Weekend With Uncle Gutta

I HAVE A HABIT of looking up the etymology of words before I start writing, so 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 bestow upon family members can often be the most difficult type to 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 dissipate like snowflakes in the river.

One hot 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 12 of 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. There was an unfamiliar exertion in the way he spoke, like he had a lump in his throat. “Ballsey just passed away unexpectedly.”

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

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