Burton Ritchie Payne died June 9, 2018. At nearly ninety-eight years of age, Ritchie had a good long run.
He was my mother's paramour during her sunset years, 1994 until her death in 2012. They met at an Elder Hostel educational program on campus at University of Southern California. The subject of the three day class was Films of Steven Spielberg. Neither Ritchie nor Mama Barbara had lost touch with how to raid another's nor lose their own hearts to create a romantic arc. After three lunches together, she moved into his Glendale home in short order. They enjoyed travel, Scrabble, studying esoteric topics, and the PBS News Hour. I teased her about being born and living in Cincinnati and for her autumn years, just living in sin. I chalked it up to my not having raised her right.
Ritchie had outlived his two previous wives, each of whom bore him children. Kim and Michael were his first kids; Michael was born of Ritchie's second wife. When my husband, daughters, and I were introduced to the three, they independently and collectively warned us that their dad would talk our ears off. In Ritchie's own words, he was "paid to be an asshole" - as contract negotiator for Warner Brother's Studios. After we got to know him, we imagined that representatives of the other side must have run off the WB Burbank Lot - screaming and pulling their hair - yielding to the studio's demands just to be done negotiating with Ritchie. We nicknamed him Motor Mouth.
His kindness to my mother cannot be denied. In 2003, Barbara had a catastrophic stroke which paralyzed her right side and made Swiss cheese of her left brain. Her words fell into those holes. Complete aphasia for a poet and woman of words was cruel punishment. During her two month convalescent hospital stay, in a lucid moment, she made the decision to return to Ritchie's home. I shall never know whether that decision was born of great love for him or, because she did not want to be a burden to her own three children. My brothers and I went along with her spoken desire
Ritchie's gracious invitation to Barbara to continue living with him, necessarily included her hospital bed, and full-time care-giver. For seven and a half years, she ate, slept and was bathed in that hospital bed in his living room. There, all of us family members could gather comfortably to surround her with love and music. I'd crawl right into bed with her placing her old guitar against her bony knee to play the old folk and freedom songs of the 'sixties. Her brother Larry came once a month to play his trombone or guitar for her as well. She knew all the melodies, harmonies, and lyrics in various languages and she sang right along with us, only near the end of her life did she sing out "doodly-doo" in perfect rhythm when the words failed to pop to mind. The brain is an amazingly plastic organ. She was able to learn some new songs we'd learned at camps where we were volunteering for summer camp, and winter, spring and fall family weekends.
For what would be her last year, we moved her and her beloved care-giver Ellen into our home so as not to wear out the welcome at Ritchie's. During that year, he did not come to visit his "dear Barbara" even once. I wondered if he relished the break from the constant bustle of invalid care in his living room. As it turned out, dear Ellen cared for Ritchie in his familiar home after Barbara died. Then, her son Ryan took over Ritchie's care - right through last Saturday night when Ritchie slipped his mortal coil.
I wonder if he and Barbara will meet up again. I wonder how his children will adjust to the "new normal" without Lord Loquacious as paterfamilias. I wonder what the next step will be for dear Ryan who will need to find work elsewhere.
If there be a Heaven, I hope Mom is there. If there be sneakers there, I hope she puts them on to sneak up and surprise Ritchie with a restored voice. May they enjoy gorgeous sunsets as viewed during their sunset years together.
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