“So, that’s set. Now go play with the computer.”
Back in his room at Singh’s store, Jack called Marilyn, as he had done and expected to continue doing every evening. He did not tell her about the Sullivans, once again fearful that he might say something that would give away his location. He quizzed her about her summer job at the Madison library. She was enjoying it, she told him.
Days passed and soon became weeks. The July 1 picnic with the Sullivans provided a welcome and pleasant break from his work at Singh’s store. They spread out a blanket on the grass and ate fried chicken that Mollie had prepared. Jack watched youngsters playing a pick-up ball game. He and Sean assembled a kite that the Sullivans had brought. It refused to fly properly, dipping down to the ground. “I think I can fix it,” Jack said. He retrieved a newspaper from a trash can and tore out pieces of paper, which he tied together to make a kite tail. Thus modified, the kite soared.
What a wonderful day, Jack thought later as he sat back at the store and watched the sun set. We once had days like that back home, once long ago.
With the passage of time, Jack became increasingly restless. St. Catharines is not the right place for me, Jack decided. Too urban. Too much of a city. Not like the smaller communities of his home region in northeastern Ohio. Increasingly often, Jack found himself looking at the Ontario map he had acquired in Niagara Falls and wondering if he should move on. Not to Toronto, although in planning his departure from his Ohio home he had considered that city because of the university there. Perhaps to the west, perhaps London or another community along the north shore of Lake Erie. Not knowing why or how he knew, he was sure there was a university in London.
Map in hand, Jack walked into Mollie Sullivan’s cubicle at the RBC bank. “Got a minute?” he said. “I mean, I shouldn’t take you away from bank business, but I need to talk, and I feel like I can talk to you.”
“Yes, you can talk to me. But not now and not here. This is a busy place. Come to our house for dinner again tonight.”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose on you. You’re so generous to me.”
“Nonsense. Not an imposition at all. I have to prepare dinner, and one more person is no big deal at all. Tonight, after seven, after Singh’s store closes.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll be there.” Lost in thought, Jack put the map in his pocket and returned to the store. He knew it was time for him to move on, and he was sure the Sullivans would give him good advice and helpful ideas about that.
The table cleared and dishes in the dishwasher, Jack sat on a couch between his friends, his Ontario map spread out on a coffee table in front of them. “As I said at dinner,” Jack began, “it’s time for me to move on. You’ve been awfully good to me, and I will always think of you as good friends. And Singh, too. But I’m really a small-town guy. I don’t belong in St. Catharines. Although I’m not really sure where I belong.”
“So,” Sean commented, “do you know what you want, where you want to go?”
“Have you thought about going home?” Mollie added. “Are you really sure you want to stay in Canada?”
“Yeah. I’ve wrestled with all of that. Over and over. Every day. You know, maybe I should go home. Sometime, maybe. But not now. I guess, in the end, it comes down to needing to know, needing to prove, that I can make it in the world. That I can make it despite my penurious father and alcoholic mother. That I can make it because of who I am, just me, out and away from my dysfunctional family.
“So,” Jack continued as he spread his hands across the map, smoothing it out, “I don’t want to go to Toronto, although that was my original plan. I do want to go where I can continue my education. I have another year of high school to complete, and then college.”
Sean interrupted Jack. “Canada has a ‘year thirteen,’ an extra year between the traditional twelve and higher education. You’ll have to finish that before entering a university.”
“Okay, I can do that, I guess. You know, I’m smart. I was a good student in Ohio. Third in my class.”
“Not first?” Mollie queried with a smile.
“No, Marilyn, my girlfriend, was first. And a loner nobody liked and who did nothing but study was second. So I was third.”
“All right,” said Sean. “What’s your idea? Where to?”
“I guess I’ll go west. But I don’t think I want to go along Lake Erie toward London and Windsor. That direction seems like it will be more and more cities and crowded places—at least from what I see on the map. But northwest. Up around Lake Huron and Georgian Bay. Maybe to Sault Ste. Marie. Maybe further. Who knows? It’ll depend on what I find.”
Their conversation continued, and the more they discussed Jack’s need to move on, the clearer it was to Jack that it was to leave St. Catharines.
Then Jack stood. “I should be leaving,” he said. “We all have to work tomorrow.”
At the door, Mollie said, “Be sure to come by the bank before you go. I’m pretty sure you’re set up to be able to use any ATM or write checks anywhere, but we should check to be certain. Even in the U.S., back in Ohio,” she added with a smile.
“I will—pretty soon. When I have my thoughts straightened out for sure.”
7. Ontario
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Jack said to Mollie as he took a seat in her cubicle at the bank.
“Well,” she replied, “I guess I’m not surprised. “Have you told Mr. Singh?”
“Yes, and he said he would miss me. He really will, I think. I’ve done some things in the store that have been helpful to him, I believe.”
“I’m sure you have. And surely he must have known you would not stay forever.”
“Yeah. And you know, I’ll miss him. And you and Sean.”
“Jack, you’re sort of a rolling stone. At least at this time in your life. That’s okay, I guess. But don’t lose control of your life.” Mollie was no more than a decade and a half older than Jack, but she felt maternal toward him.
“Oh, I won’t. And I’m not really a ‘rolling stone’ by my nature. It’s just that I still haven’t sorted out all my family mess in my mind.”
“You could go home, Jack. You’d be welcomed, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, I guess. Someday I will, I suppose. But not yet. For now, I’m on the move again. But still in Canada. I’ll head west. Northwest, actually. Up around Lake Huron and Lake Superior—maybe, if I get that far. I hope I’ll be able to find a smaller community. More like the size I was used to in Ohio. And a place where I can go to school. And get a part-time job.”
Mollie turned her swivel desk chair and opened a drawer in the credenza behind her desk. “I knew this would come, one day,” she said to Jack. “So I collected some travel folders and stuff from the Canadian Tourist Bureau here in town.” She passed a handful of brochures to Jack. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for, but maybe these things will help.”
“Thanks. And I’m not sure what I’m looking for either. Hopefully, I’ll know when I find it.”
Mollie stood. “Now,” she said, “I think you will want to empty out your safe box—unless you’re planning to come back. Did you bring your key?”
“Yes, I did. I have it.”
“Good.” They walked to the vault, where Jack recovered the U.S. dollars he had stored there. He put them in one of the concealed, inner pockets of his traveling pants.
“Keep your account with us open,” Mollie advised him. “You can write checks on it anywhere. In fact, you can use your debit card at any ATM. Even in the U.S.,” she added. “If you want to close the account—after you go home, maybe—just get the balance from any ATM and then write a check for that amount. If you’re back home, and I hope you will be, your bank there should accept the Canadian bank check and convert the amount into U.S. dollars.”
They walked to the door. “Travel safe,” she said, “and stay in touch. Send us postcards, and let us know where you settle.”
Jack threw his arms around her. “I will,” he said. �
�You and Sean are wonderful people, wonderful friends. I won’t forget you, not ever.” With that, he turned and strode out of the bank.
— — — —
The next morning Jack packed his few possessions into his knapsack, which he tossed along with his sleeping bag into the back seat of his VW. He walked back into the store. He shook hands with Singh. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Singh,” he said. “You’ve been more than kind to me.”
“Not at all, Jack. I’m the one that owes you thanks. You’ve been a real help to me. I wish you would stay here, but I know you want to move on. And I understand. Good luck to you. I wish you the very best, wherever you land.”
Jack climbed into the car, pulled out to the street, and soon entered the stream of traffic heading west on the multilane highway called the QEW. He had placed his map open on the seat beside him, but the traffic was so heavy that he was unable to refer to it. He remembered, however, that he should turn back around Lake Ontario and then drive northeast toward Toronto. Approaching the city, he should then turn north, staying on expressways as he circled the city.
The multilane megahighways around Toronto were daunting—far wider and busier than any of the highways he had experienced in Northeast Ohio or, for that matter, in his travel through Niagara Falls into Canada. However, he managed them without incident and soon was driving north, still on an expressway, headed north out of Toronto. Approaching Barrie on the shore of Lake Simcoe, he noted signs for a Travel Information Centre. He pulled in, parked, and got out of his car.
Welcomed by a friendly, middle-aged woman, he explained that he wanted to travel west along the northern shores of Lakes Huron and Superior. He was not in a hurry, and he wanted to enjoy the scenery and any special sights along the way. He hoped to camp. “I have a tent, sleeping bag, and camping gear,” he told her.
“Ontario has lots of wonderful provincial parks. We’ve done a good job of preserving some of our most beautiful places. And making them accessible at the same time. The north woods above the Great Lakes is a magnificent place. And you should really come back in September when the maples are turning.”
“Maybe I will,” Jack replied. “But for now, help me choose a route up around the north shore of Lake Huron.”
“Well, leave the expressway after you pass through Barrie,” she counseled him. “Just stay on route 400 heading north. Assuming, that is, that you want to stay along the lakeshore—”
“I do,” Jack interrupted her.
“Well, then, stay on route 400 as it leaves the expressway and heads north. It will join route 12, and about six miles after that you should head north on route 103. Let me show you. You have a map? I can give you one.”
“No, yes. I have a good map.”
“Okay, this is the way you go.” She traced his route with her finger. “Pretty much straight forward, actually. You won’t get lost. Just follow signs for Parry Sound.”
“I see there is a provincial park there at Parry Sound, just beyond, I guess. Maybe I could camp there tonight.”
“Yes. Killbear Point Provincial Park. A wonderful place. Beautiful, really. And it does have a nice campground. You should be there by midafternoon easily.”
“And other parks along the route?” Jack asked.
“Oh, yes. Here’s a booklet about Ontario parks. There are lots of them along this route.”
Jack thanked the woman, accepting several brochures from her. “I guess I have to find a place for lunch pretty soon,” he said.
“There’s a Tim Hortons just off the expressway when you turn onto route 400.”
“Good. And many, many thanks. You’ve been most helpful.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “We don’t get many Americans stopping in here.”
Jack turned to leave, wondering why he was so obviously not Canadian.
— — — —
Jack found Killbear Point Park without difficulty. After taking possession of a campsite, he put up his tent and stowed his pack and sleeping bag in it. His tent was nestled beneath an arbor of maple trees. Canada’s national icon, the maple leaf, Jack mused. Lots of them here. This place will be spectacular in the fall. He walked down to the shore, which was marked by large rock slabs rather than a beach. He looked out across the water. “Oh my,” he said aloud. Then, to himself, This is spectacular. The islands out there—I guess they are, or maybe they’re just points of land jutting out—are beautiful. Covered with evergreens. I wish I could show this to Marilyn. I’d like to bring her here. Maybe after we’re married some day. He found a rock and sat quietly. This was far removed from any experience he had had in Ohio. He had never seen a boreal forest before. He had never before understood why people became so entranced with the north woods. Now he knew.
Dinner, Jack thought. I need to get food. He stopped at a store he found in the park, but it offered only various souvenirs. He drove back out of the park, soon finding a convenience store where he purchased canned stew for his dinner and an orange and some muffins for breakfast the next morning. He also purchased a pack of a dozen granola bars and a six-pack of Diet Coke. Lunches for the days to come. Following his evening meal, Jack returned to the lakefront and watched the sun set.
— — — —
After breakfast of the muffins that he had picked up along with his supper, Jack unfolded his Ontario map. Where would he go today? He decided on Chutes Provincial Park near Massy. It would be no more than a half-day drive, with a stop along the way to buy more groceries. He realized he would have to pass Sudbury, a large city, and he hoped the highway would skirt the city. He assumed, correctly, that there would be a campground at Chutes Park and some walking trails. Moreover, it would provide a jumping-off point if he chose to explore Manitoulin Island.
At Chutes Park, he made camp, and with his tent and supplies established at a campsite in the park, he set off walking on a trail. The name, “Chutes,” he learned from an informational sign, referred to the many rapids on the Aux Sables River that coursed through the park. I’ll stay here two nights, he decided at dinner. Tomorrow, a drive around Manitoulin Island.
He discovered that Manitoulin Island was largely devoted to tourism and tourism at a level considerably upscale for him on this trek through Ontario. He found Little Current an interesting town—village, really. It was evidently a supply point for resorts and private lodges scattered throughout the islands of Georgian Bay. At the water’s edge was a supply store. A chandlery, he thought, wondering how he knew that nautical term.
Leaving Chutes Park, he drove on to Sault Ste. Marie, a city of considerable size. There Jack decided to treat himself to a motel rather than searching out a campground. He would enjoy a real bed and a shower with, he hoped, dependable hot water. As he entered the city he found a motel of modest size. Al and Jeanne’s Comfort First Algoma Motel was the name displayed on a sign by the road. He was greeted by a woman whom he assumed was Jeanne. Two nights, he told her, as he handed her the debit card that Mollie had arranged for him.
“We have breakfast from six to nine in the morning. Not as fancy as some of the big chain motels, but pretty good, I think. We have a waffle machine that works most of the time, and I scramble or fry eggs to order.”
“A waffle would be great,” Jack replied. “No eggs. But bacon, maybe?”
“Bacon, for sure. Quite a few truckers stop here. They get to know us and like us. And they always want eggs with lots of bacon.”
Jack selected several travel folders and brochures from a rack in the lobby. “You’ll be doing some touring things?” Jeanne asked.
“Yes. I’ll be here with time on my hands tomorrow.”
“Well, you should see the lock, of course. Drive down to the canal historical centre. It’s worth a visit. You’ll learn about the canal, but also about the history of this region. Here. Let me show you on the map.”
— — — —
At midmorning the following day, Jack stood by the Sault lock and watched a bulk carrier being ushered past the
rapids. Once, he knew, such large boats called at Ashtabula, near his Ohio home. And, of course, at docks in Cleveland and Lorain, just west of Cleveland. They carried iron ore, and subsequently the taconite pellets that had replaced unprocessed ore. No longer. Ohio’s steel mills were gone. Depletion of the iron ore in northern Minnesota had robbed Ohio of its steel mills. He wondered where this large vessel was headed. Jack found an unpretentious, small restaurant and enjoyed what he decided was the best dinner he had had since leaving Ohio. Longer than that, since his mother no longer cooked for the family.
Standing there, looking across the lock, looking at America, Jack found himself wondering about his escape to Canada. Similar in most ways to the U.S., Canada yet was different. Different in money. Different in kilometers rather than miles. But somehow different in more important, less tangible, cultural ways. He really did not feel at home in Canada. I’m lost, he thought. Lost not because I don’t know where I am, but lost because I don’t know if I belong here. Or anywhere. He wondered about crossing into Michigan just across the water and heading home. But home offered little to him, he thought.
Here I am. Away from home. I could cross over here and be home in a day or so. But I’m lost at home, too—or at least that’s how it seems. Somehow I have to find myself. Well, maybe, but that’s only part of the problem. Somehow life at home has to change. But it won’t change on its own, I guess. I am lost, that I know. And I won’t find myself ’til I figure out what I can do to make things better at home. I have to do it, somehow. I, myself.
— — — —
Back in his car the next morning, Jack headed north out of Sault Ste. Marie. Continuing on route 17, the Trans-Canada Highway, he entered Lake Superior Provincial Park. Intrigued by a sign, he detoured to Agawa Bay, where he stopped at a pictograph site. Leaving his car, he walked to and out upon on a steel catwalk that clung—precariously, it seemed to him—to a lake-face cliff. Waves of Lake Superior water churned beneath him. The face of the cliff seemed to be composed of one enormous rock. Granite, perhaps, although he was not confident that he could identify various types of rock. Painted on the smooth face of this rock with some sort of red colorant were multiple pictures of varying sizes. Jack identified a canoe and several depictions of animals, albeit not clearly representing species that he could identify easily. Deer, perhaps, he thought. How in the world, he wondered, did early Indians—“First Nations People,” as Canadians called them—ever manage to paint these images in this nearly inaccessible place? And, even more to wonder about, how did they survive what must have been hundreds of winter storm-lashings?
Lost in a Far Country Page 8
