What a week! Finally, the end of the war in Iraq and the 42-year reign of Muammar el-Qaddafi. For me, last week’s editor’s note about me down with the flu was a small part of the story. Yes, I did have the fever and chills but the big deal was a back injury which kept me in bed for four days. It seems I was careless the previous Saturday during the annual dispatching of our pigs. I will spare the tender-hearted of you with the gory details.

At any rate, big kudos to Keith Maranchie, chiropractor par excellence. I hobbled over to his office twice daily. I have a whole new respect for people who live in chronic pain, need crutches or wheelchairs and must depend on the kindnesses of friends and family. Hopefully, as I go about my happy, busy life I will remember this humbling experience.

Finally, on Saturday I made it into the garden. A lot can happen in a week. The fall crops look fabulous. The zinnias, cockscomb and morning glories are striking in the autumn light. I still have tons of peppers. The tomatoes are no longer great but the Matt’s Wild Cherry variety is at the top of its game. It is worth the price of the seed packet and then some. It will reseed reliably every year so a one-time purchase is enough. They barely make it into the house as they are irresistible when picking.

I had planted some tatsoi about a month ago. For some reason it bolted at about two inches tall. The bright yellow flowers, besides being awash with honeybees, are simply delicious and a colorful addition to a salad. Any of the cole flowers are edible and tasty.

I am interested in saving seeds but never seem to get around to it. This year I’m leaving some favorites — brussels sprouts, collards, kale and kohlrabi until next year. They will flower and seed themselves. My job will be recognizing the seedlings next late spring. All modesty aside, I’m good at baby plant identification. It is always good to know one’s assets and liabilities.

Thanks to Cassie Plapinger. She dropped off a great read, The Brother Gardeners Botany, Empire and the Birth of an Obsession by Andrea Wulf. How serendipitous, as I was trapped in bed. It is a history of English and American gardening. There was one fascinating entry which I cannot remove from my brain. Rich Englishmen used hundreds of leg bones from oxen and horses for the edging of their beds. They were driven deep into the ground with the knuckles visible. Sure beats the bright green plastic from Home Depot.

It’s been a year this week since the death of my father. Last summer I came across a letter to the editor of The New York Times. I clipped and saved it. It was from a Sharon Mast of the Bronx, dated June 19, 2011. I would like to quote it in its entirety as it speaks to the life of my dad, Gordon Irons.

My Reliable Dad.

“I cried as I read Remembrances of My Father, by Charles M. Blow (column, June 18), not because life with my father was similar, but because my father’s unremarkable life yielded a fatherhood so profoundly different.

“My father, who died last month and would have been 91 this week, worked as a civil servant for 30 years. His presence at the front door at 5:30 each evening, like his paycheck, was utterly reliable; while he was preoccupied with his job and did not openly express his feeling or an appreciation for life until his later years, his very constancy cannot be overlooked as the major contribution to his family and to his children’s sense of themselves and the world.

On Father’s Day, it is humbling to recognize how precious that ordinariness and reliability can be, and how many children struggle and soldier on without it.”