An American in Winterbourne

 My old buddy S.A. Baker, possibly Canada's finest author of creeptastic fiction, has a deep spot in his literary heart for the town of Winterbourne, Ontario. Read his books and you'll find out why!

If you've been following along on the home version, you're familiar with some of my own writing. Well, last night turned into a mini marathon of scribbling! I fell asleep on the couch for a few hours, woke up, knocked out the final story for a collection I've been working on - watched some TV - but couldn't sleep. The brain was still in writing mode! So, I wrote this little piece for my buddy up north!

Don't worry Sidney, I ain't horning in on your territory! We'll just call this either a tip O the hat OR a bit of literary jagoffery! Enjoy!

I drink too much coffee. I know this, my wife knows this, and my doctor frequently reminds me that he too knows this. I haven't 'partied' in years, hell I can't remember the last time I had a beer...so, coffee it is. I don't travel without my oversized 'sippy cup', as my wife likes to call it. Say what you will, but it keeps my coffee hot for hours - not that it usually lasts that long.

Being self-employed, I can pretty much work when I want to. If I feel like taking some time off, I do. The downside is the wife works for a company that builds components for computers and rockets. She jokes that she builds robots that build other robots. This means she works a lot of long hours, so when I get a wild hair up my keister and decide to take a road trip, it's usually a solo run.

I'm OK with this. As a writer, it gives me time alone with my thoughts - however morbid they might be. I find inspiration in the least likely of places. A bit of graffiti, an overheard conversation at a gas station, a story shared by a waitress at a diner - all ripe for the picking. 

Life in the States has become woeful in recent years. Decades of believing our own marketing has left the nation reeling with surprise that maybe, just maybe, we're not the "best country in the nation". Having always been a restless sort, I've been all over the globe. I tried to move to Australia 25 years ago. Even then, I was met with the reality that while Oz was thrilled to have us 'seppos' visit, we usually weren't high on the list of wanted immigrants. We're "too loud, too opinionated" and surprisingly, viewed as "too violent". This from a country born of relocated convicts! 

I've been all over the UK, different parts of Europe, and of course Mexico and Canada. I have a few good, old friends in Canada. From my home in Pittsburgh, it's also within reasonable driving distance. In the time it would take me to drive west, into and across Ohio and into either Indiana or Kentucky, I can just drive due north and be in Ontario. I remember the 'good ol' days' when we didn't even need a passport. A driver's license or state ID would suffice. But, the current regime hasn't been exactly neighborly with our neighbors, so I had to renew my passport. Costs a helluva lot more than it used to...but that's the truth with everything these days.

I needed to get out of the States for a while. I wanted the wife to come with me, but she'd just started work on a new project and really couldn't justify the time away from work. 

"Go ahead, have some fun! Go see Marco or Sidney, have a good time, and maybe work on some story ideas!" God, I lucked out with her. She's not only beautiful, she's supportive. So, I started making plans to head north for a week. Early spring maybe isn't the best time to head to the Great White North, but like I said, I needed to get away. I called my friends to give them the heads-up that I was northbound and would see them soon. As usual, no concrete plans. Just get there, and let come what may. 

My old buddy Marco lives up near Thunder Bay, but he's on the road a lot for work. He said we could easily meet up somewhere near Kitchener or Waterloo. This was perfect as Sidney lives in Kitchener. Ain't none of us young bucks anymore, but I figured we could still get out and have some fun and still be in bed by a reasonable hour. Jeez, aging sucks. 

Canada has always been hit or miss with me. It's a beautiful country in its own way, with some of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. But, I always seem to run into the guy or gal from Quebec who has a chip on their shoulder. They give me hell for not being able to speak French. In fact, I do 'parlez vous a bit of the Francais' but the reality is I only speak 'un peu'. In the greater Pittsburgh area (as well as damned near anywhere else in the States) it's not really necessary. My attempts at Spanglish are just as pitiful, but at least the Guatemalan gals I used to work with didn't yell at me about it. They thought it was hilarious. But, Canada was the current goal and I was keeping my fingers crossed to not run into any cranky Quebecois. If I did, I'd just do as my grandmother always suggested - smile and nod. It's always worked before, no reason to think it wouldn't now.

Off I went, up I79 to I90 and 5 hours later I was stopping for gas near Niagara Falls. The wife and I had been here a few times. When I was younger, friends and I would drive up, cross the border and hit the casinos. Niagara looks more run-down than it used to, but I've heard the pandemic was hard on the town. I gassed up, refilled my sippy cup and made my way across the border without incident. 

GPS time! One of the problems I've always had with Canada is that it's just so damned flat compared with what I'm used to. Makes it hard to get my bearings. Thank God for Google Maps. It looked like all I had to do was get on 401W and I'd be there in an hour or so. Don't ask me how, but I managed to get lost. My GPS was acting up and sucked the life out of my phone's battery, so I was having to wing it. I figured if I could find a gas station or a Tim Horton's, someone would give me directions. Hell, as polite as most Canadians are, they'd probably offer to show me the way personally. I stopped at a service station in St. Jacobs and the old guy there about talked my ear off. 

He looked up from the counter as I came in.

“From the States, eh? What brings you up this way?”

I explained about the GPS going sideways and how I’d managed to get myself turned around.

“Ahh, that’ll do it. Happens more than you’d think.” He nodded toward my plate. “Whereabouts you from?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh, eh? Steelers country.” He smiled. “My boy’s right into your American football. Says your lot’s usually pretty decent.”

I shrugged. “We’ve had our moments. Got a halfway respectable hockey team too.”

He gave a quiet little huff.

“Well now...we might have to have a chat about that.” He leaned on the counter like he had nowhere else to be. “Hockey’s not just a sport up here. It’s...sort of the way things are.”

He proceeded to give me the Coles Notes version of Canadian hockey history, including at least one personal grievance involving the Stanley Cup.

Before I left, he topped off my sippy cup without asking.

“If you’ve got a bit of time,” he said, scribbling directions on the back of a receipt, “you might take a run up to Winterbourne. Real pretty up there. Right along the river. Quiet.”

He let that last word hang there a second too long.

“Beauty of a day for it.”

I thanked him and agreed that maybe I would check out Winterbourne. Remember, I'm a writer. A little country town just might inspire my next novel. You never know. Besides, it was only a 10 or so minute drive, and the old guy really seemed to think it was worth checking out. Even in Canada, you don't get that sort of marketing for small towns!

Winterbourne, ON reminded me, in a few ways, of parts of northeast Ohio. Small, rural, corn fields, a river...FLATNESS. But there was something else. Something intangible. The air had an uneasy quality to it. Not pollution, more like an invisible warning sign. DO NOT ENTER. With the vibes I was getting, I wouldn't have been surprised to see a hand-painted sign that read ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER. 

What the hell was wrong with me? It was just a small town. I'd been in literally hundreds, if not thousands, of them in my lifetime. I'd lived in a few. They were no different than anywhere else, just smaller and with fewer people. Somehow, I kept looping back into West Montrose - another little town. It almost felt like Winterbourne was trying, somehow, to keep me out! This not only annoyed me, but steeled my resolve to see Winterbourne and whatever it had to offer. Maybe Winterbourne itself was just that tiny. I didn't know the area...I had to keep reminding myself of that. 

Finally, I saw a young boy of around 8 or 10 walking along the roadside. I rolled down the window.

“Hey there. You know how to get to the river in Winterbourne?”

He looked at me like I’d just asked him how to breathe.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“Nope.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something important.

“Take that road till it bends. Don’t turn off. You’ll see it.”

I thanked him.

He started walking again, then stopped.

“Dad always says, ‘Long as you can find the river, you can find your way home.’”

“Sounds about right.”

I checked my mirror out of habit.

The road behind me was empty.

Just fields. Wind. Nothing else.

I got into Winterbourne. The sign read WINTERBOURNE - DRIVE LIKE YOUR CHILDREN LIVE HERE. Stern, but at least it wasn't preachy. As I drove around, it looked like any other small, country town. Some nice houses, some not as nice. The old cemetery looked more sparse than I would have guessed but again, I just couldn't shake the uneasy feeling. The place was really giving me the creeps. 

I hardly saw any people, or animals for that matter. Maybe that's what was weirding me out. It was a sunny day. It should have been a lovely time, just sightseeing. By the time I made my way to the bridge, I just wanted out. I saw a lady standing on the bridge. She stared in my direction. I blinked. The bridge was empty. I had to get the hell out of there!

I hightailed it out of there. I got on 23 and I finally made it to Kitchener, found a hotel, plugged in my phone, and called Sidney.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Well look at that. You made it.”

“Barely.”

“So. You want proper home cooking, or you off chasing ‘authentic’ poutine?”

I laughed. “Man, I’m gonna lie down awhile. It’s been a weird day.”

I told him about getting lost. The old guy. Winterbourne. The kid. The bridge.

Silence on the other end.

Not long.

Just long enough.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Winterbourne’s...an odd spot.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Some folks don’t care for it much.”

“You ever been?”

“Sure.”

Another small pause.

“Just hope you didn’t track anything back with you.”

The line crackled.

“Didn’t track...”

The call dropped.

I thought I heard something in the room behind me.

Probably the heater.