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.”

在開始寫作前，我有查找單詞詞源的習慣。通常，這是一種拖延的手段。但有時，如果我知道一個詞的詞源，在用詞時我會感覺更有把握。

在著手寫一篇關于我叔叔格特以及“親切”這主題的文章時，我發(fā)現(xiàn)“親切”這個詞與“親屬”一詞有關。待人親切就是把別人當成自己的親屬、家里的一份子來對待，就是要熱情地招待他，重視他。有趣的是，對家人“親切”常常是最難做到的。

格特叔叔的電話并不總能受到我們的歡迎，但他經常打過來，不厭其煩地博取我們一家的好感。每當我們電話的來電顯示出現(xiàn)他的電話區(qū)號時，電話就會像燙手山芋一般被我和我的兩個姐妹丟來丟去?！澳憬?！”“上次是我接的！”“該你了！”

并不是說我們不喜歡叔叔，但他實在是太能說了。接了電話后，你人生接下來的90分鐘就會像落在特拉華河里的雪花一樣消失無痕。

在七月下旬的一個三伏天里，格特叔叔打來了。我知道在這個時候接起電話有點冒險，因為他一定會讓我們開很久的車前往他那遠在賓夕法尼亞州的家，陪他參加文藝復興集會。過去七年我都用“我那幾個周末都很忙”來委婉拒絕掉。我的借口都快用光了。不過，在我接起電話的時候，我還是在想著該如何脫身。

“嘿，格特叔叔，怎么樣？”

“抱歉，我得告訴你……”他開口說道。“小勇突然去世了?！?/p>

“噢，呀……我很抱歉?！蔽艺f道，想著小勇到底是誰啊？

“它和它名字一樣，是只勇敢的貓。但它現(xiàn)在身處另一個安詳?shù)氖澜缌??！?/p>

“當然。”

“那么你們打算什么時候過來我這兒？告訴你，在這個周六，文藝復興集會上會有凱爾特歌舞表演。你們要不要過來參加？”

“聽起來不錯，”我言不由衷地說道。

“真的嗎？太好了！”他回答道。“那周六早上8點左右見。”

沒讓我來得及改變主意，格特叔叔就掛了電話。這是他有生以來打過的最短一次電話。

然后在下個周末到來時，我和妹妹開車前往叔叔家，當時的空氣又濕又潮，像過熟的西瓜一般。我看向妹妹，她小小的鏡框反映出一副不屑的神情。

幾個小時后，我們開進了格特叔叔家所在的街道，他正在門前等我們。他身穿一條蘇格蘭方格裙、一件愛爾蘭國旗緊身上衣，頭戴一塊頭巾，手握一把30英寸長的劍。我看不出他是要裝扮成“海盜”還是“文藝復興時代的人”——其中的區(qū)別微乎其微。我們互相擁抱過后，他帶我們參觀他的后院——半是美麗花園半是廢品舊貨棧的院子。

“小勇比較喜歡這根貓抓柱。但它也喜歡那根，”他說道，指了指外面的一些小柱子。

“它經常在這里打盹?！彼麕覀儊淼搅硪粋€別無二致的地方，繼續(xù)說道。

“這塊石頭是我專門為小勇準備的。它非常喜歡。這里是我為家里人……和小勇做祈禱的地方，”他如此說道。他停住了腳步，我注意到他在把頭往后仰，仿佛希望這樣能把滑到他臉頰上的淚水倒回去?！澳阒绬幔銈兡軄磉@里真是太好了?！?/p>

這是我唯一一次沒有聽他用那種傻叔叔的語氣說話。那一刻，我意識到：眼前的這個人不僅是我們的叔叔，更是一個住在前不著村后不著店的地方，非常想念他的貓的人。

“格特叔叔，我也很高興我們有來，”我說道。這些話從我口中說出，那一刻，我知道我是真心實意的。

“我也是，”我妹妹插口道。當我看向她時，我明白她也心軟了。

然后，這動人的一刻過去了，我們說回了正事。格特叔叔已經計劃好我們要參加文藝復興集會的哪些活動：方格團歌舞表演、馬上槍術比賽、愛爾蘭踢踏舞、女王皇家表演，然后又是方格團歌舞表演。那天下午，我們玩得很開心，在馬背上比武，吃火雞腿，跳舞。這是長久以來我覺得最傻卻又最自由的一段時光。

在開車回家的路上，我們差點中暑的癥狀漸漸緩解成純粹的筋疲力盡。我在想，這么久以來，格特叔叔一直都有請求我們去探望他，為什么偏偏這一次我就答應了呢。也許是因為家人就是能辨認出，甚至是下意識地知道，我們的親屬什么時候需要我們的關懷。我們總要苦心經營我們與朋友、同事和陌生人之間的關系，但是我們對家人的好卻是自動自發(fā)的，而不是有意為之的。而且，在他們需要我們的時候，我們會本能地察覺到，并盡己所能地伸出援手。

在感恩節(jié)的時候，格特叔叔把我和妹妹拿過的大闊刀送給了我們，閃閃發(fā)亮。媽媽看著這兩把刀嘀咕道：“你們到底要用這個來做什么？”

但是對格特叔叔而言，這兩把大闊刀明年參加凱爾特歌舞表演的必備物件?！敖衲昴銈冎皇堑谝淮螀⒓樱髂昴銈儌z可得全力以赴?！?/p>

我們微微一笑，知道他是在說“謝謝你們的到來”。