The siege lasted two weeks.
A trailer full of equipment sat in our driveway preventing access to our garage, so we parked on Hartland Avenue and came and went by the back door instead of the front. A small dump truck sat on the lawn perilously close to our year-old pear tree in its coat of blossoms, inflicting certain daily concerns upon me. And a half dozen men with various implements of destruction clambered up and down ladders and swarmed about the roof from not long after daylight until dusk, and occasionally later. We focused our yard work on areas furthest from the house.
Amidst the clatter of heavy feet and prying equipment the old shingles dropped into the yard in mangled chunks. New plywood appeared covering the old oak boards and their gaps and holes. Finally the thump of staplers and nail guns announced the arrival of new shingles, followed by new gutters and downspouts. Then the men raked the remaining debris from the yard, picked up stray nails with a rolling magnet, and drove away with the trailer.
And then there was silence.
We ventured once again onto our patio, rehung the bird feeders, and Dirty Cat resumed her meditations in the company of the Buddha.
Now it is several days later. We have moved the car to the garage and again use the front door. The cats come and go as they please. We have planted the vegetable garden.