In 2005, the company I work for, a very large tech industry firm, sent me to the midwest for a 6 month startup project. Even though it took me away from my home and family and required me to commute every other weekend to see said family (and home, of course), the money, position and challenge was enough to entice me to take the gig. Also, the job was only a couple hours from where I’d grown up, and I thought it would be fun to check the place out, since I hadn’t been back for over 10 years. My parents had moved right after I graduated from High School, and still live on the west coast not far from my home in San Diego.
All went well and the project was completed three weeks early. I took a couple days to get ready to ship my things, including a new car I had purchased while in the midwest, and was set to return home to San Diego. With one more weekend to go in Cincinnati, since I had already visited my hometown a couple of times, I decided to drive a little further and see both the lake where my family had owned a summer home and my father’s hometown, a little village in Western Indiana. That spur of the moment trip, conceived of after an early Saturday morning latte at Starbucks would absolutely and profoundly change my life. 
It was early summer, 2005. The weather was perfect and the traffic light. I skirted Indianapolis to the south, and an hour later was passing through Avon on Highway 36. It had been more than 20 years since I had driven that road, and much had changed. As traffic increased, I was surprised and delighted to see an antique police car up ahead, and after a few minutes was able to catch up with him. I’m not a car buff by any stretch of the imagination, but was really impressed with this particular classic squad car.
Little did I know at the time, but this particular sighting would be a foreshadowing worthy of a bad bit of short story sci-fi. Fortunately, I had my digital camera and was able to snap a couple pictures as we drove west.
The trip to the summer home, a cottage near a lake a few miles off US 36 was uneventful, though I was a little shocked at how few changes had been made in the 26 years since my family sold it. A tornado had taken out several big and old trees on the property, opening the view to the lake and destroying a portion of the deck that ringed the two story chalet. The owners had rebuilt the deck and added a larger sitting area on one corner. Very nice.
The son and wife of the man who purchased the house and land from my father still owned the place, and were there when I drove up. They warmly welcomed me in and despite my not wanting to impose, insisted I take a look inside. We walked in and I stopped short. Not a THING had changed. Maybe the carpet and some furniture, but that was all. The appliances in the kitchen were the same, the goofy colored glass light fixture over the dining area. All the same. But even so, I wasn’t ready for what I saw when I walked downstairs. For the second time that day, I was to be presented with a bit of foreshadowing that would only become apparent much later. 
My family sold the cottage in 1979, when we moved across the country to San Diego. My parents had had enough of midwestern winters and wanted to spend the next phase of their lives in the sun, near the ocean. They’re still there, now retired. For the most part, it was a new start and except for some cherished pieces of furniture and heirlooms, we sent truckloads of stuff to auction. I was half-way through college at the time, and had decided to transfer to the University of San Diego. I’d had my fill of dorm life and decided it was apartment-living time, so we set aside a few pieces of furniture for that purpose, a sofa, big round oak table and to go with it, some cool (at the time) very 70s rustic chairs that looked like they were make out of barrels. My barrel chairs were actually part of a set that included a bar and bar stools, but the chairs were all that made the trip west, then elsewhere with me (until upon marriage, my wife made me give them away – they were truly hideous). The rest of the grouping stayed in Indiana. What I learned when I walked down the stairs to the walk-out basement of the lake cottage was that the bar and barstools had in fact stayed in the exact same place we left them. Seeing them gave me a momentary, but very real feeling of vertigo.
For a second, I felt like it was almost 30 years ago, but the feeling only lasted a couple seconds and just as quickly, my attention was back to the present. An odd feeling lingered though. Very odd.
A short time later, I made my goodbyes, getting assurances from my new friends that if they ever decided to sell the cottage they would get in touch with me. I’m not sure why I asked them to do that, since there’s no way in hell my wife would ever consent to moving there with our daughter, but I asked anyway. That interesting experience out of the way, I continued west, next stop: Belton, Indiana.
In it’s heyday, Belton was a fairly prosperous small town. Home of a factory that made clay tile and surrounded by rich farmland, before World War II Belton had about 1,000 residents, 12 grades of public education and its own high school, Belton High School. It was every small town you see in the movies from that time. It was, depending on your perspective, a large Hickory (the town in Hoosiers) or a small Bedford Falls (the town in It’s a Wonderful Life). 
As I drove down the main street in Belton, I had the oddest feeling that I could almost see my grandparents, great-grandparents and even father walking into the post office, standing on the street tallking, just living in this now almost dead town. I passed the vacant lot with the remnants of a house that had burned down before I was born, the fireplace and a few bits of concrete still visible. I used to play with my cousins around that fireplace 35 years ago when we’d all come from Indianapolis to the old family hometown for the weekend.
One of the Harper houses slid by my passenger window, then a left turn and I drove to my great-grandmother Margaret’s house. My grandfather, Harrison Harper Girrard was born in a house that still stands today, a little worse for wear and the fact that no one’s lived there for years. Remarkably, the house is straight as can be and all but looking like it was build after World War II, when in fact it had been in service at least 40 years before that. I peeked in the window, past the real estate for sale sign and was surprised to see a large woven rug that I remember from my youth in the middle of the living room . After a few minutes and a handful of pictures, I got back into my car and drove to my father’s boyhood home, that I didn’t know until that very minute was my real destination.
The house my father grew up on, a brick accented, one storey house on Parke Street was one of the nicer on the block. Of course the "block" consisted of only two other houses and a restaurant long closed. A tree I remember my father telling me they planted when he was young, towered stately and mature in the front yard, protectively reaching over the top of the structure.
As I pulled up to the curb on the far side of the street, I saw three people sitting on the front porch, one man and two women. None of them were younger than 60, and one of women was clearly in her 80s or 90s. They watched me as I got out of my car and crossed the street toward them. I walked up the sidewalk in front of the house and as I got closer said "excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but my father grew up in this house."
"Richard?" Asked the older woman, who I had never seen before.
"Yes."
She smiled at my puzzled expression. "I have something for you," she said, and pointed at something I couldn’t see on the table in front of her. I hesitated, but she said "Come on up. You’re welcome here," and again waved at something on the table. I really didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen these people before, and seconds out of my car, this ancient, but extremely bright eyed woman was almost demanding that I approach!
I walked up the four short steps to the porch and looked on the table. She again pointed, and now I could see that she was referring to an envelope on the table in front of her. It was smaller than a #10 envelope, and looked sturdy, but brittle. Yellow tinged the edges of the envelope, and there was a faint round ring about the middle as if a small cup had been sitting on it. I looked at the envelope, at her, then at the younger woman sitting next to her. They looked to be 25 years or so apart in age and had exactly the same smile. I assumed they were mother and daughter. "I’m Richard Girrard," I said, smiling through the puzzled look I’m sure I still had on my face.
"We know," the younger woman said. "I’m Liz Monahan, and this is my mother, Annie Bennett. We heard you were coming." Her smile and glance toward her mother told me I’d just been in the presence of an inside joke.
I looked around at the house, the street and back toward my car, trying to make sense of the fact that they knew who I was, let alone that they knew I was coming here today. I didn’t even know I was coming until a few hours ago when the thought occured to me while I was sipping a Vanilla Latte at a Starbucks in Cincinnati. At that point, I took a closer look at the man sitting on the porch with Annie and Liz He was probably past 60 as well, balding and looking kind of…well, distracted. He smiled, but said nothing. "I hope I’m not intruding," I began, but Liz shook her head.
"No, no, no. As I said, we knew you were coming."
We knew you were coming. Again. I couldn’t figure this out. Except for the drive-up window attendant at McDonalds in Avon, I hadn’t spoken to a soul since leaving Cincinnati that morning. I hadn’t told a single person where I was going. Unless someone saw me drive into town a few minutes before and knew who I was and where I was going (my father’s old house) when even I didn’t know I was going there, there was no way these women could have known I was coming or even heard that I was. Yet here I was, again looking down at an envelope that Liz and Annie whom I had never laid eyes on until about 2 minutes before, claimed was mine.
"Go ahead," said Annie just a hint of mirth in her voice. "It’s from your grandfather."
The feeling of vertigo I’d experienced at the lake cottage came back in a rush, and I stepped back, shaking my head. I didn’t understand. But I took the envelope, handling it gingerly, since it was obviously very old. On the front, partially under the faded cup ring was a faint, but still easily readable word, written in pencil. It read "Richard." I again looked at the aged Annie who still had a slight smile on her lips. Liz didn’t seem nearly as comfortable, now that I’d picked up the envelope. Her eyes held a little discomfort and maybe just a small bit of…I don’t know, maybe fear? Probably not that strong an emotion, but certainly apprehension. Definitely apprehension. At this point, the man, who I’d almost forgotten about, despite the fact that he had been sitting with his back to me, not 3 feet away, stood up, ducked his head and said goodbye to the ladies. His eyes briefly met mine, and I nodded, getting a sudden feeling that he wasn’t quite right. Maybe, what they would call in Belton "slow." Without introducing us, Liz and Annie both said "bye, Johnny" almost in sync. Then he was gone, as if he’d never been sitting on the porch. Johnny was gone from sight in seconds, and I again looked at the envelope in my hand. I carefully lifted the flap, which opened easily. If it had ever been sealed, the glue had long since dried out and the paper inside was as old and brittle as the envelope. Without being asked to, I sat down in the chair Johnny had been occupying just a minute before, and extracted a single sheet of paper from the envelope, which now empty, I laid back on the table where it had been. Glancing up once again at Liz then Annie, I met each of their gazes, and then carefully unfolded the letter. My eyes adjusted to the faint pencil the words were written in, and I began to read a letter unlike any collection of words I’d ever read before.
To say I couldn’t believe what I saw is the grossest of understatements. To this day, there are times I am convinced that there was no letter, that it was all a dream. Or, I start to think I’m insane, because what I read couldn’t possibly be true. But when those doubts are at their strongest, I go to the floor safe in my home office, take out the letter and reread it. I’ve had my wife read it. And so, I’m reassured that I didn’t dream this whole thing, and I’m again convinced of my sanity. Here’s what the letter said:
November 17, 1933Dear Richard,
The purpose of this letter I am writing is twofold. First, it is to demonstrate that you are in complete control of your mind and faculties and are completely, as far as I can tell, sane. Second, to urge you to follow the signs you are seeing and know that a very interesting adventure awaits you. In your shoes, I would no doubt be bewildered and unsure about what I should do, but I know that you have a strength of character and constitution that will make it possible to explore this most strange situation. How do I know this? Because I have met you, and am convinced of it. I am not sure how I know this, but what you have told me about how you came here is true.
Let me describe you. You stand a shade taller than myself and I am six feet one inch. Your eyes are brown. Your hair is brown as well, cut very short and retiring in the way the Harpers gradually lose their hair. To me, you look like a Harper, but also resemble the Girrards through your eyes. Your build is full, and I would estimate you weigh all of 200 pound.
I do not fully understand how you came to visit here, but though it is tempting to ascribe the experience to the supernatural or even evil, I must confess that I do not go in much for that line of thought. I believe the natural world is a strange enough place without needing faeries, demons and leprechauns to explain it. And since it is obvious to me who you are, I can only take your explanation of how you came to be here as the truth. Now as for that. You are claiming that through a process even you do not completely understand, for over two years, you have been traveling to the past, but can’t control how or when it happens. You have asked me to write that the future that I have waiting for me is a good one, but not without difficulty, and you also insist that "there are no god-damned flying cars." You laugh when you say that.
As for details of the future, you are not nearly as forthcoming, though I understand why. I am comforted when you tell me that our son, Tom, will thrive and that the health problems he has will not plague him as he grows. Though my wife Doris seems somewhat relieved by this, she is far more skeptical about it. Your emotion at seeing her was enough for me though, and I know you to be our grandson, as odd as it is to write those words.
To know that what I write is beyond reproach, you have given me some facts to include that I could not possibly know of. Here they are:
You live in San Diego, California.
George W. Bush is the President in the time you come from, and his father also named George, was President before him
Your e mail address is Richard Girrard at yahoo dot com.
You love coffee from Starbucks, and though it is hard to believe, you pay over three dollars for a cup of it.
Though you have told me about your life, the above facts are all you have told me about the future, but I understand why. I am happy you visited us and hope that you find your way back here after you leave tonight, which you say you must. Although, you also say that this journey is the longest you’ve had, you laughed when you said that for all you knew, you might not be able to get back to your home. I hope that you can get back, but I also have the feeling that if you cannot, you would be happy to stay and see what you call your past occur.
You will have the opportunity to read this letter on the fourth of June in 2005.
Harry H. Girrard
Underneath his neatly printed name was his signature, though to be honest, I don’t ever recall seeing anything signed by my grandfather. Most of my memories of him have to do with holidays – a summer fishing trip. I remember him as a larger than life, joking bear of a man, but since I was barely six when he died of a sudden stroke, a great deal of those memories are heavily influenced by photographs. To read his words, serious and measured, seemed strange. They didn’t match the memories I have. What the hell is this all about?.
And then it him me. These women were up to something. I don’t know how they’d done it, but there was something going on that didn’t involved my Grandfather writing a letter in 1933 about things he couldn’t possibly have known then. There was some sort of scam going on here. These thoughts all flashed through my mind in a matter of a couple seconds, and I looked up at Annie.
She must have seen my suspicions clearly, because she returned my gaze calmly. "You don’t believe all this, do you?" I shook my head, not able to say anything. "Look at the envelope," she said. I glanced down at it on the table. "The back." I picked it up and immediately saw the same faded penciled lettering, only in a different hand. It was the same date that was on the letter. November 17,1933. Except that it was in handwriting I instantly realized. But there was more. Directly underneath the date was a hand drawn smiley face and a signature.
Mine.
Next: 1976
