For those who want to read about massive breasts, abnormally sized penises and people who can screw for hours on end this will be a letdown. There's no explicit sex in the first 3 parts of this story. There is, however, a story about normal everyday people who live, love and go through life regardless of the ups and downs of living. People who deal with the ebb and flow of life finding a way to be content, if not downright happy.
For the guy who tells me over and over that my stories lack drama. They aren't designed to be full of drama, they're about people who manage to find a happy ending when it doesn't look like one exists. I for one choose to live life without it being full of drama. Therefore I write that way.
Goerke's Corner Part one
Goerke's Corner was one of those communities that sprang up in the aftermath of WWII. Old man Goerke, which was originally spelled Ghoerke, (pronounced Gerky) had lived and maintained a gas station, tiny general store and apple orchard along State Highway 15. His clientele was mainly the few locals and farmers in the area. When war rationing ended and people began to travel more the greater part of his clientele were people traveling. Being a diehard bachelor with nothing else to do he basically lived at the station/store.
In a matter of a half-decade the tiny blurb on the map became a community. There were three small businesses that employed some of those who had moved from the city to the country. Which was contrary to most GI's leaving farm life and heading to the cities. The gas station modernized to underground tanks and electric pumps, the tiny grocery store added on, and the apple orchard had people coming from miles around.
By 1962 the community incorporated as the Village of Goerke's Corner with a population of 208. Old man Goerke died in '64 just before a post office was added to the general store being run by his only nephew. The village was booming compared to what it had been years prior. Soon little artisan shops began to pop up throughout the area taking advantage of the tourist trade and the renowned apple orchard. Life was vibrant in Goerke's Corner until 1967. That's when the new interstate system opened and State Highway 15 became a secondary road.
Considering I was only a young lad of seven I wondered why people continued to move away. My friends were no longer there, and neither were the businesses many in town had come to rely on for their livelihoods. By 1971 all but a few families had left to find employment elsewhere. The businesses were gone, and the artisans had all but vanished. My dad owned a cabinet building business that had been in Goerke's Corner for years before the influx of people began.
His business thrived during the housing boom. He was wise enough to hang onto his loyal customers of so many years and therefore had work after the town began to diminish. I worked in the shop with my dad and his two helpers most of the time. In the fall I would pick apples like most of the rest of the people still in town. One of those people was Hilda Friedrich, a fair-haired beauty of German descent. The animosity of the war years had not been kind to the Friedrich family. They had immigrated to the US only four years before Hitler's rampage began. They held their heads high through the name calling and other abuses, worked their dairy farm and kept to themselves as much as possible.
Hilda and I became seat buddies on the school bus at a very early age. There were still kids picking on her long after the war ended. Two nasty boys in particular bullied her endlessly calling her a dirty kraut, pulling her hair and telling her to leave the US. I was only ten when I confronted them. I wasn't big per se, but I had been in my fair share of dust ups with kids in the past.
Hilda had taken to sitting in a seat behind the driver and yet those boys tormented her, calling her names, yanking on her pigtails, knocking her books off the seat. The day I said something they laughed and told me to shut up. As I made my way forward to intercede the bigger one stood. I wasn't there to argue or have a pissing contest. I was there to fight, as the first one turned to face me I punched him in the gut hard enough to make him double over out of breath. With him incapacitated I nailed the other dog turd square on the end of his nose. Blood spurted everywhere. By that time the old lady driving the bus and screaming at us had pulled onto the shoulder.
And in case you're wondering. Yes, I was expelled from school for three days. My dad was not happy having to come pick me up. It was worth it though. The next time I got on the bus those two shitbirds were sitting at the very back of the bus. Hilda smiled and asked me to sit with her. Never again did those two gaping rectums bother Hilda or anyone else on our bus. She and I became the best of friends all through our school days. She would work the orchard in the fall like most of the rest of the teens in the area. There was more than once we shared a Coke over lunch. After all they were now 25 cents, highway robbery, and we didn't always have 25 cents each.
Hilda and I never dated or became more than close friends. It's ironic because in many ways we were closer than most of the boyfriend/girlfriend relationships in school. She had met Erik in our junior year which drew her attention from us, and yet we remained close. I hadn't found anyone I liked enough to get involved with other than a homecoming or prom date. Though Vietnam was no longer an issue and the draft wasn't active I still wanted to go in the military when I graduated in '78. The last time I saw Hilda was at our graduation. I left for Camp LeJune two weeks later.
I spent the next 21 years in the Marines. I started as an engineer equipment operator involved with earth moving and construction equipment. By the time I was discharged in 1999 I was an Engineer Equipment Chief with a rank of Master Gunnery Sargeant. My folks passed away within a year of each other not quite seven years earlier and I hadn't been home since. I rented the house to a young couple in town who were taking good care of it. Unfortunately I had to shut down the business. Without dad no longer there to oversee things his two long term helpers weren't able to keep it profitable. I wasn't sure what to do after I got out. The couple renting the house had purchased their own place. My old home had been empty for over a year. People who had known my family watched over the place to make sure the house and shop weren't vandalized.
I never really knew what path Hilda had taken after school. Mom would hear a snippet here or there but never anything concrete. From what I gathered it was something in the medical field. I had remained single throughout my entire time in the military. In the early days I wasted my time and money chasing skirts like most of the other guys. I quickly tired of that lifestyle and the fact that I was broke most of the time. I almost married an Okinawan girl about mid-way through my career. The fact is we were more in lust than in love, it would have ended in disaster. Fortunately she didn't want to leave her country and family behind.
As I walked from the admin building to my truck after receiving my discharge papers it suddenly occurred to me. I had no one in Goerke's Corner to go home to. I chose to take a few weeks and lazily make my way back to the house I'd left over twenty years prior. I would know whether to stay or sell and move on once I got there. Considering I had just turned forty I had a lot of life ahead. As I approached town on old Highway 15 I opened the windows and slowed down. The trees were full of buds, some of the softwood trees already had leaves. Pussy Willows looked fat and fuzzy, in the ditches were Cowsills in all their yellow splendored bloom. I could smell apple blossoms in the air.
The closer I got to town the more run-down things looked than when I'd been home for my folks' funerals. The gas station was still there, barely. The old pumps had never been changed and the building was in desperate need of some TLC. The canopy that had been built in the late forties to cover the pumps and the guy pumping gas was ready to cave in. There was no self-serve gas back then. The small grocery store attached on one side was closed. The orchard store that used to be open year around was closed until the next harvest. Back in the day that little shop bustled on weekends selling fresh baked pies, apple butter, locally made maple syrup, honey, and a small assortment of apples that wintered well in the cooler.
It was depressing to drive through what had once been a thriving fun place to grow up. Turning onto Tillman Valley Rd (named after my ancestors), I smiled. The road was only a half mile long and there were only three houses on it with mine in the middle. I say mine because when dad died my sister wanted nothing to do with the old place. I bought it lock, stock, and barrel before moving mother into hospice care.
When the young couple who had lived there moved, I asked if I could hire him to take care of the grass in the summer and plow the drive in the winter. People are less likely to try and break in if they think someone is living there. The smell of freshly mown grass hit my nostrils the moment I turned into the driveway. After parking my truck I stood on the sidewalk looking around. The house was in need of paint and attention but didn't look abandoned. There was a lock box on the doorknob, the former renters had given me the code.
As I opened the door the smell of must and old age was smothering. The heat was set at 45 and hadn't been changed since they moved out. With it being spring I turned off the furnace and opened every window I could budge for fresh clean air to flow through. The interior looked and smelled old, because it was. My folks had never changed the appliances they originally put in the house when they built it. What antique pieces of furniture I wanted to keep had been moved to the shop the last time I was home. The house was empty save an old metal folding chair in the corner of the kitchen.
The basement was not only musty smelling but damp as well. I couldn't see any seepage, so it was mainly a lack of airflow that had caused dampness over the years. The furnace and water heater would definitely need to be replaced, the steps were not rotten, neither were they sturdy and trustworthy any longer. There was much to be done to make it saleable or livable should I decide to once again reside in Goerke's Corner.
Leaving for the shop through the kitchen door the screen door fell off the hinges. The wood was rotted and the screws had fallen out. The only thing that held it in place was the swollen wood frame. I picked it up, tossed it aside and made way for the shop. To my knowledge I still had the only key after changing the locks when I bought the place. Inserting the key I heard the click and turned the knob. Memories met my five senses. The aroma was wood, old, aged wood that lay on shelves to the back of the shop.
The air was a mixture of oak, maple, poplar, red cedar, and dust. There's something about walking into a shop where your nostrils are greeted with the smell of actual wood and not engineered composites. No particle board, no vinyl, no plywood, pure wood. I wondered if any of the older rough-cut lumber waiting to be planed and sized that used to reside in a shed off the back was still there.
Dad would buy rough cut lumber from local sawmills which he would have me stack in the open shed with slats between each layer. There it would dry for at least a year before we ran it through the plane. Though I'd been away from that life nearly 25 years the smells brought back strong memories of working with Dad until all hours of the night. Lessons learned at the hands of that gentle yet tough man. Lessons that no one and no thing could ever take from me or replace. Not only were they strong vivid memories, they were fond memories. It was in that very shop working on a cabinet with my pop late one Saturday night that I heard my first Beatles song. I Want To Hold Your Hand.
With nostalgia swimming through my brain I walked behind the shop. Looking inside the shed made me smile from ear to ear. I couldn't believe all the rough-cut lumber waiting to be made into something beautiful. The grains, the growth lines, the beauty of contrasting types. Yup, there was fun that awaited me if I chose to stay; and if not, that older lumber was worth a lot of money.
