I believe that it was Andy Warhall who said something like, everyone is famous for at least 15 minutes of their life, or something to that effect. Let me tell you my thoughts today Monday March 14, 1994 that tends to diminish the importance of that quote.
If you choose to read on I will tell you of a man call "Bob" by his family and close friends.
Last Tuesday I had just sat down for the monthly meeting of the Utah Valley Chapter of the Utah Historical Society, I turned to Richard Poll and asked how he was doing and why his wife had not come that night. Unable to mask his inner feeling he sadly replied that she had passed away the previous month. I was both shocked and sadden, because his wife was always friendly to me, even though I have absolutely no status to warrant it. I was also embarrassed, because if I had not missed the previous 2 month's meeting I would have been aware and would not have caused this awkward moment for him. He looked as if he had aged a lot in that month. That very bright light that I had always seen accompany him was no longer his constant companion.
I had hardly recovered when a friend of mine, and former Bishop's counselor, Paul Jordan sat down next to me, and appeared troubled himself, though I was too self conscious to notice. I asked if he had reminded Brother Houghton about the meeting and if he would be coming later?
You see the three of us are interested in Utah History and always plan to ride together, but never do. At lest one week a month we pause in the halls of our ward to discuss why neither one of the two reminded me that it was the second week of the month. They usually came back with their excuses of why they didn't go or envy stories of how good the meeting was. I know I have exaggerated the quality of the meeting in order to guilt the other two into coming along with me so I wouldn't have to sit alone, again, as the thirty something youngster amongst the 60 + crowd.
Paul (Jordan from my ward) jolted me from my state of embarrassment with the whispered news that Bob was not coming, "I guess you have not heard yet, Bob passed away in his sleep yesterday morning". The hushed tone and the concerned look on his face, told me in no uncertain terms that he was not just pulling my leg, but was genuinely concerned that I was unaware of the news.
As Paul quietly filled me in on the details, as is customary among Mormons, I non-the-less turned him off as my mind pieced together the irony and even further embarrassment as my feeble mind painfully replayed clips of a conversation with Brother Houghton. He had asked me to do a favor for him, and now my procrastination had really caught up with me.
This moment seems even more horrible now then it did then, possibly the shock of the moment had dulled my guilt.
Only I, knew the true irony of the situation, because the favor that Brother Houghton had asked was to intercede for him and speak with Richard Poll about a historical project on which Brother Houghton was working. If I had attended my History meetings more consistently I would have created the opportunity to complete my favor and at the same time became aware of Sister Poll's passing.
The meeting was interesting, but my mind drifted as I rehearsed the announcement that I felt I should give at the end of the meeting.
After a few moments I noticed that Richard Poll had gotten up and taken a seat further back in the room and later exited early.
Amidst the lively recounting of the escapades of Samuel Brannen, by mind wondered if I had upset Brother Poll or had reminded him of the absence in his wife caucusing him to feel like leaving.
Then the bomb shell came. A librarian came into the room and stepped to the podium, interrupting William Bagley, mid anecdote. Bill asked if he were speaking with too much enthusiasm and disturbing library patrons. She reassured him and then said "Is Perry Porter in the room."?
My heart flipped, for we had never had an interruption like this before, and to boot it was my name. She explained that he/I had an important phone call. Embarrassed for having interrupted the meeting I exited quickly with her.
As I followed her down the hall, that same panicky feeling that I had just a year and a half ago was instantly with me as if it had never left.
I had received tragic news over the phone before and had remained outwardly calm, because I had knew well in advance of it's inevitable. I thought of each of my children that I had just left minuets ago, and reviewed in my mind, what ward activities they could have been evolved in that could have caused an emergency. The only logical option was that something had happened to our new baby Mary Elizabeth. I didn't even have time to draw parallels between Mary and the loss of Christy Lynne, because the librarian was walking back to her office and not to the nearest phone.
I turned and made a Bee-line to where I knew a phone was. Actually I was closer to a pay phone, but was in no mood to play slots with AT&T. Usually I am concerned with the remotest possibility, about being perceived as arrogant or too self assured. Therefore I politely and submissively wait outside a persons implied working space, until given permission to enter. This time I walked behind the desk and declared that I need to use the phone, before they could permit or even give instruction on how to get an outside line, I was dialing home.
My fears turned out to be misplaced, as my wife gave me news of Brother Houghton's passing.
I was relieved, but sadden as I returned to the meeting and tried to learn more about Samuel Brannen, while simultaneously rehearsing my announcement.
At the
end of the meeting I got up and explained about Brother Houghton
and the historical work he had been doing to identify the camp
sights on the Gunnison Rail Road surveying expedition. I further
explained the efforts he had gone to making a suitable marker
to replace the damaged markers of the Gunnison massacre site near
present day Delta Utah, (what I coincidentally consider my home
town).
I told the group my name and that I could be reached in the phone book if anyone wanted to know about funeral arrangements.
Today (6 days later) was Brother Houghton's funeral, let me tell you what I learned about the man that family and friends simply called Bob.
I sing bass in the ward choir, when I am not too lazy to attend practice. I made a special point to attend practice this last Sunday, because I knew we would be singing at Brother Houghton's funeral, (I arrived 15 minutes late, rather than not at all).
Habits seem to be a better reflections of what we are, rather than what we wished we were.
We sang 7 or so of Brothers Houghton's' favorite hymns as prelude music. As the family came in from the casket closing, we were singing Love at Home. I have always felt that the entrance of the family was a particularly emotional moment in a funeral. I have vivid childhood memories of being in a small Relief Society room in the Rose Park ward in SLC, as the 9 remaining (of 17) aunts and uncles together wept as the casket was closed on my aunt, leaving behind 7 young sons and 1 daughter / substitute Mom. I had never seen my aunts and uncles agree so completely on any issue except with the grief of the passing of their favorite sister, who had succumbed to cancer.
Those same lowly and grieving feelings that I had subconsciously vowed to forever block out of any future sad moments, somehow, again, temporarily, slipped beyond my control.
The accidental drowning of a friends adopted son, the 5 year loosing battle with cancer of my close friends wife, the death of my sweet grandmother of 17 children were hard, but the death of my daughter, Christy Lynne, had devastated my blocking mechanism.
For the last 2 years whenever I sing, whether it be with the choir or conducting hymns in Sunday school, if I look down on our ward and notice even the slights sign of a tear in someone's eye that has been so supportive of us in our time of sorrow, my voice cracks and words I read, become blurred & jumbled even further.
The words to "Love at Home" seemed so fitting, even though it seemed to be an unusual and extra emotional setting for the entrance of the family. Organ music alone is not as powerful as music and words together.
Brother Benson, was standing next to me in the choir during the third verse, his voice seemed to crack, more often than his higher notes, usually do. This triggering in me the same response. I mouthed the words for a stanza, or two, before attempting to sing again, only to have my voice crack.
It was not just the choir that had trouble singing that day. I was particularly moved by a song sung by a group of Brother Houghton's grandchildren. They ranged in age of about 5 - 9. During the middle verse, one pretty, blond granddaughter, sneaked a glance towards the coffin of her grandfather. The words of the song plus those fond memories of their grandfather, appeared to have the same effect for her as it did for me. She struggled to sing, but was choked with emotion. It was contagious and spread to other granddaughters in the group as well as those that were gathered. The youngest granddaughter, perhaps not grasping the finality of the moment sang on like a little trooper, sometimes on key, most often not. The oldest of the singing group was also able to maintain her composure, I was left to speculate, if it were due to maturity or musical ability.
Later the oldest of the grandchildren spoke and only occasionally shed tears. She told of her own memories of grandpa and recited other grandchildren's memories.
She spoke fondly of when, as a small girl, some grandchildren would be gathered under a large red blanket, stretched over the large rack, of a buck's, head mounted on the wall of the basement. And of how Grandpa would turn out the lights and tell spooky stories by the dim glow of a flash light, reflecting off the red blanket, suspended by a terrifying trophy.
More memories of camping trips to places I had never heard of, but referred to with such reverence and warmth, that it caused me to wish I lived on the same planet as them.
More than one reference was made to a particular camping trip, where, somehow the frying pan was left behind. This did not deter Bob, he improvised and fried eggs on the end of a shovel, to the children's delight and everlasting memory.
I at that point reflected on what my reactions might have been in a similar situation, I felt saddened that with my own inadequacies, and the meager memories I had thus far left as a legacy to my children. I made a private commitment to do a better job of leaving a more positive reaction to adversity, that my children could be proud to reminisce in public.
One of the more unusual memories was graphic stories of the poop monster shared around the camp fire. The quiet attendees, seemed to hush ever more than before, at the mention of poop, at a funeral. The Granddaughter, went on to share a family story, that could live for generations. Bob had devised a spooky story, in order to engender compliance, with a rather unsavory task.
Bob warned the grandchildren if they had to go poop in the woods that they should always take a shovel with them so they could properly burn the poop. Yes in her nervousness the Granddaughter misread burn for bury. I tell this to indicate the level of concentration and attention, I gave every speaker and hung on her every word.
Bob instructed the children that the poop monster would watch them from afar and if they didn't take care of their poop that the monster would jump out and gobble them up.
Bob was so convincing that the granddaughter , confessed that she didn't poop the whole trip, day or especially not at night!
One most telling experience as to grandpa's relationship to her grandchildren, was how that every time the grandchildren would come to Grandpa's, Bob would tell them where Emma had hid her home made candy. Grandma would catch them eating candy before dinner and scold them thoroughly. While in the background, out of sight of Emma, Bob would be pulling faces and pointing shamming fingers, with a wryly smile, as yet again they had been caught in his trap. Apparently this game was played out over and over again, with the candy hardly hid at all, followed by the kindly taunting ceremony, repeated without tedium.
One of the Sons spoke of his dad not missing a hunting trip, though Bob had a cast on one leg up to his hip. It was his first deer hunt where he could carry a gun. Again I felt humbled that Brother Houghton had gone the extra mile for his children, when I was more likely to go the extra excuse.
One son spoke of getting in trouble as a small children and their father taking them all into the bedroom and giving them all a spanking, when he left the room that all looked at each other and started laughing, because the spanking didn't even hurt.
The first to speak was our Bishop, a young 38 year old upwardly mobile looking man. He looks much older or I should say mature then I, though we are the same age, he has the advantage of looking respectable.
I listened intently, imagining if I could ever do the same. He was calm, collected, witty, under the circumstances. He spoke with honesty and humility that was so fitting of Brother Houghton.
He spoke with quivering sincerity that could not be denied, quietly, but powerfully proclaiming that Brother Houghton had been inducted into his personal Hall of Fame as the 6th inductee.
The other 5 members were giving a silent reverence, thus causing me to speculate as to who they might be. As Bishop Hale enumerated the qualities that placed Bob in his personal hall of fame, it became perfectly clear to me that his was not simply a rhetorical device of a person with a Masters degree in interpersonal communications, but in actuality a confession of a long term admiration of a person whom had greatly effected his life.
Bishop Hale spoke of being a young and new Bishop and asking Bob to become the High Priests Group leader, and being put off, because Bob did not want to give up his CTR B Sunday school class.
No this was not a person shirking work or responsibility. He had taught our own son Stephen, at an age when their only church skill is fidgeting
I remember the "Long and Peeping Scope", a rolled up piece of paper that the children would use at they pretend to float high above and look down their scope to spy a child choosing the right. In the age of "Transformers" and "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles", how could a rolled up piece of paper capture the imagination of a sugar charged kid at the end of a three hour block.
I know I couldn't do it. There is only one thing that did it. Pure LOVE.
Bob and his wife Emma loved those kids so sincerely that they would do most anything for them.
I think that they sensed the love between that husband and wife and it rubbed off.
Some of the children of those CTR B classes sang a song written by Bob at his funeral. The song followed a familiar tune and the words were, well....... hockey, to me. The boys had grown so much that they had to sing their part down an octave. My son Steve sang with then as the boys all wore a white shirts and dark ties. I am normally revolted at the conformity of Mormon white shirts. That day I wore a white shirt and tie to a church meeting for the first time in 10 years, out of respect to Brother Houghton. I was not asked to nor felt pressured to do so, which had allows annoyed me. When asked to wear white shirts for choir, I would always wear the brightest colored shirt I had, then pretend that I had forgotten. The choir directors always pretended to believe me. (I have wore white shirts before, but only because all other semi appropriate shirts were dirty). I was really loosing it today I got choked up at the sight of those fine clean cut boys in their white shirts and ties.
My expectations of the performance of the song exceeded the reality of its' simplicity. But on further reflection, now I came to see it as more of a gift rather than a fine performance. (our ward is very musically gifted). Those kids knew even better than I, how hockey the song sounded as 12 year old’s with maturing voices, yet my sometimes self possessed son, didn't hesitate one iota, to attend practice and perform. Yes Bob had truly touched their lives, I could see no reluctance to participate. They sang the song because Bob's wife had asked them. They sat together reverently for a long and warm 2 1/2 hour funeral and were fidget-less. That was not a great performance but a return of a gift of love that had been given to them years before.
The Bishop told of other experiences after Bob had acquiesced his CTR B's. He told of countless and selfless hours of helping others. Of being the first one there to help and the last to leave, but most of all to be the one missing when the praise was being handed out.
No these are not obligatory platitudes passed out as if required at the passing of a church leader. As Bishop Hale had testified, I can still picture Brother Houghton's face blushing with reluctance to accept praises, in even the most inconsequential conversation with him.
I remember when he was first put in as High Priests Group leader, I approached him about having a combined High Priests/Elders lesson. I was doing my obscure Mormon History jeopardy challenge.
Brother Houghton was very reluctant to agree to the combined meeting, due to his apparent fear that pitting Elders against High Priest could possibly invite contention into a church meeting.
I reassured him that it was perfectly safe and the Elders had done Conference jeopardy for years with only the best of feeling existing.
I assured him that the Church History questions were non controversial, even though I knew I was lying, I knew that the Irony of some questions would be unnoticed in the heat of battle. He reluctantly agreed. The day of the lesson, he pulled me aside and again confided his reluctance of pitting the older gentlemen against the collage educated young Elders, hinting that they might loose badly and be humiliated. I remember thinking, gee lighten up Brother Houghton.
The opposite was the case, the High priest whooped us good. More than once we reminded them that it was hardly fair that they were teenagers at the time of Brigham Young and had a distinct advantage to some of my questions. I think we all have forgotten how much camaraderie was made that day as we pointed out their age advantage, and they later printed the score in the ward bulletin.
What I have not forgotten to this day, is that three times Brother Houghton came up to me with the biggest smile on his face, thanked me for preparing the lesson and what a great idea it was and what good fun we all had that day. I think I, with a bigger smile on my face, told my wife more than three times how happy Brother Houghton was about how well the lesson had turned out.
The Bishop told of sadder moments of Bob's service to others. He told of Bob coming to him distort, over how he had spent countless hours helping a certain quorum member and then later having a distant relative tell him to just butt out and mind his own business.
Stan felt as if he had failed & asked the Bishop if he could be released. The Bishop told him that he was the best High Priest Group Leader in the church and that when he got big, he wanted to be just like Stan. They embraced, tears were shed, & then Stan went about serving others again.
The Bishop told of personal service, where Bob had helped him tile a basement bathroom, thus helping Bishop Hale save some money, as is the case of many hair brain notions of men.
I my self have been bitten with that same delusion. I listened carefully as the Bishop spoke of how Bob had included the children in this teaching moment, allowing them to each set a tile. Bob, was not a sophisticated, collage educated man, but a high school graduate with short military stint, and a journeyman Plaster person and tile layer at a young age. This humble craftsman built his own house before he was married raised (4) children in the same house and quietly slipped away in that same house, just around the corner from my own.
Three months ago we made aggressive plans to finish our basement before Mary Elizabeth was born. It didn't happen on schedule, but the wheels, money and workers were in motion. Two days before the carpet was to be laid I realized that we had forgotten about the tile, that had to go in front of the fireplace. We had assumed that the carpet layer also knew how to lay tile. NOT!
I petitioned my office e-mail group for the name of someone who could do a small "cheap" rush tile job. A ward member reminded me that Brother Houghton had retired from just such work. Dah Perry!
I contacted him and he was willing to help but was specific about what he could and couldn't do, i.e. lift. Bob had a heart attack some time back, I remember feeling very good about taping a PBS show about the Donner's and another series about the Old west and taking it to Brother Houghton so he would have something to watch that he liked, during his recovery. This deed was small, and was has humbling when I later found out that I had not been in close enough contact to realize the extent of his heart attack. I had assumed that he had received open heart surgery like my father and had returned to good health. His condition was inoperable thus leaving him with virtually a partial heart and limited exertion.
Bob showed up with all the necessary tools, but Steve and I had to carry them all in, even the lightest tools, which in my misinformed state seemed very odd.
He was not seeking sympathy for his condition he, just kept pretending to be organizing things in the back of the truck as Steve and I made multiple trips from his truck to my basement, totally unaware of his clever scheme to draw attention away from his limitations, thus not even allowing the opportunity of awkwardness.
We were in such a rush that we had not even planed how much tile we wanted to lay until he was there to lay it. Renee is very symmetrical and I am unconventional. When we laid the tiles on the floor the 1 foot square tiles spanned a space that would either be shorter or longer then the space extending from the wall containing the Gas fireplace. My first reaction was to line up the tiles from the right and cut the last one in half to square with the partition. Brother Houghton kindly informed us that it looks nicer to center the tiles on that space and cut both end tiles. I don't like the idea of shorted tiles on each end, since the tiles were large and marble like, I didn't want to break up that continuity. I next suggested that we keep each tile full size and extend it beyond the edges of the fireplace, like a hearth that is commonly wider than the fireplace.
Then next part of the story is I am ashamed to tell, but it does illustrate the great spirit of this humble man, so I will tell it. Renee said NO. I said WHY, because the stove has an exhaust fan the actual fire box is not centered in the protruding partition, so WHY must it be symmetrical? BECAUSE it does was Renee's response.
Suddenly we were in that confrontational mode that only neighbors within ear shot are aware of, and Brother Houghton lived around the corner, way beyond ear shot of a booming bass.
The pressure of the dead line was increasing in or limited perspective, and Brother Houghton was committed for one hour only. "Fine do what ever you think is best", Renee said in a quiet but definite tone and she marched up stairs. After 15 years of marriage I have painfully learned to not take words like those at their face value.
I excused myself from Brother Houghton and went up stairs. I tried to reestablish communications, but as soon as Renee could see that I was not budging on asymmetry, the communications failed again.
Under pressure I left Renee with the last word, and went down stairs to put on the front of a unanimous decision. Brother Houghton put me at ease in a very awkward situation, few people have this skill.
Brother Houghton is a craftsman and with only 1/2 hour over his allotted schedule he left me with enough skills and confidence that I could complete the project my self in an hour. It took 4 more hours.
The only redeeming outcome of this spat is a testimony of a great man. Not for one moment did I have the slightest inclination that Brother Houghton was listening in on a family squabble, so that he could spread gossip. I felt safe in his presence, though I had done nothing to deserve this most personal trust.
Brother Houghton was buried in a beautiful wooden coffin with interior coverings stitched with a mountain scene of hills and trees, very fitting of a hunter, camper, and expert locator of trails.
I have my own monument in my own home, a testament to the fine craftsmanship of a even finer spirit.
I kept a few plastic tile spacers, in case I were ever foolish enough to attempt laying tile on my own..
Today I took half of those spacers from my cluttered window sill in my bedroom and carried them to Stan's grave side. You see I always called him Stan, his given name. I remember Emma commenting at choir about some guy name Bob. I queried who? Emma replied the family calls him Bob. I never felt I knew him well enough to call him Bob, I always called him Stan or Brother Houghton at church.
As the families sporadically filled back to the church, from the grave sight, I tried to unobtrusively slip up to the casket. I placed a few tile spacers under a few flowers that had been placed on the coffin by grandchildren.
I have in my bed room a large bowl, that I call my lazy man's journal, in there I keep tickets stubs from special movies I liked, or sporting events, or the tickets stubs from the Phantom of the Opera where the whole family went, or the tickets stubs from Dan Fogalburge (sp), that I had impulsively taken Renee to on a surprise date.
When I am dead and gone, someone will go through that bowl of stubs and be surprised at my dedication to BYU sports and the diversity of interests. They maybe will be able to make out the wording on complimentary Ballet tickets, but will never surmise that Tiscia and I skipped out bored at half time. They will also find 4 x shaped plastic objects. They will wonder why they are in the bowl, did they fall in, were they as dear to me as the other objects? They will never know that they are a precious gift. A symbol of a shared talent and a precious moment of security . They came from a famous Mormon Stanley A. Houghton.
The fallacy of Andy Warhall's statement is that it refers only to those who seek fame, and is meaning less for those who shun it.
Stan's fame is local and resides in the memories of grandchildren hearing scary stories under a red blanket supported by deer antlers. It is in the memory of a smile for a lesson that came off right. It is in the memory of cooking dinner on a shovel when the frying pan was left home. It resides in an adult's childhood memories of pretending to soar high in a balloon and peer through a rolled piece of paper, (long and peeping scope), down on children choosing the right. In a confidence maintained, in a trail not forgotten.
If I am left with any regrets in the passing of Stanley A.
Houghton, it would be that I did not know Stan well enough to
call him Bob.
Ciao Perry
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and represent my thinking at this point in time,
(subject to change based on better information).
All original writings of mine are just that, to reproduce, forward or use, parts or whole, you need to get permission from me first.
Spellings constructed for effect and to confound the ridged. ;)
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