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.
