Robert C. Litton, 1939-2017

bob-at-bnb

 

¶ At 8:00am on August 26, 2017, Robert Carl Litton died in hospice care at the VA Medical Center in Big Spring, Texas, of kidney failure resulting from recently diagnosed multiple myeloma (cancer of his blood plasma).
¶ Bob was born in Dallas, Texas, on December 29, 1939 and was preceded in death by his parents and two brothers. He held a Bachelor of Arts degree in History and a Master of Arts degree in Literature from Southern Methodist University, along with additional studies at the University of Maryland and Yale University during his military service, and later Journalism studies at the University of Texas at Arlington.
¶ He served as editor of several small west Texas newspapers, and as a reporter for newspapers and radio for many years.
¶ Bob was a journalist, a poet and a lifelong student of literature and philosophy. He shared his knowledge with me over many years of friendship, and I will always be grateful to him.

In his own words:
¶ “I have gone to explore the universe, find out what that bright light is that everyone talks about, and determine whether my life really will flash before my eyes.
¶ “I do not want a religious funeral service, or any service at all for that matter. However, my spirit would appreciate the time a friend wishes to spend listening to any or all of three of my favorite musical pieces: (1) Siegfried’s Funeral Music by Richard Wagner, (2) Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber, and (3) Concierto de Aranjues by Rodrigo.”

– Chris Ruggia, Alpine, Texas.

Finis

 



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Assault Plan

By Bob Litton

Most Americans acknowledge that President Donald J. Trump behaves like a child all the time. He’s an extreme narcissist. And what does a narcissist to do get himself seen at every opportunity? The most opportune place for that is the Presidency. That’s why he is so tickled pink to have been elected President of the United States.
¶ Okay, we have a baby in the White House who is dominating the headlines every day with a childish retort, accusation or excuse. A very similar personality in its own way has occurred in North Korea. The are some differences, of course. Kim Jong Un does not retort except against the United States. He laughs at the world. As far as opponents go, he simply murders them. In Russia, there is a man who is sour because of the decline of his precious Soviet empire, and he is getting his quiet revenge. In China we have a new face, so it is hard to tell just how juvenile this fellow is.
¶ Both Russia and China seem to be playing a major world Risk game. They’ve got the U.S. cornered—that is, they keep complaining that the U.S. is being provocative with the presence of our Navy in the South China Sea. Chinese and Russian airplanes fly within feet of American ships. They seem to be urging us to take the first shot so that we can be blamed for World War III, but we won’t stand much of a chance because we will be aimed at from three different corners of the planet. They are counting on our usual tendency to prefer peaceful resolutions, even when those peaceful resolutions are illusory.
¶ The thing to do is to show the faces of these people as actual children, as actual scowling and whining children demanding their way. In order to do this, we need the coöperation of all the television networks in the world (or at least in countries that give a shit). Let them all show the faces of children around the world of different races—many in bewilderment or distaste—and let these faces of children dominate the news so that the faces of the true narcissists won’t be visible. Therefore, they will fade away from hunger—hunger for their former glories.

Finis

Do things signify love? Part IV

By Bob Litton

¶But I need to return to my early childhood—a very strange time. Whatever time my parents’ divorce was—when I was two or when I was seven—I was living with Mama and my two brothers in that shotgun apartment. Mama and I slept in the front room; my brothers shared a bed in the middle room.
¶Papa came over every once in a while to pitch a softball back and forth. One day he brought me a fielder’s glove. I was both happy and disappointed because the fingers were not connected with leather tongs like a first baseman’s glove is and, to my way of thinking, there wasn’t enough padding in it: the ball hurt whenever I caught it with that glove. But, in tune with my usual behavioral pattern, I did not complain.
¶Another event of that time now makes me wonder just how complete the divorce was. One afternoon, I came home after playing with some neighborhood friends to find the door locked. This was very odd: crime was at such a low level in those days that we never locked the door. The door opened about nine inches, the room was dim, Papa was there bare-chested, he handed me a quarter and told me to go to the neighborhood movie theater. I was too young to be aware of what was transpiring inside the apartment then, but of course I have reasoned it out since. O blessed reasoning! At least occasionally you work in my favor!
¶My parents early on noted my adoration of Gene Autry and cowboy things in general. Pappy accompanied Mama and me to attend an appearance of Autry at the State Fair Music Hall in Dallas. Instead of rushing to the dressing rooms afterward, as I’m sure many fans did, we went outside to wait near the exit door. My parents stood a few yards out on the sidewalk but urged me to wait nearer the door. A bunch of performers and stagehands came out gradually in twos and threes. I was about to give up, but suddenly there he was, with some woman. I said “Hi” shyly. He said “Hi” nonchalantly and kept on walking toward a black limousine. But my mother called out to him, “Mister Autry, won’t you speak with my son? He idolizes you.” So, Gene squatted down, shook my hand, and chatted with me a few minutes.
¶What Pappy taught me, one could write on a fingernail. Once, when I was barely in school, he phoned and, during our conversation, asked what time it was. The table clock was nearby, but I didn’t know how to read it. He coached me about the import of the big hand and the little hand. Another time, while we were eating supper, he instructed me in a bit of table manners: he told me not to push food onto the fork with my fingers but to use a knife or a piece of bread. I never have figured out why one finger touching a pea was less sanitary than several fingers holding a slice of bread.
¶No, Pappy never taught me anything very useful, like how to build something or repair it, nor anything about ethics and morality, nor how to respond well to questions in job interviews. Of course, some of that information he was ignorant of, having gotten through the second grade. It now makes me wonder about how he was raised, or wasn’t raised.
¶Pappy was very proud of his English ancestry, peppered with gentry and nobility. His genealogical line goes back to the late 14th century when tracing it with any reliability as to accuracy. One of his ancestors was Sir Robert Litton/Lytton, who in 1499 was “Keeper of the King’s Grand Wardrobe”. (Robert was a very favorite name back in the days of chivalry, which is one reason I gave up trying to research beyond the 15th century.) Here’s a document, signed by Henry VII, that will confirm what I have written; however, it might not be viewable very long because the document is for sale:

https://store.paulfrasercollectibles.com/products/king-henry-vii-autographed-historical-document (£27,500)

¶Keeper of the Grand Wardrobe is not a very prestigious position, it seems to me, but perhaps there are reasons of which I have no knowledge (some moderate illness or old age) that made the job suitable. At any rate, I’ve seen no record of the clan distinguishing itself until Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton gloriously popped onto the literary scene contemporaneously with Charles Dickens. However, only scholars and grad students now read his works. I must say, I rather liked his Last Days of Pompeii and Pelham, which Pappy never handed me but instead left on a shelf in the kitchen/dining room of the very modest house Mama had recently bought.
¶He also bought me a pair of spurs, although I had no boots. The problem with the spurs was that they were cavalry spurs, which had no rowels as cowboy spurs do. But I did not complain.
¶It seems to me now that my parents spent a lot of money on my enthusiasms. In fact, one of my parents—I wish I could recall who—bought me a cowboy arrangement of leather chaps and vest. They were very nice. I wonder now if I hugged the giver and said “Thank you!” I wonder if the gifts were intended to express love.
¶Then there was the Gene Autry guitar. It probably would be considered an antique now, although I don’t know how many of those instruments still exist, a factor which would affect its price. I see on Ebay one for sale for $250 (needs some restoration) and another for $429. The first dates from the 1940’s (coequal with mine), while the latter dates from 1954, when I was fourteen and no longer interested in strumming it much. At first, my parents paid an old man to give me a couple of guitar lessons, but I quickly gave it up. I’m not sure now why, but I have some reasonable surmises: my teacher tried to talk me into learning to play the violin, the congenital extra volume of flesh on the little finger of my left hand made fingering the chords difficult, and/or I was just too lazy.
¶So, Pappy gave me stuff and once let me stay a couple of weeks in his shed during a penurious moment in my life, but he never taught me anything except perhaps how to survive on virtually nothing. There was one dramatic scene during my teen years. He and I were standing in the kitchen of Mama’s small cottage. I was looking through the door screen and crying while I accused him of being a no-father. He had never hit me like he did my brothers and Mama, but he had always been mostly absent and he had never taught me anything needful, especially about sex. He raised his voice and in a silly defensive tone said, “All I could have told you is that the penis in your pants causes babies!” I decided then that there was no sense in trying to discuss anything serious with that man, my father.

Finis

 

 

 

 

 

Do things signify love? Part III

By Bob Litton

¶I’m still not sure when my parents divorced. For most of my life I thought it was when I was seven years old, but when Pappy’s will was contested in the late ’80s, one of the documents indicated that I was two at the time.
¶Pappy’s girlfriend “Goldie” contested the will which my senior brother (I had two) had presented to the probate court. When the old woman presented a holographic will, we had a problem that reminded me of Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. After about seven years of discussions and unpaid and rising legal fees, my brothers thrust the executorship onto my shoulders.
¶Mama showed me a photocopy of “Goldie’s” version of Pappy’s will. It was handwritten on a #10 envelope and dated later than ours. However, I immediately agreed with Mama when she pointed out that the body of the holographic will had been written by Pappy but the signature was clearly not in his hand-writing.
¶When the judge summoned all parties to his courtroom soon thereafter, I did not mention the signature discrepancy for I figured it would only extend the case even further. I didn’t care what we might gain or lose; I just wanted to eliminate the legal fees. Early on, our attorney— who suspected my brother of stealing eighty acres of East Texas farm land from ‘Goldie’ (which brother probably did since he told me he had been with Pappy when Pappy stole it)—stood up and petitioned for an increase in his billing.
¶I immediately stood up and loudly exclaimed, “No! May I say something here?” The judge smiled and said, “Go ahead.” I don’t recall my exact words, but basically I said that I was poor, that I had recently received a bill  from our lawyer for thirty-something thousand dollars, that this whole lingering show was beginning to look like a Charles Dickens novel, and that I just wanted it to be over.
¶The judge asked me a few questions and then instructed the two parties to go out in the hall and try to find a way to settle the issue amicably. My brother had sent another lawyer to listen to us but not enter into the negotiation. So, the three of us stood there out in the hallway while I and the lawyer agreed that I would pay him and he would accept $5,000 out of the anticipated $12,000-plus we would receive from the Dallas Independent School District, which had confiscated Pappy’s dilapidated building through the eminent domain law. My brother’s attorney leaned toward me and said I had hit on the appropriate amount. Brother had already paid our attorney $1,000 back when we had thought it would be simple probate.
¶We all returned to the courtroom, and, while I sat on an audience bench, the lawyers stood before the judge and told him they were willing to meet in “Goldie’s” lawyer’s offices and strain out a compromise. They did so the following week. When they came out of an office and met with me and my attorneys in an ornate conference room, I agreed that my family would accept the building and its contents, while “Goldie” could have the contents of his safe deposit box. I’m not sure but I think the total value of what was in the box was something like $20,000.
¶After the judge had approved our agreement and ordered the county to issue a single check to my brothers and me and to the attorney, I met with the attorney at a bank and told the teller to take out $5,000 in cash for the attorney and to divide the remainder into three equal checks for my brothers and me,
¶The next day I handed middle brother his check, a little over $2,000. He whisked himself off to Las Vegas to try for a big win in an effort to save his carpet business, which was under bankruptcy control. When he returned, I was sitting in the office talking to a bank teller on the phone about what was needed to cover a couple warm checks. He stood in the doorway with both arms spread out, his hands clasping the door jambs, a look of exhausted unbelief on his face. “I lost it all!” he uttered.
¶What our senior brother did with his “inheritance”, I don’t know.
¶As for me, I used mine to buy a roll of carpet for a customer who had selected the pattern out of a sample book. Since all of our suppliers were aware of the bankruptcy, they wouldn’t sell us any rolls on credit, and the large store was virtually empty except for remnants and half a dozen full roles. It was the time of the Reagan recession. Our bank closed its doors.
¶But my brother was sort of saved by a factory rep who sidelined in his own enterprises. The rep basically bought brother out but let him retain a part ownership so that my much overweight and sedentary brother would have a regular $500 a week income.
¶I did not participate any longer, but started working for three temp agencies, hoping to find my suitable niche.

((More later. I’ve got to get back in bed. Adieu,))

 

Do things signify love? Part II

¶It is quite possible that Pappy had no goal-setting outline in mind, so he just floated from one low level occupation to another: he tried sign-painting for the longest time, then a time as a guard at Republic National Bank, then selling mail-order shoes. He had other small enterprises: I don’t know how many but two were a one-year set-up of a firecracker stand and another as the lover of a rich elderly woman.
¶His only goal seems to have been to get rich quickly and magically.  That was one of the other odd things about him. Once, when I was in my teens, I asked what his religion was. He looked at me rather daringly and said, “If God created the universe, then who created God?” But later, Pappy took to reading New Age type books. Somewhere in his weird readings he picked up on the demiurge. One day in the shanty he had attached to his old building, I stood in the doorway that separated his “kitchen/bathroom” from the larger main room. While he washed himself in a small washtub, I read his writing on a #10 envelope tacked to a door frame. It was addressed to some fabulous being who had fairy godmother type powers. It said: “Bring me one million dollars right now!” So, to Pappy, God did not exist but demons did.

((To be continued tomorrow…or maybe late tonight. I’m getting dizzy and very tired, Adieu,))

Do things signify love?

©2017 By Bob Litton
NOTE TO READERS: Please don’t become expectant just because I am publishing this post. I am still having various physical problems that make daily living painful, particularly degenerative joint disease, sciatica, and general low energy. But at least now I can get out of bed without the excruciating pain I was experiencing since earlier this month; it still hurts, but I don’t have to grit my teeth.
¶No, I forced myself up and to the computer keyboard because it is Father’s Day here in the U.S.—albeit a bit late in the day (6:39 P.M. Central Time). I want to display for my readers some facts about Papa that might make you think about character both obvious and hidden. I have tried to figure my family out for many years without much satisfactory success. I didn’t ask many questions of them, and they are all dead now; so our lives together and apart will remain a strange mystery to me until I too am dead.
¶I hope I have explained enough to make the following post understandable.
* * * * * *
¶Father’s Day is not celebrated as fully as Mother’s Day and, I think, with good reason. The moment of conjugal embrace, from which conception and birth results, is usually a time of pleasure for the husband and for the wife. However, the wife has to endure all the physical and psychological pains of pregnancy for nine months and in some cases longer. She is the portal through which the baby joins the universe.
¶Yes, all the father experiences is pleasure and, usually, pride when he sees the delivery has been successful and the baby is of the gender he had hoped for. Pappy was devoted to pleasure. He was a philandering gallant. That plus his occasional brutal behavior is what led to their divorce a few years after I was born.
¶But Pappy had other problems which I think were due to his limited education. I was told that he got through the second grade. Now, it’s true that many a youth at the beginning of the 20th century did not finish the regular school course, and that did not hinder them from finding a suitable occupation and satisfactory livelihood. However, as the century moved on, education level became a more prominent component in job interviews.

((Excuse me. I’m going to have try and finish this tomorrow. I am just too sore and weary to proceed any further right now. Goodbye.))

Breathless

¶According to my blog’s statistics page, I have 177 “followers”. That is not nearly as many as most other WordPress bloggers, unless you consider that I don’t use any of the social media venues. Followers come and go for a variety of reasons, but even if they go they don’t always remove themselves from the “followers” list, so I take the 177 figure “with a grain of salt”. Anyway, those of you who remain will probably see this post.
¶Primarily, however, it is the non-followers that I want to address here. They are the ones who constitute the vertical lines on my statistics page graph and whose homeland flags I see beside the post page titles below the graph. I wish I knew who they are, what drew them to my site, and how they reacted to what they read. Yes, it is they I wish to speak to here, to apologize to …nay, just explain why I haven’t posted anything for 19 days now.
¶You see, I woke up one morning about the middle of this month with a feeling of constriction clear across my chest at the sternum level and a severe crick in my neck. I thought I must have had a mild heart attack, so I had someone drive me to the VA hospital 210 miles from here. The VA staff did their routine of x-ray, ekg, and bloodwork. The final result was not a heart attack (which, frankly, had been my hope*) but COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease).
¶COPD is an “umbrella term” that covers emphysema, asthma, bronchitis, and some forms of bronchiectasis; most of its sufferers are victims of emphysema. However, although I smoked a few cigarettes in high school and puffed a pipe occasionally in college, my indulgence was mostly for show—I was posing as an intellectual…well, and to keep my hand warm in the fall. But I never consciously inhaled the tobacco. Still, since I frequented smoky pubs for hours on end in my college years, it is quite plausible that I was affected by second-hand fumes.
¶Now, what I have read about COPD lately has led me to believe that my nearly constant state of tiredness and low concentration level were symptoms of the COPD. What I gathered in my reading informed me that it cannot be cured; that I will be extraordinarily vulnerable to colds, the flu, and pneumonia; that it will shorten what would have been my life span; and that all I can do to control it is avoid contact with people who are ill, wash my hands frequently, drink lots of fluids (especially water), eat healthy foods, get pneumonia vaccines and a yearly flu vaccine, and engage in mild to moderate exercise.
¶So, dear readers, that is primarily why I have been absent from these pages. My low energy level and difficulty in concentration make writing a worthwhile post not very appealing. I wanted to tell you all of this because I appreciate you and because I don’t want you to feel frustrated when you pull up my blog and find nothing new there. I don’t know when I will create something fresh and worth reading.
¶Thank you for your faithful attendance.
Bob Litton

* See the reason for this preference in my blog post of 12-29-2014, “Diamond Anniversary”.

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