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Month: May 2017

Oh My! Who Knew? DNA and Urinals

Oh My! Who Knew? DNA and Urinals

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Meet the tallest urinal I have ever encountered! Who knew in just a few generations it would come to this?

 

Sometimes we are faced with decisions.

Sometimes those decisions can cause us to look at ourselves and wonder why.

Why am I having to make this decision, what is it about me that I can’t change and how did I get that way?

One day while working and calling on physicians offices I found myself in a fairly new office building in Alexandria, VA.

I had to use the restroom.  There in that restroom reality hit me.  I had to make a decision.

Do I go left or do I go right?

 

Coincidentally, at the time I had been reading Angela Duckworth’s book Grit:The Power of Passion and Perseverance which I have referred to a couple of times before in my essays.  I had just finished the chapter called Grit Grows with the question “How much of our grit is in our genes?”

Our genes.

Our DNA.

DNA has become a popular subject in my house lately.  My wife and I are trying to learn more about our family histories and where we came from.

It’s fascinating.

Where did we come from…our families?

And why are we like we are?

It’s in our genes, our DNA.

But is it entirely?

Ms. Duckworth will tell us with “complete conviction that every human trait is influenced by both genes and experience.”

She explains that height is a good example and that the average height of men and women has increased dramatically over just a few generations.

But what in our experiences affected our height?

According to Ms. Duckworth; nutrition, modern medicine, clean air and water. And she points out that children who were provided an abundant amount of healthy food grew up taller than those who were undernourished.

 

My wife and I recently did the Ancestry.com DNA test to learn more about the mysteries of the heritage of each of our families.

My sister had already done this test through Ancestry.com and received her results.  I suppose I could have just looked at hers and pretty much determined from her results what mine would look like.

But then I thought about it…

My sister is so much different than the rest of us.

Maybe she was adopted?  I mean she is the oldest so how would the rest of us have known the difference?

Then I thought about it some more…

It occurred to me that both my brothers and even my sister are taller than me.  What did that mean?

Maybe I was the one who was adopted!

Or, was it my experience?

Maybe my mother was feeding my two brothers and my sister more and better food than she was feeding me.

Maybe that’s why I was getting lettuce and mayonnaise sandwiches in my lunch box at school.

 

But then my results came back and accordingly to Ancestry.com, my sister and I are undeniably siblings.  So unless we were both adopted as brother and sister, it had to mean that it was my experience and my mother underfeeding me was probably the only explanation as to why I was the shortest!

 

The results indicated that my sister Patty was 51% Scandinavian and I was 46%.  More specifically it indicated we were western Norwegian.   I always figured I was half Norwegian, both my dad’s parents are from Norway.

But the other results were a surprise.  Patty was 36% Great Britain and I was 34%.  She was 10%  Europe East and I was 10% Europe West.  Patty had trace amounts (3%) Europe East and the Iberian Peninsula and I finished out with 5% Europe East, 4% Iberian Peninsula, and 1% Finnish/North Western Russia.

What does all this mean?

I don’t know yet, but I do know that all the while growing up when I was asked what nationality I was I would say half Norwegian and half German.

Just like when I was growing up and someone would ask:

“Hey man, what’s up with your sister?”

I would say I don’t know I think she was adopted.

 

But now I know all that wasn’t true.  I am not half German and there is only a small percentage that could be German.  And I know, thanks to Ancestry.com that neither my sister nor I am adopted.  And I was just kidding about my sister and those questions from my friends and all that adopted stuff because even if she was I would still love her as much as I do now anyway since we all know adoption is a blessing.

And I don’t really think that my mother was purposely trying to starve me resulting in my comparably short stature.  Besides, I liked lettuce and mayonnaise sandwiches, it was my favorite lunch.  And even if she was trying back then,  she is certainly attempting to make up for it now.

So this DNA stuff is really fascinating.

As for Grit, I do think I got my grit partly inherited and partly from experience just as Ms. Duckworth theorized.

And, with regards to my height… it’s okay Ma, I know it’s not your fault I couldn’t reach that urinal on the right.

Pop’s Lady

Pop’s Lady

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Pop’s Lady

The waterman typically woke up about 3:30 AM.  There was no need to set an alarm, no need to set a time on clock radio or West Bend portable because the “alarm clock” was already up and making coffee out in the kitchen.

The first mate was always the first up as well.

 

That coffee had to be brewed, thermoses filled, and breakfast made.  It would be a while until lunch.

In the early days, before the law was changed that allowed crabbing only after the sun came up, they hit the water in complete darkness.  High powered flashlights had to be used to spot the buoys indicating where the trotlines started and ended and on the dark mornings, up and down the river it looked like  premier night at the movies.  Those mornings when the fog moved in it was a leap of faith.

They worked three lines.  The shortest was 1800 feet long, the longest just short of a half mile. About every five feet the 3/16 nylon rope was twisted and a salted bull’s lip was inserted in the space and twisted back.

Bull’s lips were used as the bait.  The bait had to be tough.  It had to last as long as possible.

Once the lines were dropped to the river floor and the buoys placed to mark the location, the waterman would maneuver the boat back along the route of one of the submerged lines and an outrigger would slowly elevate the baited line to the surface, five feet and one bull’s lip at a time.  When a crab was spotted with its claws clinging to the bait it would be scooped into the boat with a crab net.  Once the crabs were in the boat, the mate would sort the crabs into the different baskets that at the end of the work day would be taken to the wholesaler and sold for that day’s wages. The sooks or females in one bucket, the jimmies or males in another. And of those, the restaurant sizes, the ones or twos, had to be separated out as well. The peelers in yet another bucket, they would fetch fifty cents apiece.

The name on the boat was Pop’s Lady.

Pop, my dad, was the Captain; Lady, my mom, was the First Mate.

I don’t remember exactly when my mother got the nickname Lady, but it was a long time ago.

When my parents retired and moved from New Jersey to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and settled down on the Little Choptank River they became commercial crabbers.  Together, they did this for about 15 years.

The first time I introduced my wife Kim to my parents, my mother was sitting under a big tree with a large bucket of bull’s lips by her side and their trotlines, inspecting and re-baiting the crab lines as was necessary.  Pulling out the worn out bull’s lip and inserting the new one, five feet at a time.

I don’t remember whether they shook hands.

My mother…aka Lady, Florence, Flo, Flozzie, Ma, Mom…whatever you called her was and still is as tough as those bull’s lips.

Before her stint as a waterman (or waterwoman), she managed a high school cafeteria for many years.  And before that as a young mother and wife she wielded a hammer, laid brick, and maneuvered a wheelbarrow alongside my dad, his dad, his brother, and his friends as they built our new house in Oceanport New Jersey.

She volunteered with the Oceanport Hook and Ladder Fire Company’s Ladies Auxiliary; she was a wonderful aunt in the extended family that made up the little village we had in our little corner of Oceanport.

And she raised four kids.

My sister Pat was born in 1952, while my dad was in the Army during the Korean conflict. My mom wrote my dad a letter every day that he was gone.

My brother Carl was born in 1954 and me in 1956.  My brother Gary was born not too long after that new house was finished on May 14, 1961, fifty six years ago today on a Mother’s Day.  My dad told me recently he would tell everyone Gary was Flo’s Mother’s Day present from him.

On a recent visit to see my parents, Kim had learned of a website that would tell you the most popular song at the time you were born.  One evening we had some fun with that.  I was born on June 27, 1956.  The most popular song at the time was “The Wayward Wind” by Gogi Grant.  My dad remembered it well.

This same site would also take it a step further and tell you the most popular song at the time you were conceived as well.

For me it was “The Yellow Rose of Texas” by Mitch Miller from the movie Giant, “a 1956 American epic Western drama film.”

Wait…my dad is a huge fan of western movies.

Yuck, way too much information.

C’mon Pop!  I always thought we had ice cream when we watched movies?

I haven’t watched a James Dean movie since.

 

But hey, thanks Pop, you did alright with your Lady and we are all blessed to have this one as our mother.

My mom is still riding shotgun with my dad; still fiercely loyal to her family; still managing that cafeteria only now it’s just her kitchen; still the carpenter’s helper; still tends to my boo boos ; takes care of her neighbors; and is still taking good care of us.

So Ma…Happy Mother’s Day!

In my first essay on Musings…Three Score and Counting  I twice referred to her as my lifeline.  She may not need to be my lifeline anymore, but it’s nice to know she is there.

And I still really appreciate those pork roll, egg, and cheese on the hard roll sandwiches so keep the cafeteria open!

And Happy Mother’s Day to all the mom’s out there.  It’s not always easy but we need you!