The Artist

This is my Opa, known to most others as Werner Eugen Bollmann. He died before I was born. My mother was Daddy’s Little Girl. Yet while we never met, in many ways I feel like I know him from her fond memories. At least well enough that I would want to get to know him better.

I’ll fill in more details of his story at a later time. But today I want to relate part of a conversation I had with my mother.

Mom and I were discussing my Opa’s brother, Fritz, who was apparently “crazy”. Born a lefty, he had his left hand tied behind his back in an effort to force his right hand to become dominant. Such a barbaric practice! As a lefty myself, I simply cannot imagine trying to learn to use my right hand to eat or to write, but I digress. I mentioned to my mother that Uncle Fritz may have been artistic, as left handed persons are more prone to artistic traits. And if Uncle Fritz had a personality a little “out there”, perhaps this could have been the reason for his odd personality.

“Well, my dad was quite an artist,” Mom said. My ears perked up more even than they usually do during a “family” conversation.

Oh, really?

“Yes! Fatti (German for Daddy), wrote a book for my brother, which was started before he was born. It contained thoughts of welcoming a new child into the family and stories from here and there of my brother as he grew up. And each page had a drawing or sketch. It was known as ‘The Heinz Book.’

I knew my grandfather could whittle and enjoyed turning bowls and other items from wood. After an early heart attack, he purchased a wood lathe which he used to practice his craft in their home basement.

“Oh! And he had perfect pitch.”

What? This was completely new.

“Yes, I can remember him sitting down at the piano and just do-do-do-do-do all over the place.”

But you didn’t have a piano growing up. He could just play like that without practice?

“Yes. I don’t remember where or why, but he was sitting, playing the piano, and had the biggest smile on his face.”

We learn our family history by asking picking up pieces of information along the way. We research by hunting down more facts. The mental picture I had of my grandfather prior to this conversation was of a man more mechanical. I knew Opa was an actuarian at an insurance company prior to leaving Germany. His college degree wasn’t recognized when they emigrated to the United States (or maybe there was a bias against hiring Germans in the 1940’s and 1950’s), so he worked as a machinist for Werner Auto Body outside of Cincinnati.

But the information about the artist painted a new picture for me.