Long before I was born, my immigrant great-grandfather (one of them) moved into his daughter's fine house in Kansas City, Missouri. At the time, Aunt Bess (my great-aunt) had married the father of the then mayor of the city and lived large.
She was a flamboyant woman although I knew her only briefly and in the sunset years of her life. She married multiple times, divorced when it just wasn't done, and did things with her own style. Members of the older generation used to tell me that I reminded them of Bess and I always took that as a compliment.
My great-grandfather, Reinhard, was a Jew. Although he was a stonemason by trade, he was also known to peddle whatever he could to make a buck. He might buy a batch of helium filled balloons to sell to kids on the street, hold an impromptu raffle with his watch, or whatever.
He lived in his daughter's basement in a simple but furnished room. One fine afternoon as she was out motoring around with her society lady friends, they came across a "poor old man", barefoot who trundled a pushcart of wares through the streets. Her friends babbled with pity about the man, the pitiful peddlar, while Aunt Bess fumed in silence.
Then she went home and cut loose her anger on her father who had been doing this for a long time without her knowledge.
I have no doubt that there was more to the story but the above version is all that came down to me.
In recent moments, I find myself thinking of Reinhard because just as he peddled his wares whenever he could, I'm peddling and promoting my books. Our methods may be different but our goal - to sell all we can - is the same.
Talk about genetic traits or family traditions.
I like it.
So go buy Love Tattoo already.