We See and We Choose That Which Adds Up

           ---  A new character-outline and fragment for a story  ---

           I spent a lot of time at a big family's house during my undergrad years. The name of the people there was Groemer. There was Mr. G., Mrs. G., and about nine of their thirteen children. Mother G. looked to be of pronounced, mixed descent -- Italian, definitely, and German (I suppose). The father had the pure featured, guileless face of rural, southern Germany -- of that I am certain. Herman was his name, while his wife's name was Florita or Florence according to my faltering recollection.

          When it came to the Groemer kids, there were a couple of older ones (one 30-ish, male -- probably named Herman Jr. with some TV nickname like Skip and a female medical doctor, Joanie), whom I never really felt I knew. Then there was this nearly indescribable, younger assortment of offspring up and coming.

          Lenny was about five years older than you'd ever know. While he was no Mensa candidate, Lenny was perhaps one of the best people I have ever met. He had a love for Cincinnati beers (all labels and brands), a disdain for work at his construction job, and one of the most 24/7 drunk young adults I came across -- until I met myself around 25. Two years younger was Dave, who was the brilliant mathematician, and probably was a Mensa candidate, who turned into a self-destructing actuarial accountant (for a national insurance company) and unfettered pothead. David clutched his diploma in accounting in Cincinnati then caught the last train for the coast, the day the music died (as they say). D. burrowed into L.A., had the smokiest apartment west of the Pecos, and I remember he was laughing without control the last time I saw him because he had forgotten to go to work for three or four days. Weed: some can't live with it, some can't live without it. Really potent weed: Lord how I miss it. That is a tale for another day though.

           The Groemers saw other kids come along to strain the living conditions in the not quite ample Casa de G's on Montana Avenue. Florence bowed in after Dave. Her day by day name was Blossom. The American cultural revolution and the newfound permissiveness in society hit her hard, like it did Dave, and the effects were apparent and awesome. A total hippie, she had the flower child riff soak onto and into her like a vivid coat of latex paint. Blossom was a bit difficult to have a conversation with; like many of her peers, the girl considered many mundane realities 'far out,' and still is the only person I ever met who actually was present @ the legendary Woodstock Festival. Stephen and Daniel came along two and three years respectively after Blossom. They were close friends of mine. They got along extraordinarily well for two brothers who had been cast into cramped living quarters (they shared a bedroom) all through their grade school and high school years. Daniel's facial features and coloring favored the mother, while Stephen looked like his Dad and had adopted some of his limited repertoire of personal mannerisms. Finally, there were either one or two younger offspring -- one female and one perhaps male. After trying mightily, I cannot recollect if there were one or two, and I am shaky on names. Of this I feel ashamed. It feels insensitive. The pre-adolescent girl -- who had been christened with a softly sweet, traditional female name like Martha -- was clearly planning to chase the lifestyle of her hippie sis, Blossom, an her off the rails bro, David, in contrast to her ultra-responsible, oldest sibling, the doctor. Adolescence was just going to overwhelm her, I often thought. The brothers commented on this too. They were often in protection mode for Marty (?) -- even as they were utterly unable @ any given moment to identify where Blossom was or whom she was with. The last of the Groemer children -- unless there really was one more mystery kid born -- was, like all the just-barely teenage girls in plain blue jean shorts and a tee shirt during that period of social mashup, about one year in front of a killer nickname, regular recreational drug use, a hippie wardrobe for the weekends, a groaning fulfillment of her Catholic schooling, and full-bloom, premature adulthood when last I saw her.

          Inexplicably, I cannot account for any other Groemer children. This is true of one or two other family units with lots of kids that I knew. Obviously, I have named only nine, not thirteen Groemer offspring. I vaguely recall a story or two about early childhood illnesses and death. Why I am so clueless on this subject I do not know exactly. Again, this bothers me. It is strictly a commentary about me, and particularly my lack of curiosity and self-indulgent ways, during that period of my miserable young life. It was colossal burden walking about as the center of the known universe for a few years there. It was all I could do to drink and drink some more to lighten the enormous weight I carried. But would my observation and memory skills regarding such a pack of others be any better today?

          I actually got onto this piece to comment about Mr. Groemer. Not his large group of kids so much -- missing and accounted for. Nor did I come to talk about their less than ample house nor the mysteries of how a complex human and social network functions (and coheres) in complicated familial circumstances. Herman Groemer was a master carpenter and woodworker. I never knew where he went to do his work and/or make his aesthetic contributions in oak and cypress and pine to the planet. I wasn't interested in any manner about the carpentry game. I never knew what time he left in the morning or arrived back home, tired and covered with sawdust and wood shavings, a golf pencil tucked behind his right ear, in the afternoon. I never saw the Mr. and Mrs. take a vacation (or have a real day off), or stand somewhere by themselves, or go out alone, or say nay to hosting a birthday party, spontaneous gathering, or holiday blowout on their property -- inside or out. Family ties and social traditions were so different then.

          In fact, there were only two times when I knew that I could absolutely nail a Herman Kraemer sighting. The first of these was at the 8:00 AM Mass on Sunday morning or on a holyday, like All Saints, at our Catholic parish. The Kraemer clan would march in one in front of the other, kids by size and age on the back end, older ones shadowing their parents. They all occupied the same, father-chosen pew every time. Mr. K. would tap on the edge a wooden pew with his left hand. Habit-wise it was usually the same place as it was last week.  The oldest child, usually Lenny, went in the deepest, followed by Dave, and so on. Ms. Kraemer and her husband anchored the clan's lineup nearest the wide aisle.

          That was the first opportunity. The second of these was in his family/living room after supper. Invariably, Herman was plopped down in a stolid chair with a fraying and color-faded seat pad and a back pad for comfort, his denim jumpsuit for work still covering his torso and legs, tan work boots slightly unlaced by still on the job.  He stretched his arms downward listlessly and his hands and wrists joined together, like a person in eternal repose, high on his abdomen. I cannot recall any expression his face except Old World stern or laconic. Those were his two. Daniel and Stephen said he smiled at time during a family meal time or on a special evening, like Christmas Eve. Pops is what they all called this man, except Mrs. Groemer who occasionally referred to him in her reserved tone as Father.

           Looking I back I am amazed how much this wordless, constant figure communicated to me. I think about him several times, at least, per year. Mr. Groemer you should know was stone cold deaf. When trying to speak, he could be understood by family members accustomed to his attempts. But I suppose he might have been judged to be mute these days. When he sat at night, before bedtime, he had disengaged his hearing aids. With his rather expressionless faith, some of those, if not all around me, judged him to be a mild-mannered and benevolent character. It was easier to dismiss him in that way, since it was a challenge to communicate with Mr. Groemer.

          His children seemed to recognize him as a tough, perhaps imperious, disciplining parent. But never let on much when interacting with others like me.

          It took me a while to penetrate the pleasant but erroneous mythology of kindly and accepting Mr. Groemer. In the monumental annals of experimental psychology, he would be considered a hyper-interesting but a regularly-occurring case.

          Herman was cut off by nature and by choice -- and he was completely fed up, near the razor's edge of his tolerance and sanity. As I observed the Groemer situation, I began to see this man was disengaged, unplugged, staring off laconically at the wall behind others, because he was a seething, raging mass of regret and loss. Mr. Groemer was so disillusioned, with age, in the institutions and expectations, and shortcomings of his own and others, that he was capable of committing mad acts and heinous behavior. Appearances can be so misread. Ultimately, individuals see and believe what they choose to believe and see.

          Almost compulsively and definitely by habit, whenever I would inquire about him, Mrs. Florita Groemer would invariably say wistfully, 'Oh, Father. He's fine. Just fine.'

          This new story will be about perilous denial. And about the human tendency toward unfortunate and short-sighted misapprehension.


          What did I get right? What did I get wrong?  What part(s) need to be re-worked?
          Ideas please . . .



          ---  To be continued  ---