Grandmother's mannerisms are passed on

My brother, David, made the long trip to my town to help my other brother, Michael, haul his new project home last weekend. They stopped by my house for a quick visit. As we all went out the front door an army of carpenter bees buzzed around us.
The guys automatically swatted at them. I responded by telling them to leave the bees alone as they wouldn’t hurt anybody. David looked at Michael and asked, “Who does that remind you of?” They responded in unison, “Grandma!” They laughed as they told me I was turning into our grandmother.
They went on to say she always told them, “They won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.” It was the same thing she used to say to me. She was often walked on by bees and wasps but none of us could remember her ever getting stung.
The three of us weren’t as lucky. We have each been the victim of angry insects far too often. Nevertheless, the carpenter bees on my porch have never even tried to hurt anybody. I have had them look me in the eye before. I have had them crash into me. I have even had them land on me. The fuzzy bumblebee look-alikes don’t seem interested in humans.
They do make holes in the porch. A few holes is a small price to pay for the work they do pollinating the flowers. Besides, in a month or so they will disappear until next year. I have no idea where they go or why.
Much more distressing than holes in the porch is the fact that my brothers are right — I do sound like our grandmother. She has been gone for almost thirty years and her words are coming out of my mouth. How can this be?
There are many things she did that I don’t do. She canned her own vegetables. I hate home canned food. She made jams and jellies. I buy a tiny jar of jam or jelly once every year or so. She cooked without the benefit of recipes. I am lost without written instructions.
On the other hand, I have spent many years searching for specific plants to replicate the ones she used to have. She was always happiest when she was outdoors. So am I. She liked crossword puzzles, as do I. I even sit sideways like she did. It seems that as long as I am alive, so is she. The things that I thought were unique to her live on in me.
So it is with all of our loved ones who have passed on. They are with us in the words we speak and the phrases we use. We unconsciously copy the way they walk and sit. Their mannerisms become our own. The unspoken things they believed in deep in their very souls become the tenets of our own faith.
This past Memorial Day weekend I have been thinking of all those who have passed away, not only the ones who were in the service. All of those who have gone before us live on in our genes. Their names may have been lost to time, but some small trace of them determines how we feel about bees and other trivial and not so trivial things.
By the time you read this, the memorials will be over. The old soldiers will have folded their uniforms and put them away for the next solemn occasion. Those whose loss is recent will continue to mourn.
And somewhere, sometime in the future, somebody will utter a phrase that will remind us that we really do live on after our time on earth is through.