The Fourth was, as it often is, a relief. In the midst of a heat wave, when your husband is a day laborer who's been framing a house in full sun, the chance to watch him not get up on a weekday and slog off to work is a vacation in itself. We spent the day idling: a little desultory watering and harvesting; a load of laundry on the lines; a few dishes. A sweet drop-in visit from friends. A midday amble to the bar down the street, where we drank a beer in air-conditioned comfort and played a few games of cribbage. An afternoon nap, and chicken salad for dinner, and then a walk down to the cove to watch the fireworks.

Roses are in bloom now: red and white, just like the fairy tale. The bushes were in bad shape when we bought this place--packed with dead canes; tangled with weeds--and I had to cut them back radically. They survived the ordeal but didn't have the strength to bloom at all last year, so I had no idea what color they might be. It turns out that they are beautiful--especially the reds, which are deep and velvety, though the white rugosa has the sweeter scent. Lilies are also beginning to bloom, and nasturtiums, and fat pink gerbera daisies. The sunflowers and cosmos are budding; the scarlet runners are climbing. Tomatillos are forming on the vines, and they look like tiny Chinese lanterns. We've been eating fresh peas every day since I returned from Franconia, and today I may pick our first green beans.

Yesterday was the second anniversary of the Signing of the House Contract. I would never remember that date if it weren't also on the Fourth, and I know we spent the day feeling shell-shocked and worried, and also distracted by the fact that there was a giant all-city holiday party taking place outside our apartment windows.

In some way it feels as if we've owned this place for more than two years. But no. Everything is still new.