Proof. Proof that my father once wore a watch. Nerdily, strap side up, natch. Stringy hair, Fender banjo, thick glasses, high forehead, rubberband bracelet, straight nose. All things I've inherited. Toned arms, deep tan, center part, natural sense of timing, propensity for going shirtless. All things I haven't. The background as familiar as a childhood blanket or old friend or first kiss, the holler he grew up in, where my grandmother lived and died. A place where I never wore shoes, where I climbed trees, baked biscuits. Played in a creek, walked the gravel road to the corner store for Klondike bars, feared the neighbor's dog who lived at the top of the hill. Peered into the deep well, lit firecrackers, had a drawer in the laundry room full of nothing but tiny aprons, and shucked green beans on the porch swing. Learned to crochet, went to Sunday School. Rolled sugar cookies, drank pop, played dress up, roasted marshmallows, opened Christmas presents, grew up. Not glamorous, not wealthy, not well lit. Well loved.