Robert Jay Fite

Dec. 6, 1958 - Apr. 6, 2026

Bob Fite Blues — Spoken Word (Barbecue Version)

Let me tell you about a man named Bob Fite.

Born in Cincinnati…

a place that builds people sturdy,

with that river‑deep confidence

you can hear before you see it.

And Bob —

you always saw him first.

A big man,

the kind who filled a doorway

and a conversation

without even trying.

He could listen when it mattered,

sure —

but he preferred to tell his stories,

rolling them out wide and warm,

the kind you settle into

like a well‑worn chair.

Life carried him far from Ohio,

all the way to Intel,

where the work was precise

and the stakes were quiet but high.

Bob had a mind built for that world —

power supplies, circuits,

the hidden guts of machines.

He understood how things worked,

and he liked being the one

who could explain it.

But when the day was done,

he stepped into the space

where he was most himself —

around the barbecue.

Smoke drifting slow,

meat cooking under his watch

like time itself respected him.

He knew food,

he knew wine,

he knew how to make a backyard

feel like the center of the map.

And now he’s gone.

And Olympia feels heavier,

like the air is holding its breath

trying to figure out

how to move without him.

I think about those evenings —

Bob talking,

hands moving,

stories rolling out

bigger than the man himself.

If you stand still long enough,

you can almost feel him —

not in sound,

but in presence,

like he’s still taking up space

in the best possible way.

Some folks leave dents in the world.

Bob left warmth.

He left knowledge.

He left flavors and stories

that linger long after the moment ends.

So these are my Bob Fite Blues —

not a song,

but a feeling,

a weight I carry with respect

until the day we meet again

eye to eye.

Brad Older, friend of Bob