SPRINGFIELD, Mass. — "We’ve been down this road a few times," said Uncle Chet, at the wheel of his maroon Ranger, cruising down Interstate 88 east of Cobleskill.

"I’ve been on it ever since it was built."

"At least they’ll let you do 65, which is really 70," he said, glancing at the speedometer. "It was ridiculous at 55."

"True," I said and searched the FM band for something to listen to.

"We’ve got CDs in the glove box," he said.

"You ought to get an iPod," I said.

"I will, as soon as I figure out what it is."

"More songs, less hassle," I said.

"That much I knew," he said and settled back to listen to "Me and Bobby McGee" as we headed east on a cold sunny day, bound for Springfield, Mass.

"Did you call him last night?" I asked presently.

"He called me, said he’d be ready early. I told him we’d take a look at his place, grab a quick lunch, then scoot back to your house." He checked his watch. "We should be back by 3."

"Good. I promised the kids I’d take them sledding."

At Albany, we curved onto I-90 east, and we made good time the rest of the way, bisecting Pittsfield, Becket, Westfield on the way to Springfield, by the side of the gray Connecticut River. Traffic was heavy as we exited into the downtown.

"Hope he’s ready," Uncle Chet said. "I hate driving around here."

"I think that’s him, on the sidewalk over there." I pointed and he pulled over to the curb by a hydrant.

Cousin Bruce, in a new windbreaker and jeans, sauntered over. "You country boys want to come in, or hit the road?"

"Do you have a bathroom?" Uncle Chet asked.

"No," he said. "I’m on the 29th floor, but I use a two-holer behind the library over there."

"We’re coming in," I said, grabbing his hand. "How’re ya?"

"Depends who’s asking," Bruce said with a smile.

We found a parking spot, then walked down the busy street to the residential tower, a light-year away from Columbus. An elevator whisked us skyward, and I said, "I should have brought the kids. They would have loved this."

"You can buy any drug you want in the lobby," Bruce said.

"On the other hand," I said.

"So what have you been up to?" Uncle Chet asked as we stepped out into a hallway nearly 300 feet in the air.

"A little business, a little monkey business," he said and inserted a key into the deadbolt lock. He swung the door in and we entered a spacious living room, overlooking the river and well beyond.

"Hey, this is nice!" I said. "This room must be 30 feet long. Look at that view; I think I see the Basketball Hall of Fame."

"That’s it."

I gazed out at the city, then pulled back into the room, which was sparsely furnished but had an overstuffed couch across from an entertainment center. On the wall above the couch were two photos of a demonstration held on the Mall in Washington, D.C. People carried homemade signs that said, "There’s no pride in genocide," "Pre-emptive war is premeditated murder," "Impeach Bush" and more in that vein.

"Lotta good that did," Bruce said, shaking his head.

"Gotta start somewhere," said Uncle Chet, reappearing from the bathroom. "It’s going to pay off next November, when we kick out every senator and representative who still loves this war."

"And elect who?" I said.

"Real Democrats, not Republican-light," he said. "We need candidates who are conservative with money and want government out of our private lives. Candidates who stand for peace, economic justice and single-payer health care, like the First World has. You find a Democrat to run on those principles, and she or he will get elected."

"’She or he’; now listen to that," Bruce said to me as he hoisted his duffle bag. "I think he’s talking about Hillary."

"I’m talking about real Democrats," Uncle Chet said, opening the door. We went out, and Bruce locked up.

"Well, is Hillary a real Democrat?" Bruce asked.

"It’s a bad sign, if you have to ask." Uncle Chet shrugged, then we filed into the elevator.

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Cooperstown News Bureau Reporter Tom Grace is traveling with his Uncle Chet, who he says is imaginary. Grace’s column appears twice monthly.