"Siding" with the Enemy - A tale of Contractors and Casualties

There is a particular kind of heartbreak reserved for gardeners. Not the catastrophic kind tied to life’s great tragedies, but the quieter, deeply personal ache that comes when something you nurtured with patience, care, and ridiculous optimism gets flattened in about seven seconds by someone carrying a rake and a “we’ll clean it up later” attitude.

I still have much to learn about planting, weeding, gardening, thinning plants, and the mysterious science behind better fruit and vegetable production. Every year feels like Gardening 101 with a side course in humility. This spring, though, I approached things differently. Slow and steady. Less chaotic optimism, more intentional preparation.

I prepped the land. Cleared the plots. Brought last year’s perennials back from their winter slumber like some exhausted suburban druid wandering the yard with coffee and hope. I had some hearty mums that were absolutely drop-dead gorgeous last fall. The kind that made you stop and admire them every single time you walked past. I split hostas and replanted them all over our little patches of earth like I actually knew what I was doing.

And honestly? Things were looking good.

Then came “Project: Make the House Stop Falling Apart.”

This week we finally had long-overdue work done on the property: central air, new gutters, siding, roofing. Necessary adult homeowner things. The kind of projects that make your wallet cry softly in the corner while contractors appear at dawn carrying ladders and caffeinated beverages the size of toddlers.

Now, to be fair, the crews worked hard. They transformed the house. But when all the dust settled, the tarps came down, and every loose nail within a three-mile radius had been hunted down with giant rolling magnets, I walked out to survey the garden.

Massacre.

Plants I had babied for months were smashed, snapped, uprooted, stepped on, or apparently declared casualties of war. The mums? Gone. Removed with rakes like botanical inconveniences. Hostas flattened like they owed somebody money.

I was devastated.

And yes, I know. They’re “just plants.” But gardeners understand. You invest more than money into a garden. You invest anticipation. Quiet mornings. Hope. Therapy. Tiny conversations with yourself while pulling weeds. You picture what things will look like in July while standing in cold April mud.

A garden becomes proof that growth is possible.

So now I’m standing in the aftermath trying to find the lesson in all of this because life apparently insists on teaching them whether we enroll in the course or not.

Maybe the lesson is that gardens — much like people — are more resilient than they first appear. Hostas have a reputation for surviving almost anything short of direct nuclear impact. There’s still a chance they come back stronger and fuller.

Maybe the lesson is accepting that progress sometimes leaves collateral damage behind. The house needed repair. The work mattered. Life improvements are messy.

Or maybe — and this feels the most honest today — disappointment clouds every silver lining at first.

Right now, I’m still in the “but…” stage.

But I worked so hard.
But they were beautiful.
But I was proud of them.
But I wasn’t done yet.

Gardeners, however, are stubborn people. We replant. We divide. We water. We try again. Even after late frosts, rabbits, squirrels, hailstorms, and apparently roofing crews armed with landscaping equipment.

So tomorrow or the next day, I’ll probably wander back outside with gloves, a shovel, and unreasonable optimism once again.

Because that’s what gardeners do.