THE ROYAL FAMILY

During the 1970s, two close friends of mine and I, all in our mid to late thirties, were struggling to make sense of our lives and our careers. Barney Johnston was a restless VP at Western Savings Bank, at times wondering why years before he’d turned down an exciting job with National Geographic. Dan Pierson was a lawyer with a large firm who dreamed of launching his own practice once the dust of his pending divorce had settled. I’d rejoined SmithKline’s consumer arm after leaving for a two-and-a-half-year stint at Campbell’s Soup and, along with my wife Lyn, was wondering if there wasn’t more to life than spending the rest of our days living in the white-bread suburbs of Philadelphia.

So what did Barney, Dan, and I do to address these thorny issues?

We bought a duck boat. Not a classic Jon boat or sneakbox, but a 16-foot green aluminum beauty with a 15 horsepower Mercury motor that we planned to use when hunting in the Brigantine Bay. The hunt I’m reporting on here took place on the opening day of the New Jersey duck season in 1974.

At the public landing, we waited our turn to put our boat in the water, then loaded our guns along with a half dozen cork decoys of my design, plus my Labrador retriever Kiba, and were underway by 5:00 am. The shooting wasn’t anything to write home about, but then again, it never was. These outings were mostly confirmation of our dedication to the hunt itself, and that day was no exception. But the quiet and the calm of the tidal marsh as the sun pushed its way above the horizon of saltgrass, the sound of ducks rapid wing beats overhead, watching Kiba work diligently to retrieve the occasional downed duck in the coarse, thick marsh grass made it all worth it. And, of course, the friendship the three of us shared was the human glue, even though most of our friends thought we were out of our minds.

At the close of the day, we were the last hunters to arrive back at the loading ramp; cold, tired, covered with mud, and happy. As we beached the boat and began to unload it in the pitch-blackness, two wardens from the Fish and Wildlife Service approached us, waving the beams of their flashlights over us and our boat.

First, they asked to see what we’d bagged. My guess is that we’d shot a Black duck or two and a few Blue-winged or Green-winged teal, well under the legal limit. After inspecting our guns, the wardens asked if we’d mind facing their truck so they could check our licenses that were pinned to the backs of our hunting jackets.

They began by flipping up my license holder and asking if I was Harry C. Groome III. When I answered “yes,” they asked for my date of birth.

Next, they moved on to Barney and asked if he was Hugh McBirney Johnston III. When he said he was, they asked him to verify his home address.

Last, they asked Dan if he was Daniel V. Pierson V. Before he could answer, the warden quizzing us turned to his partner and said, “Holy shit, we’re in the midst of fucking royalty.”

Telling you about the warden’s amusing reaction raises a couple of questions:

Why did our parents name us after our fathers and grandfathers or, in Dan’s case, even farther back in his family lineage?

And, what will the practice be for generations to come?

Answering the first is a bit easier than answering the second, although not much. The most common reasons for passing on names from one generation to the next are tradition, pride in the family name, or to honor someone in one’s life who is important to him and his family. Less flattering motives are a thoughtlessness, lack of originality, or a desire to immortalize one’s self.

So, the question for me is, why did so many Harry Groomes insist on giving their sons their names? I can’t answer for Groomefather (my grandfather) or my father, but I named my firstborn son Harry Connelly Groome (without a numeral) as an indelible confirmation of my respect and love for my dad.

As far as the future is concerned, our son Harry muddied the waters a bit by giving his firstborn son — who, like my father, is called Hal — his name plus the V suffix. When I asked Harry why he passed his name on to Hal, he said he wanted to honor the family name and because he had a cool father and grandfather. Royalty or no royalty, that was more than good enough for me.

But, it raises yet one more question: if Hal fathers a son, will he be called HCG VI?

I doubt it because Hal (now 21) thinks that VI suffix is kind of “fruity” and seems to drag its bearer into oblivion.

I may, or may not, live long enough to learn how this all shakes out, but I do know this from my conversations with Hal: his pronouns are “he, him, his.”

It’s an all-new world.