COLUMBUS _ ``But why Biden?'' asked Alice, who was on the couch peering at a fuzzy pattern on the old portable television.
``Because he's a fighter and he's safe,'' said Uncle Chet, who sat on the rocker. ``He's got warts, but we've seen them before.''
``Warts? That's gross,'' said the little miscreant, our 10th-grader.
``Keep going; you're getting closer,'' Hon called upstairs to me.
``I can't go any farther; I'm in the hall closet,'' I replied.
``I'm in the closet!'' I yelled.
``Stay there,'' said Uncle Chet. ``We can hear voices now.''
``I can see something, too,'' said Alice. ``Isn't that Katie Couric?''
``Hear the music?'' said Hon. ``That's Sousa, isn't it?''
``I hear it,'' said Buddy, who was up past his bedtime to watch a little of the Democratic convention. ``Where's Obama?''
``Wait! Stop, right there!'' said Hon, for I'd found a weak TV signal beaming between camouflage hunting jackets.
``Hip-hip hooray,'' I murmured. I set the antenna down carefully and backed out of the storage closet, but the audience below was howling.
``You've lost it,'' said Hon. ``We can't see a thing.''
``Put it back where it was,'' called Uncle Chet.
I picked up the little antenna and hooked it over the closet pole.
``Better,'' Hon called. ``A little more in that direction.''
``That's the best I can do,'' I announced, following the flat wire downstairs. ``It's hanging upside down in the closet.''
``We can see people, but the sound is bad again,'' she said, vainly turning the fine tuner.
``Why don't we use the big TV?'' asked Buddy.
``That doesn't get anything over the air,'' I said, and squeezed onto the couch.
``And we don't have cable or satellite,'' the second-grader noted.