I had a water crisis last week. The well at my big garden failed for over a week. Believe me, there was some serious whining. Naturally it was the first week with no rain in quite a while.

I, once again, became incredibly grateful for access to clean water. I thought about the millions of people in the world for whom this is not a constant reality. Now that I’m back up and running again I vow to never take it for granted.

During the drought, my peas dried up. I made a trial picking and pulled them up. I think I will replant the area with cucumbers so they can take advantage of the trellis.

My first planting of cukes is beginning to produce. I picked two on Monday. I checked them on Saturday morning and they were a mere two inches. Same is true for zucchini. I swear they grow several inches in a day.

The fava beans are fat and ready for harvesting. Hopefully I’ll pull them up as I pick and replant the area with some fall carrots.

I never got around to turning over my winter rye. Son Reuben moved it down when it was nearly thigh high. I threw some dirt on top of the stubble and finally transplanted my leeks. They had been trapped in the seed tray for a month too long. Free at last!

I ran into Jeanna Sternback at the Scottish Bakehouse recently. We were pleased to see all the flowers strewn on the porch. It was entirely weddingesque. For some reason neither of us could recall the tree species dropping those flowers. It annoyed me for a few days until I went into the memory bank. (There have been too many withdrawals and the account was fairly empty.) At any rate, it finally came to me—catalpa. It’s a beauty, hanging over the entrance to the Bakehouse.

While sitting in traffic daily at the four-way intersection at the bottom of the Edgartown road I’ve been admiring the enormous rambling rose bush on the corner lot. There seem to be both light and dark pink blossoms. The purple rose next to it has gone by but it also was admirable.

I replaced my clothes pins recently. Unlike my mother, I leave them clipped to the line when not in use. She brought them inside every time in a little bag that looked like a dress. Anyway, mine needed replacing. The packaging was so over-the-top that it required a knife to get at the pins. The hard plastic cut my hand. I was wondering about the purpose of this marketing practice. The irony that I am hanging my laundry to save energy and the materials used in packaging are needlessly thrown away. Same is true for children’s toys. Guess they make them child-proof!

Here it is Tuesday, the Fourth of July. There are quite a few pick-up trucks sporting giant American flags. I’m not particularly fond of it. When I was growing up in Rew, Penn. we lived right next door to my maternal grandparents, Nonnie and Popop. Popop took charge of the town memorial rock. It had the names of townspeople who fought in WWI and WWII. Every morning at dawn he took the flag over and hoisted it up the flag pole. Then at dusk, he tasked my brother and me to take it down. He said it was disrespectful to leave it up at night. Also, we were never allowed to let it touch the ground. We folded it nightly into the classic triangle with only the stars showing. He impressed on us the sacred honor of the little ceremony.

After 9/11, flags were everywhere—nailed to trees and porches and along roadsides having fallen off vehicles. Who knows where I’m going with this? Maybe I should eat a hot dog and call it a day.