Years ago, when I went to the same chiropractor who helped my father, and his father, with their tricky sacroiliacs, I was less than pleased to be told I had the same back as my grandfather. I loved Papa B. dearly, but I knew him as a short, round man, and if I had the choice of which genes to inherit, it would have been his size 6 feet, not his build!
I was reminded of this today when I looked in the mirror before washing my face after gardening. I would like to say that, just as in a novel, my skin was lightly bedewed with an oddly attractive sheen of moisture, but sadly, I had sweat dripping into my glasses when I was outside. Younger me used to be amazed and amused to see my father, and his brother, with the same excessive outflow, thinking it must be a man thing. Nope- genetics.
Thinking of that while I splashed my face with cold water, including my head, because I do wear my hair cut short......just like my father. Oh no! Planting peas, I was singing, "Oats, peas, beans and barley grow", a favorite of his. And on the way inside, thinking that a drink would be "wunnerful, wunnerful" ala Pa (and Lawrence Welk).
Luke, I am my father.
And I could do much worse.