COLUMBUS _ Just as Uncle Chet and Alice joined hands, the sun peeked through the clouds, lighting up their backyard.

We were an even dozen in the wedding party, standing in a lazy circle. The minister, the only one in a suit, made it 13. He was reading from the good book, relating the past to the present, joining these two environmental activists in holy matrimony.

He had them face each other. Tears poured down Alice’s cheeks and Uncle Chet couldn’t wipe a foolish grin off his mug.

``And now we need the rings,’’ the minister turned to Buddy, our 6-year-old ring bearer.

``I have them, but first we have to do something about the flies,’’ Buddy waved his hand at the horsefly circling his head.

Titters all around; it was a little buggy.

The boy, in white shirt and black pants, delivered two gold bands. Uncle Chet slipped one on Alice’s finger, but she couldn’t get the other on his. So he held it in his hand and as camera’s clicked all around, they vowed to become one.

When it was done, I was a witness to their license, authorizing a joint return. We opened a bottle of champagne, toasted the newlyweds, and everyone had a sip, milling about on the deck.

``Why were you crying before?’’ Buddy asked Alice.

``Because she was getting married to Chet,’’ I said.

``Sometimes I cry when I’m happy,’’ she told him, ``and I’m happy today.’’

``But Uncle Chet didn’t cry,’’ he noted.

``He’ll cry when he gets the bill, after dinner,’’ I said.

``Speaking of which, we’d better go. We have a 6 o’clock reservation,’’ said the groom, looking at his watch.

``Oh, we don’t have to go yet,’’ said Alice.

``I think we should,’’ he said.

``Just a few more minutes. Let everyone finish their champagne, anyway,’’ she prevailed, and he drew a deep breath. He sat back down in his chair, good husband, exhaling slowly. Someone spoke of the nice service we’d enjoyed, another commented on the newlyweds’ lush garden.

Sitting across from me, Uncle Chet said, ``I wonder if we’re going to have a terrorist attack this summer.’’

``Not before dinner,’’ I said.

``But before the next election,’’ he predicted. ``It certainly would change the political landscape, wouldn’t it, another skyscraper tumbling?’’

``What a thought, on a beautiful day like this,’’ I said. ``Maybe you should...’’

``Didn’t that Homeland Insecurity dude say he had a `gut feeling’ we were going to be hit?’’ Uncle Chet asked.

``I heard something about it.’’

``Wait and see. Something’s going to happen here, then in response, we’re going to hit Iran,’’ he said, ``Badda-bing, badda-boom!’’ I drained my glass.

``And that’s a big mistake,’’ he said. ``The Shiites run Iran, and now Bush has put them in charge of Iraq, too. If he bombs Tehran, we’re going to pay in Baghdad. It’s a miracle of diplomacy, but he’s managed to unite these nations that were mortal enemies four years ago. Only trouble is, they’re united against us.’’

``Well, they say Iran is already arming insurgents in Iraq,’’ I said.

``Of course they are,’’ said Uncle Chet. ``They’re operating under the Bush doctrine of `fight ’em over there, rather than over here.’ The Iranians are fighting us in Iraq, instead of on the streets of Tehran. They’re doing just what Bush says he’s doing.’’

``It’s a confusing mess,’’ I stretched back in the lawn chair.

``The Bush miracle is even greater, because the Iranians are arming the Taliban, too, on the theory that the enemy of my enemy is my friend,’’ he said. ``So now he’s uniting Sunni and Shiite, healing a thousand-year breach.’’

``For which, he should get a Nobel Prize,’’ I said.

``He’d deserve one,’’ said Uncle Chet, raising an empty glass. ``If they gave one for being...’’

``I guess we’re about ready,’’ Alice rose, and one by one, everyone else followed suit, ready for the next phase of the party.

``I’m starved,’’ said the little miscreant.

``Me too,’’ said Buddy.

``Me three,’’ I winked at Uncle Chet, ``and tonight you can eat to your heart’s content, anything from lobster bisque to crepe suzettes."

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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.