A dispatch from the frozen North

I am in Yates Center, Kansas, maybe 650 miles north of **Adrift. The wind is blowing cold, it's maybe in the low Fifties, and people are wearing actual, real coats to be outside. I received a first-gator report from herself back down south.
I am in the severalth day of trying to make some things happen on Rancho San Fulano, the summer White House, the dacha, the doomstead. Things happen slowly in farm country, as people are gaited to Nature's own rhythms, which run more to 'when the grass greens up' or 'when the water goes down' than to '2 Tuesday afternoon.'
It's very pretty up here, with nice flowers ... some amazing irises. These people enjoy a just reputation as neat and tidy. They are also beautifully civil and courteous. One refreshing note: When you say 'Thank you,' you get back 'You're welcome' instead of the somehow annoying 'No problem.'
Employment is dire, with no big enterprises to spread money around. Seems like most men work a piddling job and two more scuffles, on the order of scrapping or selling firewood or doing catch work. About the second largest job category I encounter is being on disability, which doesn't pay much but is steady and reliable. I hope to leave with the assurance that things will go forward and that I will be able to come up next time and find the place habitable.