NORWICH _ ``I'm not ready to close Guantanamo,'' said Uncle Chet as we turned at the light in New Berlin, heading toward Norwich.
``A year ago you were screaming about it,'' I said.
``True, but lately I've been thinking it might be fun to hang onto it.''
``You've got to be kidding,'' I said. ``It's a public relations nightmare: America's concentration camp!''
``That's because of who's in there,'' he said.
``A bunch of Arabs,'' I said.
``And they're not guilty or they would have been tried,'' he said, and shifted into four-wheel drive. The hill was icy and we were climbing slowly, gliding past Mill Brook Pond.
``Doesn't look like they plowed here,'' I noted.
``We're in no hurry; we don't have to be there till nine.'' He took a sip of coffee. I sipped too, contemplating the icy view and our mission, helping a buddy move into an apartment at the end of his marriage.
``I was just thinking that before we close Guantanamo, we ought to round up the Bush Administration, hold em on suspicion of treason,'' said Uncle Chet.
``Bush is going to pardon anyone at risk,'' I said.
``True,'' he said, ``but those pardons won't have any weight outside the United States; will they?''
``So if we keep Guantanamo and put the right people in there, we can use it as a civics lesson.''
``Or start a civil war,'' I said as we curved round the pig farm.
``We could open it up to the media, waterboard Rumsfeld right on TV. Probably lead to a lively discussion about the pros and cons of torture.''
``People would watch it,'' I acknowledged.
``And set the Dobermans on Cheney,'' he said. ``Just for a minute, of course, just so he understands to be the prey, for a change.''