Come melt season, I am my father's daughter. In the Offspring's castoff rubber boots and ratty hounds-tooth jacket, I take up the ice shovel.
A keen eye is required, and a strategic understanding of the ice-pavement-air-water interface. I chip where the ice-face has lifted imperceptibly from sidewalk. I scrape where the frost-sheath has fragmented into crystalline skin. I crack the loosening grip of the glacier's edge with one well-placed smack of the shovel after another.
You have to know when the ice is ripe for destruction.
And when I start shaping carefully plotted trenches into the remaining snowbanks, noting sun angles and flow patterns, I know I am a product of my genes.