She’s more than ready to do her part. Last year, she sold her comfortable four-bedroom home for a nice sum and moved in with Uncle Chet, believing he’d soon follow suit. But getting that old cuss to part with his rambling farmhouse is harder than picking fleas off a dog’s belly.

For one thing, Alice came complete with truckloads of furniture, curtains, dishes, plants, all the things Uncle Chet had lost to divorce and been living without. Now, there are so many nice places to sit down and contemplate life that granola groups are lobbying to meet there. Even worse, Alice’s intolerance to dirt and clutter has led her to clean until "it looks pretty darn good around here," the man of the house is prone to observing from his recliner by the wood stove, where he reads his "Mother Jones."

Still, we’ve been harping on him to plant that sign before the roof falls in again, and last week he finally did. It wasn’t up two days before people started to call, and some city folks, with more dollars than sense, made an offer Friday night, Alice confided on the telephone.

"It’s close to what he’s asking; I think he’s going to take it, so I was wondering if you’d all like to come over for one last dinner," she said.

"And push him over the edge?" I said.

"I didn’t say that."

She didn’t have to. We arrived late Saturday afternoon, let ourselves in the back door. She was in the kitchen, frying hamburger, shredding lettuce for tacos.

"How can I help?" Hon asked, and Alice asked her to set the table. The kids and I filed by, went into the living room where Uncle Chet was putting new strings on his acoustic guitar.

"Well, here comes the band!" he said. "Did you bring your trumpet?" he asked the little miscreant, who’s in the marching band.

"It’s in school, but I brought a recorder," she said.

"A recorder, huh? How about you, Buddy? And you, what’s-your-name?" He looked up from his task, slowly winding a tuning peg, strumming the E string until it sounded right.

"We’ll take turns with your guitar," I said and sank back into the comfortable sofa.

"Alice said you were coming over to play music," he said. He strummed all the strings together, and they sounded good.

"I think we’re here to play taps for your house," I said.

"No need to," he said. " I’ve already made my mind to take the offer. Times are too crazy not to downsize. We’ll get a little house we can heat with a kitchen match and cool with a cold beer, and we’ll try to survive the last rampage of George W. Bush."

"If this is his last rampage," I said.

"Did you see where he lowered taxes on the rich again last week?" he said. "Here we are, so deep in hock we’re redder than ’Red’ China, and he gives the millionaires and billionaires another chunk of America. His whole presidency really amounts to fiscal treason. He’s taken what we hold in common, the America we share, and parceled it out to economic warlords who have no national loyalty, just an insatiable lust for power."

"Playing to his base," I said.

"Can I play your guitar?" Buddy’s hands reached out, and Uncle Chet slipped the fine instrument into the little lap.

"Be careful," I cautioned.

"I’ll be careful."

"I’ll get my recorder." The little miscreant slipped around the corner as Buddy played a G chord and tried to play a D.

"And there wasn’t much squawking from the Democrats, either," Uncle Chet said. "They really should change the symbol of that party to the chicken. A donkey’s much too big and strong for the little cacklers we have in Congress."

"What about the Republicans?" I asked as Alice called us to the table.

"Good question." He took the guitar back from Buddy, placed it in the case, and then we headed toward the food.

"How about the barracuda?" I said. "They’ll strip anything to the bone."

"I was thinking more of the locust," Uncle Chet said. "Isn’t that what it’s come down to here in the land of free? Every election, we’re free to go to the polls and choose who’s going to lead us: the chickens or the locusts."

———

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