A Revelation (redux)

 What follows is a reprint from nearly three years ago; considering that November is National Adoption Awareness Month, I am reposting with the hope that my readers may find it of interest.

Paul Fromm

St. Ann's Hospital for Women
Columbus, Ohio

September 10, 1955

 

Do you know that guy? He's a handsome dude; colorful--sometimes a bit off-color; some like him, some don't; some think he's wrapped pretty solidly, others think the "butter dun slid off his biscuits."  Again, do you know him?
 

The answer is that boy--with the exception of the "handsome dude" comment--is me, Mike Gunther.  I am an adopted child.  In February 1956, my parents chose me to be their son. Two years previously they had chosen my soon-to-be sister from the same hospital/orphanage to be their daughter. To many, I assume that revelation is somewhat of a shock . . . to this boy, that adoption was my life. 

 

At birth, I was given the name of Paul Fromm; anyone born prior to 1964 has the right to purchase for a nominal fee his or her original birth certificate, so after being married and realizing that my wife and I wanted to have children, we decided that it was in our best interests to try finding out my health history. Therefore, the documents I received from the State of Ohio were hoped to be helpful--they weren't, at least regarding my health history, which simply stated "Normal." What I did learn was that my mother's last name was Fromm and she lived in Columbus. My father's name was nowhere to be found. To inject a bit of humor into this conversation, whenever anyone would refer to me as a bastard--which certainly has happened in my teaching/coaching background--I would reply, "How did you know that?" It usually stopped the conversation immediately.  (Anyway, I apologize to anyone I may have offended with that last comment.) In simple terms, I have a mother's name, but I have no record of a father's name . . . and I really don't care about either one.

 

The question of whether to pursue my original birth parents has never been an overwhelming desire.  Yes, as an adult, I have been curious, but not enough to want to pursue a search. Nearly twenty years ago, when I was staying at a Columbus-area hotel for a weekend, I went through the phone book just to see; encountering a whole slew of Fromms, I closed the book and abandoned my search. Since that time, I have taken no steps to ever find out anything more. Again, yes, the curiosity is still there, but I really don't know what discovering my actual birth mother would achieve if I even knew other than to perhaps bring disappointment to another family, something I am not willing to do.

 

So, the issue is simple: Why am I even writing this? The answer is because it seems to me to be a topic others might want to read about . . . perhaps many readers have a similar background. With that said, let me share a few other tidbits about this situation. When I was probably six, I was in the backyard shooting baskets on my eight-foot basket when my parents called both my sister and me into the kitchen. I distinctly remember their formally seating us at the green kitchen table--which even had a pull-out tray, bigtime stuff!--and their telling us that they wanted to share something with us. Having no idea what this was about, my sister Carol and I sat there waiting . . . and they told us we were adopted--we both had different parents (Carol, FYI, was not my blood sister). A magical moment in retrospect, but at that time, I asked what that meant. My dad told us that they had gotten us in Columbus but they--Marge and Jack, my parents--were not our "real" parents. Carol and I looked at each other, said, "so," and then asked if we could go outside and play again. That was the impact the announcement had on us . . . nothing. The reasons were simple: We were loved, cared for, and encouraged--we didn't need anything else.

 

As my life unfolded, nothing changed. Yes, I had the proverbial shout-outs with my dad because my hair was too long (imagine that), I was lippy, and I didn't listen--with the exception of the hair, all the aforementioned were true. However, my mother soothed the waters, thus creating a happy home where being adopted meant absolutely nothing. A typical home in typical small-town America, Gnadenhutten provided a wonderful upbringing . . . safe, fun, and conservative. I suppose Peyton Place moments occurred, but growing up I had no knowledge of that side of life. What I did know is that I was secure with what I didn't know! We took care of our own little world, and that was enough for us. My friends and I were no altar boys, by any stretch--got caught doing stupid stunts . . . got away with far more than we should have . . . always knew right from wrong, whether we followed the proper path or not . . . tried to appear as innocent although anyone who really knew us understood we tried to get away with whatever we could--sound like kids today? In simple terms, my friends and I were ornery, but we were certainly respectful. The reason had so much to do with the way we were raised: I suppose we were afraid we would "get a paddlin'" when we got home, but, truthfully, I had already had enough of those to last a lifetime--I'm not so sure fear of my dad's scorn scared me that much. What really kept me in line was the anticipated disappointment my mother would point my way . . . no way did I want her to see me negatively . . . the ol' man, I guess he probably expected my behavior just because I was a boy. 

You see how it all comes together? No excuses offered--strong family, strong values, caring community--those were the keys. Oh yeah, we had our supposed heathens, but even those kids weren't bad--perhaps different circumstances influenced their lives, but they weren't bad kids. We all wanted attention, recognition, love . . . didn't matter what home we came from because at our core we had the same desires. (Here's a hint about a future blog:  Kids today aren't as different as we from our generation think.)

What that adoption did for me was give me a life, one I have cherished for a lifetime. As stated, I was and am not any kind of angelic figure . . . trust me on that. What I learned is that Paul Fromm is eternally grateful that he became Mike Gunther, the son of Jack and Marge and brother to Carol . . .it's a ride that I owe to them, my buddies, and my hometown . . . what a great way to live!