Robert E. Simmons, Jr.

Obituary for Robert Simmons

Robert E. (Bob) Simmons Jr. passed away on June 27, 2007 at the age of 87.

Mr. Simmons was the son of Robert E. Simmons and Violet Ivy Cogburn of Dallas Texas. He grew up in Dallas, and served in the U.S. Navy during World War II. He also served in the U.S. coast Gurad and briefly as a Merchant Marine after the war. Early in his life, he inspected missiles for Chance Vault and Ling-Tempco in the Dallas area and later moved to Denver to work at Martin Marietta. In his later years, he worked as a contractor in the Denver area.

Mr. Simmons is survived by his wife of 56 years, Betty Ann Simmons; his daughter Rebecca Hawkins of Denver and his granddaughter Jennifer Hawkins of Denver.
Robert Simmons Jr.

His mother called him Robert, his wife called him Cat Man and I still called him Daddy.

The first third of my dad's life was more colorful than I could ever tell you. In his younger days, he was protector to a brother Don, who would stir up a fight then run to get big brother Bob to fight them all. The policy in the Simmons family was that if my dad lost a fight he would get his ass kicked by Robert Sr. He lived on the streets at a young age. You did what you could to make money during the 1930's and he did well as you can see by the silk suits he wore in some of those photographs.

Let me tell you about the beginning of his boxing days. I am going to quote a newspaper article from 1937 because it is so fun to read and written so colorfully: Robert Simmons Jr. was a tow-headed kid with a grin a mile wide. He won the title and the battle was inspiring. In his first fight of the Texas Golden Gloves tournament Simmons fought four grueling rounds. He was a man on the move, going forward, after his man every second. Bob, washed up from the blistering pace came out that last round like a wild man. When the bell rang, there was no question that he was the best.

In the finals and hour later, Simmons fought as pretty a fight as I ever saw. He was hotter than any souped up racehorse, as ready as Paul Revere was when the British started coming. The first round was Bob's by a shade. He didn't stop one second. Midway in the second round smack out of nowhere a right hand whistled like a freight train at a crossing. Bob's chin ran into it and the impact was awful. Through the bottom and middle ropes, he sailed with all the ease of the well-known man on a trapeze. As his feet started through, one of them hung in the second rope and broke his fall. Bob landed on a shoulder and for a brief instant looked like a fat turkey gobbler hung up under the peach tree just before the guillotine fell. Then he sprawled in a heap to the floor below.

By now, the referee's count had reached four, then five, then six. Bob assembled what was left and wearily pulled it through the ropes onto the canvas. At nine, he was on wobbly feet, jaw set, dukes outstretched and walking forward pawing at his man feebly. The whistle blew for the start of the third round. I stole a glance at his corner. If you ever saw a disheveled, bloody, worn-out somebody, Bob Simmons was that and more. I dreaded to hear the bell ring because I know how the kid had set his heart on winning those little golden gloves. His mouth hung down at the edges, his eyes were shut. His feet draped in front of his stool and his arms were limp lifeless hooks from which soggy gloves dangled grotesquely. (I told you it was colorful) But that bell! Bob woke, rubbed the blood out of his bad eye, cracked a grin, and came out like a bronc from a shut. He managed to carry this round.

I doubted if Simmons could reach his corner by the end of the fourth. But that bell was tonic for ragged nerves, steel for a raking left, courage for a pounding heart. At the end of the fifth, Simmons was on top. He'd earned his way to forward in the tournament. Game, as nervy as they come. Stamina, yeah, more than a mules. Ability, well maybe not enough to win the entire tournament but sufficient to let his opponents know they've been to a young war and not a sewing circle.
My dad won those little golden gloves at least three times and continued boxing until he got out of the Navy.


What was he doing when he was not boxing? As I've heard it told, many things. He knew peoples secrets back then but always told me he did not tell tales out of school. He would not be happy even now if I did. Therefore, I will just share this with you all; he had friends named Harry the Cat, Benny Binion, Joe Campesie, and The Gum Chewer. My father and a Louisiana state trooper would secretly drive the stripper Blaze Starr to see Governor Earl Long in Louisiana. The reason for the state trooper was that Governor Long did not trust just one man to be alone with Miss Starr. He was married twice during this time; I was always assured that I did not have any brother or sisters.

My dad knew Marie Laveau, not the original but her daughter. For those of you not familiar with Miss Laveau, she was the most powerful voodoo queen in North America. Mother and daughter were two women who extended one life as the daughter picked up where the mother left off when she died. They used voodoo's magical powers to control one's lovers, acquaintances, enemies, and sex. My dad, not wanting to take any unnecessary chances in any of those areas, took her chocolate cakes to stay on her good side.