COLUMBUS — Our little shop isn’t insulated or heated, so I can knock off in good conscience when it’s below freezing. And it was well below Sunday, with gusts of wind bending over the red pines like tall fishing poles.

Sure, there were bookshelves to build, boards to plane, but not today. The stove was blazing in the living room and we were jammed into the office, setting up the band around the electric piano and computer.

"Play an E," I said to Uncle Chet, and he strummed the low E string on his acoustic guitar.

"Sounds good," Hon said, sitting at the snare drum.

"Can I play an E?" asked the little miscreant, our seventh-grader.

"No. You’d play E flat," I said.

"E flat?" Uncle Chet said. "How do I play E flat?"

"You don’t. You’re going to have to use a capo," I said.

"I need a capo, too," said Buddy, who was sitting on the edge of the love seat, strapped into his electric guitar.

"We have two," I said. "Let’s get everything in tune, then we’ll use the capos."

"I’m already in E," Uncle Chet said. "I’m going to have to capo all the way up the neck to get into E flat."

"Put it on the third fret and play it in C," I said.

"Amazing how you figured that out," he muttered.

"If he did," Hon said.

Then Buddy strummed his guitar loudly and pronounced it in tune.

The middle school trumpeter followed with a trill of loud notes.

"I guess we’re ready. Let’s put the capos on the guitars," I said and leaned over to help Buddy with his.

Then Hon turned on "Bad Moon Rising" and we cut loose, backing up Creedence Clearwater Revival like you’d never want to hear again.

"Not too bad for the first time," Uncle Chet allowed, and there were streams of perspiration in creases that framed his gray mustache.

"I think it’s a good thing we moved out into the country," Hon said.

"That must be how they tortured Noriega," I said.

"The words sound like they were written today," Uncle Chet said. "’Hope you got your things together. Hope you are quite prepared to die. Looks like we’re in for nasty weather. One eye is taken for an eye."’

"You mean the Mideast?" Hon said.

"Sure; look at the Iraqis. Almost 150,000 dead and they’re plunging into civil war. They’ve been robbed, tortured, humiliated, and now there isn’t going to be an Iraq anymore, just a big Exxon station and a string of McDonald’s. That’s a bad moon rising, isn’t it? And what’s right next door? Iran, where Cheney and Rove are itching to lob another $20 billion worth of cruise missiles in the name of democracy."

"They’re giving democracy a bad name," Hon said.

"Probably come right before the midterm elections," I said.

"And it’s ironic, too," said Uncle Chet, " because we took democracy away from that country in 1953, when the CIA overthrew Mohammad Mosaddeq and gave them the 26 years under the Shah."

"Who was the Shah?" asked the little miscreant.

"He was a dictator, but we called him ’Shah’ because he was on our side," I said.

"Mosaddeq wanted to nationalize the oil companies, make sure all Iranians shared in the profits, but the oil companies and their puppet governments didn’t like that," Uncle Chet said.

"They still don’t," I said.

"Let’s play another song," said Buddy, our impatient vocalist.

"Do something less political," Hon suggested.

"Let’s do ’Blue Suede Shoes,"’ Buddy said.

"That’s less political," Uncle Chet said.

"By Elvis, or Carl Perkins?" I asked the little boss.

"Carl Perkins first, because he wrote it," he said. "Then Elvis."

"He must be the only five-year-old in the country who knows Carl Perkins wrote ’Blue Suede Shoes,"’ Uncle Chet said.

"That’s because we’re being subversive with him and his sister," I said. "We’re teaching them history."

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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.