I have always prided myself on my eye for garden design. As the owner of multiple Victorians, landscaping with an eye to the classic cottage garden is pretty much de rigueur. I love old roses with hollyhocks, iris in the spring under-planted with candytuft, and a profusion of color all season long from cosmos, zinnias, salvia and a host of other flowers. When I turn 60, I plan to don an ill-fitting flower print dress and a floppy gardening hat and I will retire to the front porch of my house with a mint julep in one hand and a shotgun in the other as all Southern women of a certain age are constitutionally required to do.
Our old house when the garden was still young
Over the years we were there, our garden grew into something that people made a point to drive and walk by to see what was in bloom. It was a destination.
Spring getting started
The roses bloomed and the flowers lasted all season from very late February until some years past Thanksgiving.
Old roses and iris
My plans for the garden grew with each year until inevitably, I ran out of space.
Roses in their full glory
The flowers spilled out onto the sidewalk and would not be contained.
Screaming hooker pink roses tumbling over the picket fence
Of course, it could never last. The time came when we sold the house to move to a bigger one down the street. I knew that the dismantling would occur, although the owners swore to love the garden with all the care I had given it. Inevitably, change came. I forgave them for their lack of awareness that one does not paint a Queen Anne baby shit brown. When they added the monstrosity of an addition to the back which culled the garden in the back, I understood.
But today, my friends, was too much.
The entirety of the garden was dug up and replaced with $8.99 a gallon juniper shrubs planted precisely twelve inches apart by their soul-less hack of a landscaper. Juniper? I weep for the inhumanity.
I sold my house to a pack of Philistines.
The horror, the horror.