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And so after almost two years of nomadic living out of storage boxes, we find ourselves walking our new neighborhood at dusk. It's quite a view.

Plague of moths

Such a treat on moving day: thousands and thousands of moths, inside and out.

It's like camping: only flashlights allowed in the bathrooms and bedrooms after dusk. The battle rages on.

Happy 44th!

After a long day of packing and errands and farm work, there was ice cream and candles thanks to some very good friends.

Moving day tomorrow.

Chili peppers

This week we're packing up the rental house. No, we still don't have a due date for the new house, but we have to be out of the rental house by the end of the month. So spit spot, as Mary Poppins would say.

It's a pretty hilarious task given that we're both on light duty. Nathan chewed up his shoulder wrestling heavy farm equipment and I'm 32 weeks pregnant. Lame and lamer, as I like to say.

While we're in cardboard and packing tape purgatory, I thought you might like a current glimpse at the chili pepper field. I know we haven't chatted much about this year's chili crop. (We've had a few other things on our plate I suppose.) We planted three varieties of peppers: Big Jim, Sandia, and Barker Hot, as well as an acre of jalapenos. 

You'll notice our rows of germinating chili seeds are interrupted by bands of rye. This was done purposefully to help protect the peppers from our mighty winds. 

Grow chili's grow.

Isn't she lovely

Second leaf stretching its tendrils.

The floor

We spent all weekend trying to finish the floors: cleaning, face nailing, sanding multiple times, a quick two-hour trip to Home Depot for more supplies, cleaning again and sealing. 

Nathan tells me that home improvement (like, say, laying and finishing one's own floor), is for men what childbirth is for women. They forget all the pain and exhaustion once it's over and are excited to do it again. And then that new project begins and suddenly they remember just how exhausting it is.

Today we're both really glad our little house is just that: little.

Lavender

I read a story years ago about a valley of blossoming flowers that draws hundreds of visitors each spring. At the mouth of this valley there is a sign that says something like this:

In answer to your questions . . .

1. One woman

2. Thirty years

In thirty years one woman was able to transform a valley of grass and weeds into an explosive floral wonder. As I look at our 640 acres and mull over how in the world to transform all that land into the beautiful place it can be, I think of her story. One woman. Thirty years.

We started planting lavender this year on the sand dunes. Eight people. Year one. 

It's a small start, but it's still a start.