Goodbye Girl

This will likely be one of the longest standalone stories I've written. I normally split stories of this length into parts, except there seemed to be no good place to stop and then restart without eliminating flow. It is also not a story of non-stop sex, perfect specimens of humanity, huge cocks, perky breasts and juicy asses. All the characters are average people one might see on any given day. If a long slow-paced story is not your forte then you may be disappointed, however I hope not. For those who are faithful followers, rate my stories highly and leave generous comments, thanks. You're the reason I continue writing.

I have centered this story around a part of Wisconsin most people never have the pleasure of seeing. The lion's share of the state's tourism is centered around the central mid-state area, the lake Michigan areas and the north central resorts with countless lakes. However, one of the most beautiful parts of the state can be found in the west central portion with its numerous ridges, valleys and extended farmlands. To stand on the overlooks along highway 35 watching barges go up and down the Mississippi River is something one will never forget. It's an area I knew well many years ago. Most of the towns listed are real, others made up or taken from other places I have been. Family names are all fictitious and not to be construed with anyone your imagination may point to.

Goodbye Girl

After 31 years, seven months and 22 days in the military it was time to cash in my chips and move back home. My parents had passed away, but my 96-year-old grandmother was still living on the family homestead in the house she was born in. My oldest sister lived about four miles away, it was she who looked in on grannie every day, did her shopping or took her to the doctor etc. My one stint as an almost married man about mid-way through my career ended in a disaster. She hated military life, which made me wonder why she agreed to be my fiancé' in the first place.

She'd been living with me about a year when I suspected she had a boyfriend on the side though it took me several months to confirm my suspicions. I didn't need a PI, or any of my friends with IT knowledge, it was as simple as I caught her with a guy in my bed. Had he been an enlisted man instead of an officer I'd have done him serious harm. However, I wasn't willing to risk messing up my career over some greasy butter bar, it was easier to walk away. There would be no counseling, no "let's try and get past this" scenario. I wanted her gone, post haste. It was about that time Afghanistan was kicking off in full force, I thought, "what the hell, why look for another relationship, there's no guarantee I'll come home anyway."

I spent the next twelve years kicking about as a single man. I'd aged enough that I was no longer on the hunt for pussy regardless of who it was attached to. There had been off and on romances through the years, one lasting fifteen months before she was transferred to Germany. I often wondered if that one could have worked in another time and place. I felt like a lucky duck when I became entangled with a black E-6 toward the end of my career. I was 49, she was 27, I thought she was going to fuck me to death.

My man card was in serious jeopardy of being cancelled when I was overjoyed about her being transferred to Korea. The nine months we were together were great, but exhausting. My mind said I could meet her needs, my body said otherwise. We texted for a few months after her rotation, then things fizzled out. Her last text said she'd met a guy a few years older than her and was great in bed. My thoughts were, "if he wasn't getting a cardio workout prior, with her in his bed he certainly would."

Here I was 51 and checking off base for the last time. No more military life for me, although deep inside I knew there were things I would carry with me the rest of my life. There might not be anyone to comment about my bed being made or not, but I'd damned sure know it wasn't. There wasn't a second thought as to whether that ritual and many others would remain with me for life. My last two duty stations had been in the hot sticky southeast, I knew there would be adjustments necessary to once again blend into the upper Midwest.

It was going to be a two-day trip and be rested when I arrived, or a one-day hard push and be exhausted when I got there. I chose the two-day trip. I had driven further than I expected the first day putting me that much closer to what would soon be my new home. My sister and grannie were excitedly awaiting my return. I woke early, after a quick shit, shower, and shave I walked across the street to a diner which opened at 6 and had a light breakfast. After filling the tank of my trusty pickup I continued north.

It was a sunny warm morning in early June, warm enough that it felt good to drive with the window open. My arm was hanging out, the wind whistling past my face, once in a while I would do the thing where you let your hand sail in the wind above the sideview mirror. I once again felt like the teen I had been while driving my '37 Ford pickup to school in the mornings after milking. It had been my grandpa's truck, he in turn handed it down to me. To my knowledge it was still in the machine shed at grannies, hopefully no one had sold it. Then again, I had a few asshole cousins who may have found it, I just wasn't sure.

The closer I got to Wisconsin the more glorious the day felt. Once inside the state line one of the first things that let me know I was nearing home was the smell of cow manure being spread on the fields. Farmers call it liquid gold. When city people think of manure they conjure up images of a rank awful stench, and to be sure, that does happen at times. Especially if they're spreading six-month-old slurry. But for the small-time farmer who still spreads every or every other day there's a different smell. It sounds weird, but it's almost a sweet smell when it blends with the heavy morning air.

In the ditches were cowslips in full blossom, bright yellow and whispering, "glad that your

home" as I drove on by. Trilliums still dotted the forest floor here or there, I hadn't seen them since I'd left for the military. The towns continued to be smaller as I went, a part of Americana that was rapidly being devoured by people who worked in the city but wanted a bedroom community away from the city to sleep in. I was on county road J making my way toward the valley road that would take me home when that very concept of a bedroom community slapped me in the face.

Approximately a mile before my turn off I was anxiously awaiting sight of the Bachmann farm. It had always been a stately place as dairy farms go. They were a Swiss family that had a registered Brown Swiss herd, unlike most farms with barns painted red, there's was white. In fact all the buildings were painted white, including the house which sported dark green shutters. It was their daughter Claire who had taken my virginity just before I left for the military.

What I saw made me pull onto the shoulder and stop. What was once acres of pasture was now a sprawling subdivision filled with cookie cutter houses, newly planted tress and paved driveways that led to two or three car garages. Gone were the Brown Swiss cows grazing and chewing their cud, in their place were well kept lawns and backyard patios. I slowly rolled forward on the shoulder until I was adjacent to the house. It was still white and well kept, gone were the barn and outbuildings. In their place was a workshop with trucks in the bays and parked in the lot. The sign stated, "Potter Creek Diesel."

I laughed as I pulled back onto the county road, Potter Creek was more than two miles away from the Bachmann homestead. I made my way down the road a half mile and turned north toward home, a place I hadn't seen in years. It was just after noon when I turned onto Boyer Valley Road. The Boyers were the first to settle in that valley, my grannie's family was the second. Though no one milked on the homestead any longer the barn and outbuildings still stood. Grannie had leased the crop land to other farmers.

Pulling into the gravel driveway was a moment that brought a smile to my face. I stopped on the bridge above the small creek that ran the length of the farm and on down past the Boyer farm before meandering to a nearby river. The sounds of slow-moving water lightly caressing the array of stones was interrupted by the sounds of a Boyers tractor pulling a chopper and chopper wagon with haylage. It was time for first crop hay.

As a boy our family lived in a mobile home on Gramps land, both of my parents worked in town. When my Uncle Slim died, I was asked to be a help to my grandparents'. At the age of nine I began milking and doing chores every morning and night. After we'd milked and turned the cows out in the morning one of my jobs was to climb to the end of the barn cleaner chute and stand there watching for cows in heat. When I determined which cows were in heat, if any, I'd let grandpa know and he'd call the breeder. Those thoughts flooded my mind as I sat there staring at the creek, the water moving fast, still high from snow melt and early rains. I was lost in a daze when I heard someone calling my name.

"George."

Looking up I saw my sister Pauline, whom we affectionately called Paulie, waving to come further. Behind her on the porch sat grannie in a rocking chair that I think had been there when I left for the military decades ago. She had what we call a lap blanket over her lower body and a shawl across her shoulders. A smile so big I could see it from where I'd stopped. Pulling forward Paulie was excitedly waving as she approached the truck. She wasn't much different than the last I'd seen her at Pa's funeral over ten years prior, just a bit older.

Still a shapely handsome woman, not heavy, not skinny, just sort of an everyday normal looking farm woman. In my opinion she looked mighty good for a 54 year old. There were streaks of grey in her otherwise dark brown hair, most surprising to me was that her face looked younger than I imagined a 54-year-old would. She had crow's feet at the corners of her eyes and a few wrinkles but no double chin, no sagging skin. She bore the weathered complexion of a lifelong farm wife, which she was. Though she and Rodney, her husband, had sold the herd over a year ago and were no longer milking, there was still plenty to do on the farm to help her stay in shape. As I slid out of the truck and closed the door Paulie stood a foot away with a smile and outstretched arms.

"C-mere little brother. Let me see you."

With a bear hug we stood with one another for a long minute. When we pulled apart she was wiping tears away with the back of her hand.

"It's so good to see you George. You've been away too long, I hope you're staying and this isn't just a visit. Grannie's waiting, she's so excited to see you."

Sliding her hand through my arm we walked in silence the last fifty feet or so to the porch. As I ascended the steps Grannie stood and grasped her walker, leaning forward she hugged me tight and then kissed my cheek.

"It's good that you're finally home Georgie. I've been praying for you to return, and now God has answered my prayers."

I looked at her with a grin, "I didn't know you were praying for me, but thank you."

Grannie scoffed, "Well of course I was praying for you. You have to say prayers before they can be answered. Enough of that. Are you hungry?"

True to form, even at the age of 96 she was going to make sure you had something to eat, or coffee, or cookies. Something, anything, you weren't going to be a guest in her house without hospitality.

"I'm good grannie. I had a decent breakfast, I don't usually eat lunch, so I'll be ready for supper by 5 if that's okay."

She nodded as she sat. "That'll be good, I eat around 5 myself. How's roast beef sound?"

My mind drifted back to the days when I worked on the farm, she would cook huge meals when harvest time came and extra workers were hired. The table would be covered with different foods from end to end. I also remembered her admonishment to the men before we would start eating.

"Eat all you like boys, but go easy on the butter, it's forty cents a pound."

Butter at forty cents a pound, needless to say those days were long gone, never to return. The three of us sat on the porch yammering for the next hour or so. It was Paulie who eventually needed to get home. As she drove away grannie shook her head.

"It's not good at her house. Rodney is in poor health, she doesn't think he'll live much longer. She's too young to be a widow."

I responded, "But, you were a widow at 64. How is that any different?"

"I was, but I had my kids and grandkids around to help. At least most of them, you were off seeing the world by then. Besides, I was 77, not 54. Her kids live out of state, she doesn't get to see those grandbabies very much."

As the sun began moving to the west she stood, "Time for my nap. Roam around a bit, get used to the place again. The barn is full of cats, don't be surprised if they hide at first."

I watched her stand to walk into the house leaning on the walker. I reached out to help, she slapped my hand. I knew better than to push things, she was as independent at 96 as she'd ever been. I quietly moved my belongings into the very room I had slept in as a boy. With a sister and brother living in a three-bedroom mobile home and me working on the farm every day it made more sense to live with my grandparents. Which worked out well because my lazy older brother Earl wanted nothing to do with the farm. The room hadn't changed much, in fact it hadn't changed at all, including the springs on the bed beneath the mattress. That would have to change right away, no way was I going to try sleeping on a squeaky bed.

Standing on the porch I looked to the right where the Simpsons had lived. Their family settled in the valley less than a year after my ancestors had. It didn't look the same though, it was too quiet, and I had never seen tall grass growing where pasture had once been. Gone were the cows that used to keep it mowed so to speak. I made a mental note to ask about it at supper. I wanted to walk around, to get a feel for the farm after so many years away. The milk house was dank smelling and empty, the barn was depressing. No cattle had been in it for years, the water cups were dilapidated and non-functional, water pipes were broken, light bulbs missing. Like grannie had said, it was full of cats, and spider webs.

It smelled of old musty hay, the barn was in desperate need of repair. The roof was leaking in several places, fortunately those leaks must have been a recent development because none of the beams or mow floorboards had rotted through. I added roof repairs to the already lengthy list in my mind of things to get taken care of right away. The chicken coop roof had collapsed, probably from heavy snows. That structure could wait to be taken down after the more pertinent things were taken care of.

I grabbed one of the sliding doors to the machine shed, I jumped back as it damned near fell on me. Though still in place it was badly rotted, the wheels were in need of lubricant, repacment was going to be the answer for that. The other door was easier to open and not as badly rotted. Inside it was dark, musty and dirty. An inch or more of pigeon shit covered nearly everything. Looking around for the '37 my heart sank, it was nowhere to be seen. Piles of moldy straw and a few old pieces of machinery filled the space. The Farmall H was missing the manure bucket and looked like it hadn't been run in ages, parts had been taken from the John Deere A. The magneto was missing along with the carburetor.

Upon further inspection of the John Deere I noticed both petcocks for the cylinders were missing. My first thought was that the engine might be seized. Taking ahold of the flywheel I tried to turn it, imagine the joy I felt when the pistons moved. I laughed to myself, maybe there was still some life in that old two lunger after all. I would just need to find parts. Walking toward the back where the work bench was located and scattered with old tools, I was feeling rather down having not seen my '37 Ford pickup.

By the time I was back in the house grannie was busy in the kitchen getting the roast ready to pop in the oven. I had no more than sat at the table when she wobbled to me with a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. I marveled that at 96 she still moved on her own, she wasn't fast or always steady, but she was mobile. Getting a cup for herself she asked how things looked.

"Mmm, not so good. The barn roof needs repairing right away, the chicken coop needs to be torn down and the machine shed is a disaster. Has anybody been in there at all? I noticed the '37 is gone. Who got that?"

She gave me a funny look, "That truck damned well better be in the shed. One of Earls boys wanted to take it, I laid the law down to that snot nosed pissant. It's in there Georgie, it's probly buried under something."

Earl was my older brother who never did a damned thing to help himself. It was always someone else's fault. Unfortunately his two boys were just like him. Sadly he died in an accident drunker than a skunk. Making things worse was his youngest died with him, a sweet little girl who never got her chance at life. I was in Afghan when it occurred and didn't make it home for the funeral. According to grannie, one of my nephews was in jail and the other had settled down enough to get a job at the feed mill. I would need to take a closer look in the machine shed after supper, or first thing in the morning. My two-day trip was beginning to catch up with me.

I helped clean the kitchen and do the dishes. Paulie and Rod bought her a dishwasher two Christmas's prior and had it installed right away. It hadn't been used more than a half dozen times. Those few times were when all the immediate family was home for whatever holiday and the girls used it. Paulie said that gran would complain the next day because she had all those dishes to put away. I unpacked and put clothes away while gran sat in her chair embroidering, I chuckled to myself, 96 and she still had fingers nimble enough to embroider. I was going to sit with her and chat when she stood. Using her walker she stopped by my chair. With a kiss on the cheek and a pat on my head she stated.

"I'm going to bed Georgie. Get the lights when you're done."

She was the only one I'd ever let call me Georgie. Glancing at the clock I was surprised that it was already 8:45. Going to bed wasn't such a bad idea after all. It took a while to get used to the squeaking springs every time I moved, sleep did come eventually. I was awake at six, my normal time, I noticed that gran's bedroom door was still closed. I had never known her to sleep past six in the morning, then again, I hadn't been home in her aging years. The coffee was on when she shuffled into the kitchen at 7, fully dressed and ready to take on the day. I rose to get coffee for her, she waved me back.

"Sit. I'm okay. I do this every day, it's not gonna change just cuz you're here." With a grin she said. "I'll let you do the bacon and eggs though. Over easy on mine and make sure the egg whites aren't snotty. Can't stand um under cooked."

Following breakfast and washing dishes I threw on a pair of jeans, an old cotton shirt and work boots. Hanging in the entryway was a UW hat that I'd worn in high school. Though it was battered and beat up, I took it off the hook, looked it over and stuck it on my head. It's as though it had been waiting for me to return. I was determined to find that pickup by golly, then I would concentrate on the tractors. Both had flat or near flat tires that were dry rotted. The smart thing to do would be to have new ones installed. I assumed the local Co-op still did on farm tire replacement.