Somehow, I overlooked the fact that there wasn't a bookstore within an hour's distance of the town we moved to. After I read everything on our shelves, I started to go crazy.

I know, I could always buy my books online. I don't know, I just like touching a book before I buy it. New or used, I don't care. I just have to touch it!

I've been really lucky to find great books from second-hand stores, moving sales, garage sales, etc. I love the fact that most of them are out of print. It makes me feel like I'm keeping some sort of secret from the rest of the world.

Last night I curled up with an anthology published in 1987, titled More Stories by Canadian Women. It even has the sticker from the original bookstore it was purchased from (of course I googled the store to see if it's anywhere remotely close to my home--no results).

Maybe I'm a cornball, but I love the history of books. I like finding books that are signed from one family member to another--a holiday gift? A birthday present? Where did they come from before they hit the box on someone's lawn, only to be whisked away to my bedside?

One of the short stories featured in this specific anthology was written by Carol Shields, who unfortunately, lost her battle with breast cancer in 2003. "'Mrs. Turner Cutting the Grass" contained all of these rich-comedic scenes. It was fantastic!

Like Shields, I went through urban-to-rural migration. We're both from the United States and settled in the Canadian prairies. There's this feeling of wonder that comes from her writing. It was really obvious, to me anyway, that she packed these characters up in her brain and unleashed them into different landscapes.

"Mrs. Turner," the main character is this short story, represents the woman that every female is afraid of becoming. Ironically, we often wish her fate on ourselves aloud. There have been many times that I've said (aloud) "I wish I could turn my brain off," or "I wish I didn't care what people think of me." Rationality finally sets in and I realize that I don't want to revert to child-like naivety--I won't lie, sometimes rationality is a little delayed..

Not this leading character. This is how Mrs. Turner lives her life: Poisoning the ground with Killex while wearing shorts that reveal cellulite, she waves to the young girls that fear for their future. Mrs. Turner is your neighbor, your sister, your wife--a shadow of a young girl that once touched the surface of the world--content with just that.

In one way or another, we all represent Mrs. Turner. I just pictured myself, an American, shopping at a Canadian grocery store each week. I stand at the deli counter, with thumb and index finger extended saying, "can I have this much?" of a specific sandwich meat. For the life of me, I can not convert pounds into kilograms.

When I fill up my gas tank, I can not fathom how the Canadian gallon is larger than the American gallon. Do they not both hold four liters? No, the Canadian gallon is based on the imperial quart. Which makes the Canadian gallon one quart larger than the US gallon--or so I've been told. Just call me Mrs. Turner.

It's very rare that I read a poem or a short story written by a woman that makes me re-examine my role as a woman and a foreign citizen and think about how I'm perceived. I raised an ironic eyebrow last night--before I fell asleep with the book on my chest.