Good fences make good neighbors, the old adage goes, but surely flowers along fence lines are among the prettiest sights.

Two years ago I wrote a Gazette column about the boxes in my basement — or to be more precise (and pathetic), the boxes in our basements.

Every year I say the same thing to my husband, “I’d love to take a vacation . . . on Martha’s Vineyard.”

I’ve got last day blues. They are as blue as the waves crashing on Squibnocket when I flash my beach pass for the last time.

I was dreaming away on our back deck in Menemsha when the first drops arched over the railing.

Walking into my first college class at the age of 38 I should have known my world was about to expand.