Forty years of memories with my uncle Butch are swirling around in my mind today, overlapping and leaping out at random intervals. I keep landing on one of the most recent ones: November 2025, because it was so quintessentially Butch & I, and it also felt like a generational rite of passage, even then, and even more so right now.
My partner Michael and I had just moved into a new house with friends as neighbors/landlords living on the other side of a double shotgun in New Orleans, with a shared backyard. As a unit, we all decided to open our space up for a celebration of friendship for those with nowhere else to go on Thanksgiving--an "orphan" potluck. Butch was in town, so of course I invited him.
Butch and Darrel's lavish holiday parties are core memories from my childhood. Remembering the dreamy beauty of the house in Oneonta with giant goldfish and gazebos, and the house in Panama City when it was first built, their eye for classy decor and flare for hosting, I was so nervous to have Butch show up. As a relative amateur (I had only ever thrown ragers before; never parties for adults with FOOD), I gave Butch the earliest time we had suggested to guests to arrive. He showed up at exactly 3:30; perfectly punctual.
Annoyingly punctual. The ham was still cooking. The green beans were still cooking. I abandoned Michael and the whole kitchen to keep Butch company, because he was of course the only guest at that point. I could see that familiar twinkle and smirk behind his eyes. He said, "I was knocking and I wasn't sure I had the right house, until I saw God Save the Queens! on your shelf and I knew I'd found it." We laughed and caught up and I gave him the tour until finally, other guests began to arrive: mostly couples in their late 30s and early 40s. I watched Butch begin to blend in, though as both host and niece who deeply wanted to impress him, I was still worried he may not have a good time. My anxiety was palpable. He laughed and said, "Is this your first one of these things? You know, ours used to last from 11am until 3 in the morning..." he went on. I said, "Yes! I know! That doesn't help!"
Food began to arrive with more guests, oh my god SO much food!, and my caregiver conditioning took over as I essentially forced Butch to make the first plate. Walking him through the line we came to the ham and I suddenly realized that we hadn't cut it. I looked at him relatively panicked and was a kid again. I whispered, "It's not cut! Can you help me?" The way he giggled and I giggled and he turned his head to the side will never leave my mind. His laugh was a combination of warmth and amusement and something paternal. It was an inside joke, of which Butch and I had many. We always bonded over our quick witted-asides and good natured if softly catty comments, but this one was a special secret for us. It was a transition, a passing of batons--or carving knives--with our unique humility; even at 40, I still looked up to him and I still needed his help.
We cut slices together and he shortly after, he instructed me to go entertain my guests and stop worrying about him. I obliged, but I watched him out of the side of my eye for the remainder of the night. I watched him do what Butch does--EASILY make friends and find common ground in a group of people he had never met, wrap them in his warmth, regale them with stories of his life while somehow still being humble, connect them to a history they didn't know they shared, all the while making them love him. I beamed when everyone told me how much they enjoyed meeting Butch. And I kind of rolled my eyes too, because of course they did.
When he got back to his room that night, he texted me, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a nice time." Simple, and I don't think I've ever been more proud. My lifelong admiration for Butch is boundless; my love and respect and gratitude for him without end. I am so thankful to have had this moment with him, one that will always feel to me like a switching of hands. While I am absolutely grief-stricken, I can't help but feel that now it's time to show up fully for the both of us.
It's my turn now, uncle. You deserve to rest.
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