Genetics are pretty cool. I was given the heritage kit from 23 and Me over the summer, and it confirmed what I had pretty much known all along: I am extremely Northern European. My “fish belly white” skin (as described by my little brother in that loving way only little brothers can achieve) gave that away years ago.
I strongly resemble my mother, whose birth parents emigrated from Iceland. When I say strongly, I mean I have come across pictures of my mom and wondered when I posed for them. How I think and care are directly traceable to my father, and my physical build is clearly stolen straight from his mother, my grandma, along with many tendencies and preferences.
Like Grandma Montgomery, I have the strong, sturdy peasant build. The descriptors “dainty” and “petite” are not applicable. We are not heavy looking, necessarily, but we would displace a lot of water.
I have noticed that I have many unconscious predilections as my grandmother, too. When eating, for example, I like to save a bite of meat for last, which was straight up a Grandma mannerism. It was not an intentional mimicry; when it was pointed out, I was surprised. I mean, really, doesn’t everybody do that? Apparently not. Just me, and my grandma.
She was a voracious reader, too. I don’t remember her getting the books so much as always having them by her chair. She consumed them, devoured them, relished them. She would rather read than most other things, like say dusting, which I can clearly identify with. (But really, who prefers dusting to anything?) Books are like oxygen, a constant need.
Grandma was very close to her sister, Ethel, who lived in Redwood Valley. They shared a bond that actually transcended the here and now. Many times my grandma would be doing something like gardening, and she would stop what she was doing, go inside, wash her hands, and sit by the phone. Within a few minutes the phone would ring, and the sisters would have a visit.
The calls were not scheduled; she just sensed it. I figured everyone did that – I certainly had those feelings that something was going to happen before it would, or I’d think of someone and there’d be an unexpected letter from them in the mailbox. When I realized it wasn’t common, I understood it was a deep attunement to intuition, which became more trustworthy the more I honored it. (When it’s a negative feeling I call it my “oogie meter,” which I trust even when I can’t explain exactly what is setting it off.)
We didn’t have everything in common, however. Grandma was a tomboy growing up, very no-nonsense and practical, and she raised three boys. She was baffled by my insistence on wearing matching outfits as a child – if I got the pink shorts dirty, I had to change the pink and white top, too, to match the clean mint colored shorts. I still can picture her face as I explained the clothes were matching sets and I couldn’t mix them up.
Grandma was also fairly distant regarding showing overt affection. I know she loved me, but she wasn’t the type to gush and kiss on us, and she was absolutely not a baby person. (I, on the other hand, can’t pass a baby without wanting to hold it or at least coo and make it smile.)
When I was very young, I learned she had been raised to be distant, because her father had suffered from tuberculosis. It wasn’t safe to be too close; not only that, but she and her sisters were farmed out to relatives while he was recovering in a sanatorium. Being an old soul, I recognized that those were contributing factors, and understood that cuddling and loving us could be two separate things.
So far I haven’t noticed another grandma habit appearing – the tucking of a Kleenex in the waistband of my pants, or in the cuff of a long sleeve sweater – but I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I had one handy, while reading a book and waiting for my best friend to call. Call it a feeling, or the pull of genetics.
