与格特叔叔共度文艺复兴集会

I have a habit of looking up the 1）etymology of words before I start writing. Usually， it’s just a way to 2）procrastinate. But sometimes， when I know where a word has been， I feel more equipped to take my words where they need to go.

When I set out to write an essay about my uncle Gutta and kindness， I learned that the word kindness is related to kin. To be treated kindly is to be treated as if one were a relative， a part of a family. It is to be welcomed in， to be claimed. How funny that the kindness we 3）bestow upon family members can often be the most difficult type to 4）impart.

Uncle Gutta’s phone calls were not always met with enthusiasm， but he called often， persistent in winning over my family’s affection. Whenever his area code lit up our caller ID， my two sisters and I tossed around the phone like a game of hot potato. “You answer it！” “I answered it last time！” “It’s your turn！”

It wasn’t that we disliked our uncle， but the man could talk. Answer the phone， and the next 90 minutes of your life would 5）dissipate like snowflakes in the Delaware River.

One 6）dog day in late July， Uncle Gutta rang. I knew it was a hazardous time of year to pick up the phone， as he would inevitably urge us to make the long drive to his home in Pennsylvania and attend the Renaissance Faire with him. But after seven years of politely saying， “I’m busy all those weekends，” I was running out of excuses. Still， when I picked up the phone， I was calculating an escape strategy.

“Hey， Uncle Gutta. What’s up？”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you…” he began.“7）Ballsey just passed away unexpectedly.”

“Oh， wow…I’m so sorry.” I said， thinking， who the heck was Ballsey？

“He was one cat that lived up to his name. But he’s in a place of peace now.”

“Of course.”

“So when are you guys gonna come out to my 8）pad？ I tell you what， the 9）Celtic Fling at the Renaissance Faire is this Saturday. How about you come over for that？”

“That sounds great，” I said， my mouth doing the talking without my consent.

“Really？ Great！” he replied. “I’ll see you on Saturday around 8 a.m.”

He hung up before I could change my mind. It was the shortest phone call of Uncle Gutta’s life.

When my younger sister and I got into the car to drive to our uncle’s the following weekend， the air was rich and seedy， like an overripe watermelon. I looked over at my sister. Scorn 10）emanated from her small frame.

A couple of hours later， we pulled onto the road where Uncle Gutta lived， and he was waiting on his front porch. He was wearing a Scottish kilt， a 11）body-hugging Irishflag shirt， a 12）do-rag， and a 30-inch sword. I couldn’t tell if he was going for “pirate” or “Renaissance dude”—the distinction was 13）negligible. After we hugged， he showed us around his backyard， which was part enchanted garden and part junkyard.

“This is a scratching post that Ballsey preferred. But he also liked that one，” he said， pointing at some outdoor 14）knickknacks.

“And this is where he used to take naps a lot，” he continued as he steered us toward an undifferentiated spot on the ground.

“This is a special rock that I dedicated to Ballsey. He liked it here a lot too. And this is a spot where I come to pray for our family … and for Ballsey，” he said. He paused， and I noticed that he had 15）tilted his head back， as if hoping his eye would reabsorb the tear that fell down his cheek. “You know， it’s really great you guys came here.”

It was the only statement I’d ever heard him say without that goofy-uncle undertone. And in that moment I realized： Here was not only our uncle but a simple guy who lived in the boonies and missed the heck out of his cat.

“I’m glad we came， too， Uncle Gutta，” I said. The moment the words left my lips， I realized they were true.

“Me too，” my sister 16）chimed in. And when I looked， I saw that she had also softened.

Then the moment passed， and it was back to business. Uncle Gutta had mapped out our schedule for the Faire： a Tartan Terrors performance， 17）jousting， Irish step dancing，Her Majesty’s Royal Performers， and then the Tartan Terrors again. That afternoon， we laughed and jousted and ate turkey legs and danced. It was the silliest and freest I had felt in a long time.

On the ride home， as our near-heatstroke 18）subsided into exhaustion， I thought about why， out of all the times that Uncle Gutta had begged us to visit， I’d said yes this time. Perhaps being part of a family is to recognize—even 19）subliminally—when one of your kin is in need of some care. We monitor our actions so painstakingly with friends， coworkers， and strangers. But family members often get our 20）autopilot selves. Within families， showing kindness is often not a deliberate act. Rather， it is an instinctive reaching out， a recognition of a need in our kin， and doing our best to fill that need.

When my sister and I saw Uncle Gutta at Thanksgiving， he presented us each with our own shiny broadsword. My mother took one look at them and muttered， “What on earth are you gonna do with that？”

But to Uncle Gutta， the broadswords were a crucial 21）accessory for next year’s Fling. “This year， you 22）got your feet wet， but next year， you guys gotta go all out.”

We smiled， knowing it was his way of saying， “Thanks for coming.”

在开始写作前，我有查找单词词源的习惯。通常，这是一种拖延的手段。但有时，如果我知道一个词的词源，在用词时我会感觉更有把握。

在着手写一篇关于我叔叔格特以及“亲切”这主题的文章时，我发现“亲切”这个词与“亲属”一词有关。待人亲切就是把别人当成自己的亲属、家里的一份子来对待，就是要热情地招待他，重视他。有趣的是，对家人“亲切”常常是最难做到的。

格特叔叔的电话并不总能受到我们的欢迎，但他经常打过来，不厌其烦地博取我们一家的好感。每当我们电话的来电显示出现他的电话区号时，电话就会像烫手山芋一般被我和我的两个姐妹丢来丢去。“你接！”“上次是我接的！”“该你了！”

并不是说我们不喜欢叔叔，但他实在是太能说了。接了电话后，你人生接下来的90分钟就会像落在特拉华河里的雪花一样消失无痕。

在七月下旬的一个三伏天里，格特叔叔打来了。我知道在这个时候接起电话有点冒险，因为他一定会让我们开很久的车前往他那远在宾夕法尼亚州的家，陪他参加文艺复兴集会。过去七年我都用“我那几个周末都很忙”来委婉拒绝掉。我的借口都快用光了。不过，在我接起电话的时候，我还是在想着该如何脱身。

“嘿，格特叔叔，怎么样？”

“抱歉，我得告诉你……”他开口说道。“小勇突然去世了。”

“噢，呀……我很抱歉。”我说道，想着小勇到底是谁啊？

“它和它名字一样，是只勇敢的猫。但它现在身处另一个安详的世界了。”

“当然。”

“那么你们打算什么时候过来我这儿？告诉你，在这个周六，文艺复兴集会上会有凯尔特歌舞表演。你们要不要过来参加？”

“听起来不错，”我言不由衷地说道。

“真的吗？太好了！”他回答道。“那周六早上8点左右见。”

没让我来得及改变主意，格特叔叔就挂了电话。这是他有生以来打过的最短一次电话。

然后在下个周末到来时，我和妹妹开车前往叔叔家，当时的空气又湿又潮，像过熟的西瓜一般。我看向妹妹，她小小的镜框反映出一副不屑的神情。

几个小时后，我们开进了格特叔叔家所在的街道，他正在门前等我们。他身穿一条苏格兰方格裙、一件爱尔兰国旗紧身上衣，头戴一块头巾，手握一把30英寸长的剑。我看不出他是要装扮成“海盗”还是“文艺复兴时代的人”——其中的区别微乎其微。我们互相拥抱过后，他带我们参观他的后院——半是美丽花园半是废品旧货栈的院子。

“小勇比较喜欢这根猫抓柱。但它也喜欢那根，”他说道，指了指外面的一些小柱子。

“它经常在这里打盹。”他带我们来到另一个别无二致的地方，继续说道。

“这块石头是我专门为小勇准备的。它非常喜欢。这里是我为家里人……和小勇做祈祷的地方，”他如此说道。他停住了脚步，我注意到他在把头往后仰，仿佛希望这样能把滑到他脸颊上的泪水倒回去。“你知道吗，你们能来这里真是太好了。”

这是我唯一一次没有听他用那种傻叔叔的语气说话。那一刻，我意识到：眼前的这个人不仅是我们的叔叔，更是一个住在前不着村后不着店的地方，非常想念他的猫的人。

“格特叔叔，我也很高兴我们有来，”我说道。这些话从我口中说出，那一刻，我知道我是真心实意的。

“我也是，”我妹妹插口道。当我看向她时，我明白她也心软了。

然后，这动人的一刻过去了，我们说回了正事。格特叔叔已经计划好我们要参加文艺复兴集会的哪些活动：方格团歌舞表演、马上枪术比赛、爱尔兰踢踏舞、女王皇家表演，然后又是方格团歌舞表演。那天下午，我们玩得很开心，在马背上比武，吃火鸡腿，跳舞。这是长久以来我觉得最傻却又最自由的一段时光。

在开车回家的路上，我们差点中暑的症状渐渐缓解成纯粹的筋疲力尽。我在想，这么久以来，格特叔叔一直都有请求我们去探望他，为什么偏偏这一次我就答应了呢。也许是因为家人就是能辨认出，甚至是下意识地知道，我们的亲属什么时候需要我们的关怀。我们总要苦心经营我们与朋友、同事和陌生人之间的关系，但是我们对家人的好却是自动自发的，而不是有意为之的。而且，在他们需要我们的时候，我们会本能地察觉到，并尽己所能地伸出援手。

在感恩节的时候，格特叔叔把我和妹妹拿过的大阔刀送给了我们，闪闪发亮。妈妈看着这两把刀嘀咕道：“你们到底要用这个来做什么？”

但是对格特叔叔而言，这两把大阔刀明年参加凯尔特歌舞表演的必备物件。“今年你们只是第一次参加，明年你们俩可得全力以赴。”

我们微微一笑，知道他是在说“谢谢你们的到来”。