End of the Line chapter seven…also the end of the story.

“Follow me.”

Norm led me through the living room to the back door of the kitchen. The exit sign had a handwritten note underneath. A.K.A. Basecamp. Upon opening the roughhewn door, we entered a great room. It was an addition, designed to look like it had been there a hundred years. A stone fireplace along one wall had a couple of wooden chairs huddled by it. A triangular loft tucked in a corner held a bed. Below, on either side of it were bunks.

“Welcome to basecamp, Mark. Have a look around while I get a fire going.”

“Did you build this yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Furniture too?”

“Yup. Yup. Three years of therapy.”

“Heh.” The wooden round table in the center held room for six. It looked like it was built with high-jacked planks from an abandoned barn. The walls were overlaid with planks too, and mortar pressed all around each board. A shotgun hung above the fireplace, and on the mantle leaned several framed pictures.

The walls were minimal, but what was hanging there got my attention. There was an enlarged photo of seven men crouching, sitting, and standing around a jeep. I couldn’t make out any facial expressions because of the grainy black and white image. They all wore fatigues and each held a rifle.

In another corner was a high table and on it a chessboard. A match was in play with captured pieces set along both sides. Two stools stood across from each other. Sketched portraits on opposite corners. One of Norm and the other of a young man with a cowboy hat. An antique mailbox hung underneath Norm’s picture.

Further down was a crisp shot of eight men, six of them with one foot propped on a felled tree and two men, like bookends, holding chainsaws like machine guns. An Irish wolfhound stood in front of them like a photoshopped ghost.

The fire crackled and a woodsy smoke aroma took over the room. “What do you think?”

“If you hadn’t shown me, I’d have figured there was a back yard behind that door.”

“It’s a front for all kinds of shenanigans.”

“What do you mean by basecamp?”

“Well, basecamp has lots of different meanings I suppose. Home, club, lounge, and the worn-out title of mancave. But for a guy like me who’s experienced real fallback positions, I like to call this my base.”

“Tell me about this black and white photo.”

“Oh, that’s part of my dad’s platoon in Guadal Canal, WW2. Not a great picture, but it highlights how a unit should look, no distinction from each other but distinctive in total. It was his fault I joined up. I don’t believe you can follow in anyone’s footsteps forever, but we can try, right? Gotta start somewhere. Eventually, we start swinging our own machete. There comes a time to take the lead through this jungled world of ours.”

“They’re all gone now, I imagine.”

“Yes, the ones who survived the war met at my dad’s cabin in northern Michigan. Every summer, it was their basecamp through the mid-nineties. They bowed out, each in their own time, and when my dad died, my brother bought out my share. There’s a picture of it on the mantle.”

I nodded. “What a great legacy.”

“Yes, that’s a good way to frame it. When I had ears to hear, my dad handed me good wisdom, humor, and navigational skills when my own family got off the ground. He was a part of the ‘greatest generation’ as they say, and didn’t disappoint. Isn’t it funny how most of those men barely spoke of the war? Tis true.”

“That is odd.”

Norm clicked his tongue. “Boy, I would give a buffalo nickel to be in that cabin when they gathered round the fire. They’d sip the sauces and embellish their stories. Who knows, maybe all they did was play cards and notice the various ways their hair receded.”

“Ha. And this shot here?” I moved closer to the logging photo.

“Oh, yeah, that was taken about twelve years ago. Those are my buddies. Some from the service, a few from my hometown. They stuck closer than a brother. Sometimes we go it alone, other times we go it alone together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Got any friends? I mean the kind who will tell you what you need to hear, not paddy-cake friends.”

“One, maybe two.”

Norm poked the fire. “You’re doing good. I think three solid friends is adequate. Any more bodies and you get into that group-thinky stuff.”

“But, Norm, these are groups of men.”

“Ever hear of cliques? Look here. See that big fella holding the chainsaw? That’s Tiny. And the third from the left pulling out his suspenders? He’s nicknamed Butt. He always got into other people’s business, uninvited of course. Those are my two side-arms. We’d meet up quarterly, help each other with the to-do’s and some fun. Paper, scissors, rock type things.”

“Tiny Butt,” I said under my breath.

“I heard that.”

I moved closer to the chess table.

“Now, Mark, that game started mid-January. Burton has deepened his skills and is on the offensive. I’ve been dodging bullets for the last seven weeks. If it wasn’t for the snail mail, I wouldn’t have time to prepare for his move.”

Burton Felks. Norm’s next move is in the mailbox at the end of the drive. Amazing. “How long have you been playing like this?”

“Over ten years. I taught him when he was six, though. When we reconnected, I thought this was a way to stay connected. I look forward to his move, short note, and occasional photo about every week. I’d plop a small tootsie roll with my counter move and send it off. Here. Relax.”

We sat by the fire. Logs glowed and flames snapped off and up. My thoughts narrowed like a focal point. This old man with a soul interlocked like staggered bricks. The beauty and the affliction settled on him like a fortress wall.

“Thanks, Norm.”

“What for?”

“Lighting the hope in me. Sometimes a man has to go it alone. But going it alone together is a better way.”

“You’re welcome. Stay as long as you like and come back anytime.”