The
ads for DNA testing from Ancestry finally got to me, and I sent in my $99.00.
Following the directions in the kit, I spit into the vial and returned it for
testing. As promised, it wasn’t long before I received the results. There
weren’t really any big surprises. 98% Western Europe and Great Britain,
consistent with the known genealogy records from my family, links to ancestors
from France, England, and Scotland.
There were things that the test
didn’t mention. That I get my body type from my mother’s, or more accurately,
my maternal grandmother’s, side of the family. There is no question that my
body proportions are like the Christopher side of the family, just as there is
no mistaking that little of my physical appearance came from my father’s side of
the family.
But what about the things not as
easily explained by genes and chromosomes? Perhaps it is easy to explain why I
sound so like my mother that people often confused us over the phone. After
all, it was her voice I heard while in the womb, and Mother’s voice that I
imitated learning to speak. As I get older I also find myself saying things
much as she would have, using the same phrases, some surfacing from deep in my
memory.
I exhibit few of my father’s obvious
physical characteristics – no lean frame, no narrow feet, no blue eyes, not the
same hair, even my hands the shape of my mother’s. Because of some difficulties
when I was born it was determined that I needed a blood transfusion, and was
transfused with my father’s blood, so I know that his blood literally ran in my
veins early on. But where are the other similarities?
A friend riding with me pointed out
something I’d never noticed about myself. When driving, I tend to move my
thumbs on the steering wheel almost constantly. I’d never given it a thought,
but when it was brought to my attention I knew where it came from. Daddy. But when
and how had I picked up the habit? I’m pretty sure DNA wasn’t responsible, nor
had I tried to imitate the behavior. Given a choice, I’d prefer to have Daddy’s
tendencies for neatness and perfection.
Because it seems to get on the nerves of
my passengers, I try to control my thumbs when others ride with me. But when
driving alone, I let my thumbs do their thing. When I glance at my hands, now
covered with age spots just like Daddy’s and my thumbs doing their dance, I
smile and am thankful, not for age spots and dancing thumbs, but for this small
reminder of Daddy, of the wonderful father he was.
