less “good neighbor” and more “financially reckless.” Catherine took a huge risk. Randy took advantage of it—or at least failed to honor it. And now, instead of sharing solar energy, they’re sharing a courtroom.

Do we blame Randy? Absolutely. You don’t take life-changing money from someone and ghost them for years. That’s not just bad neighborly conduct—that’s bad human conduct. Do we side with Catherine? Also yes. She gave him a shot. She waited. She made a formal demand. She followed the rules. Now she wants her money. And if the court agrees, Randy might soon find out that his solar panels came with a very dark cloud: a judgment lien.

At the end of the day, this case isn’t just about money. It’s about what happens when the lines between friendship and finance get blurred. When “I’ll pay you back” becomes “see you in court.” And when the sun shines down on your new solar array, but the shadow of a lawsuit looms large. So here’s hoping Randy pays up. Or at least offers to power Catherine’s house for free until the debt’s cleared. A little sunlight, a little justice—now that’s renewable energy we can get behind.