Laying in bed, just falling asleep, I heard the cats come out of the woods and start in on the guinea fowl.

Wildcats - or maybe bobcats, it’s hard to tell - make the most unholy, bone chilling sound you could imagine. Think of the damned souls of dozens of lost unbaptized children as portrayed in the scariest horror movie to come out of the 80’s. Then multiply it by ten and you have the sound these hellcats make late at night when they are stalking and killing.

I come from a big city where there’s a shooting every day or two. Yet I have no worries about hopping on the subway in the middle of the night, or scooting out to the 24hr drug store for a quart of milk. But these devil cats - they scare me.

Here kitty, kitty. ***shudder***

Sometime shortly after I would normally fall asleep, Beth came a-knocking at my door to wake me. It was time to get dressed and go to the Dole Institute of Politics at the University of Kansas. This morning they held a Town Hall event hosted by the local morning radio team, EJ & Ellen. The idea was to get a variety of opinions on the election and candidates. The group between 7-8 (that was us) were “average” voters (’cept for this lonely Canuck). The 8-9 group were students at KU (who mostly came for the free breakfast - hell, that’s why I went!).

Anyway, because it wasn’t to be just another day on the farm, I put on a dress, and slipped my swollen, broken foot into my Nine West butter-soft leather heels I got as a post Christmas gift when I went to Hawaii in January. I love those shoes, and rarely get an opportunity to wear them - black and broken toe be damned! As a testament to my unbelievably high tolerance for pain, I managed to walk despite a) broken toe, b) twisted ankle and c) only one cup of coffee. That last part was a bitch, seeing as it was still the middle of the night, as far as this girl was concerned.

The Dole Institute is absolutely beautiful, if slightly creepy in a mausoleum sort of way. I realize it bears the man’s name, but the shrine to Dole - and it really is a shrine - is a bit unnerving. The staff however are true gems of the Midwest. Some of the nicest people you will ever meet, including their top dog, Bill Lacy. Pundits may remember Bill from the Reagan/Bush Bush/Quayle years. I also got to meet one of the Deputy Directors of the Institute, Lawrence Bush (no relation). He’s a friend of John & Beth, and a really nice guy. Funny, too.

The first crowd - us grownups - was pretty even in terms of who they would voted for. There were three conservatives at our table, and three liberals. Somewhere in the room there was an “undecided” couple, which worries me - how can you still be undecided at this late stage of the game? Have you been under a rock for the last year of campaigning? Subjects covered included racism, ageism (misogyny was ignored) and leadership experience. Mostly though, there were commercials. This is why I hate listening to commercial radio (d’uh). There’s an ad break every 2.5 minutes. WTF? So we sat there for over an hour to have approximately 10 minutes of discussion about the election. For this I got up early, and wore the shoes. Jesus.

Anyhow, when the grownup segment ended, the working crowd left for their respective jobs. One of the libs from our table passed by and leaned down to make a rather creepy comment about my cleavage, while his wife stood next to him. I told him to behave and wished the wife a good day. Democrats - I’ll never figure ‘em.

Beth and I hung around for a while to hear what the future of America had to say for themselves. Ohmygod! America is doomed, with the exception of a few shining students (of both party persuasions) that talked about things like the future, and security, and health. The rest of these whiny brats living off their parents’ dime were focused on only one subject: Themselves. Who will do more for students? Who relates to me the best? Who uses the most technology (newsflash, kiddo: people who don’t work 9-5 in offices really don’t hang out on Facebook that much)? Who is younger and cooler? Doomed, I tell you. we had to leave before our heads exploded. We consoled ourselves in the fact that though students love to preach about a candidate, they rarely get out and vote.

Can I just say that Lawrence, Kansas is an adorable little college town? Love it. I hope we go back again soon. Though maybe I would be more comfortable and fit in better if I wear Birkenstocks.

If only we’d paid the extra hundred bucks and sprung for the puppy with a head!

I’m quite sure that if we had any neighbors out here at the farm, they would have heard the screaming. If there’s one thing I’m real good at, it’s screaming. My lungs - despite recurring pneumonia that began when I was a toddler living in the damp and dirty tenement slums of Montreal - are strong, and my voice is loud. I scared the chickens today.

Very much like my experience in January jumping out of a plane at 14,000 feet, today I faced my fears by learning something new. Keep in mind, though, that I come from a land of concrete. I moved from those dirty slum basement apartments to giant hi-rises overlooking the cities of Montreal and Toronto. Grass, to me, is something to be smoked, not mowed. And so today when I hopped on the zero-radius seated mower and began spinning in wild circles, I was petrified. Chickens and propane tanks made for effective slaloms. Hills and ditches had me moaning on the way up and shrieking on the way down. Beth was highly amused, even though it looks like her lawn was mowed by drunken circus monkeys (that’s not far off, really).

Those of you who have lived in the suburbs all your life are laughing right now, and with good reason. It was hilarious to watch, and I even found myself laughing, too. Mostly out of fear! Where I come from, trees have metal grates around the bottom of the trunk, allowing them to be watered through the sidewalks in which they grow. The word “park” generally means a paved space with a few benches and little shade. City people complain of hay fever without every having come into contact with actual hay. So to say that this morning’s wild circles and arcs were a bit scary is an understatement.

Next stop: The tractor!

I used to hate Sundays. Hated them with a passion. Any Sunday, any time of year, regardless of whether or not I had to get up the next morning.

Yet, here in the country, it just doesn’t seem to be an issue anymore. Sundays are just like any other day: Get up, drink coffee, do some chores, hang out. Make margaritas, go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. Sundays just don’t hurt anymore. I noticed that earlier in the evening, when I had to head into town for a few dinner-related groceries. I was halfway to town before I realized it was actually Sunday. And when I realized it, I didn’t even flinch.

Jogging along this morning, I was passed by a Ford Explorer with MOMS 4 PALIN written on the back window. Huzzah.

Check out my Chicken McNuggets!!

Blogs always get more hits if there’s pictures of cute chicks.

I tossed a coin last night… And I’m still in Kansas. Here I shall stay until further notice.

Despite his badass winter sweater, my beloved Chihuahua is no hero. The killing of the coyote yesterday was something he just wasn’t suited to. I’ll let John tell the hilarious tale of Argghhh’s own Killing Fields.

We’re about to see who is made of what, this evening.

Suddenly Gunner pops upright, peering intently at the brush north of the barn - a site of several avian murders. Coming to full alert, he takes off like a flash.

Kiki stands up, her bloodhound nose aquiver.

Bug? Well, Bug… vibrates.

Suddenly wild yipping and barking breaks out from the grass where Gunner sped. Kiki lets out a classic hound-like howl and bounds off into the brush.

Bug vibrates.

Defending his hens.

Damn coyotes. He may have been my arch nemesis, but ya gotta respect a dude who dies for his wimmins. RIP Rocky.

UPDATE! Thanks to John’s sharp eyes and cool head, the Acme company has one less coyote customer!! We will all sleep more soundly tonight…

Seven prisons and a nudist colony.

No, really.

While driving back from the county fair this evening, Robin (the fudge guru) told us about a road trip she had taken with the family that brought them to a place called Camp Gaea. Turns out, it’s a pagan nudist camp (needless to say, she and the fam turned right around). So she showed us the way this evening.

Camp Gaea. In rural Kansas. Good GAWD! Seven prisons and a nudist camp. Welcome to the Peyton Place of the Midwest.

There’s something weird in this rural Kansas sky. It’s not the same milky color as the one in Toronto. And there are all these bright white spots in it. They glow. The locals call them “stars”, as if there was a mini-Hollywood in the sky. Yeah right, like I’m gonna fall for that!

These white spots - they’re all over the sky. If the sky weren’t completely black, I’m sure we wouldn’t be able to see them. Silly things, what’s the point?

Next week is the Perseids meteor shower. The Donovan’s and I are will be in the hot tub, watching. Please, do not disturb.

Yes, I was afraid of the big one. Wouldn’t you be?

You shall quake in fear if ever you try to breach the bedroom of Argghhh! where you will find the sentinels alert at their post, sprawled on the bed together.

The black dog is Gunner, the feisty young pup. The pretty redhead is Kiki, who is my 80lb lapdog.

And Bug, my 8lb Chihuahua, bosses them both around!

Tonight was a true Middle America night. John and I stopped clinging to our guns and our Bibles long enough to drive to Kansas City to take in a T-bones baseball game. As we were driving, I noticed a Volvo in front of us. I pointed out to John that I had done an informal study, and Volvo drivers were the worst on the road. That’s why they buy suburban tanks. Sure enough, this driver did not disappoint, swerving all over the road, looking over at the person in the passenger seat, and riding his brakes. Finally we had a safe opportunity to pass him, and got away as fast as we could. Naturally, upon arriving at Community America Stadium, we discovered he was sitting with us. Shit luck.

Thanks to the Rotary Club, we were a large group in a box suite (read: free food and beer). Our hostess Shay Baker and I hit it off enormously, once we realized that we were both wearing “I’m Not Really A Waitress” OPI polish on our toes. (This chick is a year younger than I am, and look how much she’s accomplished. Man, I feel like a slug!) Yes, this is how women bond. She asked me what I did for a living up in Canada. I told her “I’m a right-wing extremist!” She said we were going to get along just fine.

The T-bones did not play well, but were very dramatic. Both the catcher and the manager were thrown out for fighting with the ump. It was a scene out of Bull Durham, for sure! In fact, the manager had to be escorted out by security, as he was really acting up. So while they may have lost the game, they certainly kept me entertained. I mentioned the free beer, right?

Have you seen my goats??

Two of our (yes, “our”) goats took off on Sunday when we were mucking the stalls (imagine this maven of pedicures mucking stalls!!). Today, they were located on a neighboring farm. And this City Girlâ„¢ actually went wrangling!

No, really. I wrestled the older of the two (John caught the baby). This is the coolest summer vacation I’ve ever taken!!

…that no one here at Argghhh! will ever come down with scurvy. The daily count of empty limeade bottles (the integral ingredient in margaritas) is always high. And we are sure not to dehydrate in the hot sun, given the amount of salt on the rims of our glasses.

So, dear readers, know that I am well looked after here at the Castle.

Being here in rural Kansas, America’s heartland, has stirred up a lot of emotions for me.

Childhood crap: 1) My mother’s home in the backwoods of New Brunswick. I was never close with her family, and did my best as I grew to distance myself from them. They shamed me, for reasons I still can’t make clear. The women shamed me the most - they were low and common. They had terrible taste in spouses. They made me feel dirty, just for being related to them. Yet, still I was drawn to the place. I’m sure that if the situation were different, family-wise, I would have spent a lot more time there. Perhaps I would even make my home there. I was drawn to the serenity, and to a calling from the soil itself - much like I was with my long lost Cottage. This farm, this expanse of nothing and no one, for mile upon mile, is what I sought in those backwoods. 2) As most of you know, I thought was American till I was 5 years old. My father burst that bubble on the day of Reagan’s inauguration, when he explained that Canada was not only not a State - it was a whole separate country! I have felt robbed of a birthright ever since.

The Heather Years: And the family that wasn’t really mine. I was treated like one of their own, right up until… I wasn’t. Some things can’t be forgiven I suppose. Nor forgotten, in my case. Grudges get held on all sides, and they create walls that can never be broken. Walls that will live on in history, like the one in China. Just a part of the landscape, visible on Google Earth. I see a lot of similarities here at Argghhh!, and I wonder if perhaps it’s a chance to do it right this time. Or maybe it’s just another broken heart on the distant horizon. I hope not. I’ve lost far too much family as it is. I’ve been orphaned on more than one occasion, as impossible as that may seem.

Path of Thorns: Once upon a time, some words were said. Some sentiments exchanged. And some promises got broken. Many of those promises revolved around this very place, here in the heartland. A great place to raise a family that will never exist. And as I pass the little roadside churches and see the families at the market, it strikes me once more how faith in another human being will always lead to disappointment - faith exists for God alone. Two days ago I sat in a restaurant, forcing myself to swallow the food that had become stuck in my throat as I watched a man in uniform escort his wife and daughter out of the establishment. Her curls - it hurt to look at them. It was all I could do not to cry in front of Beth, who insists I’ve already cried enough. I know she’s right. Instead the goats saw me cry! They probably won’t tell… I hope.

This place is bittersweet, as most things are that one puts one’s heart into. Life is an imperfect adventure. I am trying to live every joyful moment and every heartbreak to the very fullest. When my time here ends - both in Kansas and on earth - I will leave behind some great stories and many clever anecdotes. People will know I have been here. And maybe, they will remember that I cried a little, too.

Only two thirds of the way through my first coffee this morning, I was sent on an urgent door-to-door egg delivery mission. Oh well, I needed the walk. My muscles are sore and tight from yesterday, throwing and stacking nearly 100 bales of hay in the main barn near the house. The hay is done! Oh bliss!

I got up yesterday from a much needed afternoon siesta to find John in his John-sized chair, under a heap of kitties, playing with new guns that were delivered in the past few days. Usually, when a man comes home from work and sprawls in a chair with the cats, it’s to read the paper or maybe watch a little TV before dinner. Not John. Playing with the pistols is way cooler. So I sat and watched, getting the skinny on the differences and similarities between three pistols that to my untrained eye looked exactly the same. Methinks I will be well educated by the time I return to the People’s Republic of Torontistan.

Now, for all you blithering anti-gun types, let me put your tiny minds at ease. There are no children in this house. Just responsible adults. Guns are always locked away before people come to call, especially if they are bringing minors with them. Ok? Is that enough fine print for you?

Today is market day. Have I mentioned the fudge I discovered? This does not bode well for the 30-odd pounds I’ve lost in the past few months… There is a lady here in the area who makes goat milk fudge, which is softer and creamier than the regular stuff you are used to. For Kathy, Arnie, Meredith et al, I will be bringing some home with me at the end of August. For the rest of you, place your orders now! Anyway, I’m off to pick more blackberries (would those be African-American berries now? Or even Marion Barries?) for this afternoon’s market. We sold out last week!