Bonnie Cook

26 March 2009

Bonnie Cook — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 14:26:00 -0700

Hey anybody out there. Am still unpacking from The Trip, and find it strange, putting things in our house I bought during those almost three weeks, things that Henry cannot kid me about: even more baskets from the great Saudi oasis of Hofuf, the alabaster bowls from Luxor on the Nile, the Saudi hand crafted gold chain swinging around my neck! This is not so much fun now, as there is no comment from Henry, no wisecrack about how I go through money as an alcoholic goes through drink. I always assure him he should consider himself lucky, as he has NO idea how much money a really accomplished Aramco shopper can spend. I am a novice compared to some professional caliber shoppers of my acquaintance.

Backing up to the beginning – before the Aramco Reunion, there was a prelude of a couple of days with Peter and family in London. This was a totally nostalgic trip for Peter - he wanted London because, in our early years our family often laid over in London coming and going, and later as a returning student through high school and college, Peter was occasionally stranded there, much to his great delight.

On this trip, I flew from FS to Memphis to Amsterdam on KLM, and then took a separate round trip ticket, Amsterdam to London. I came through Heathrow, and took the tube to the hotel, pulling my little wheeled carryon. Cost: four pounds sterling. Peter and The Bunch arrived at Gatwick, took the train to Victoria Station, and then a taxi to the hotel. Cost: more than four pounds! Consider that our departure three days later was early morning, several hours before the tube opened, so we took a taxi from the hotel to Heathrow for sixty-five pounds. Henry would be proud of my four pound trip into town.

Traveling like this without Henry, the London hiatus before going on to Arabia was one long streaming memory:

In the late 1960s we often arrived at Gatwick from the States and had to connect through Heathrow, then onto Tripoli. The BOAC representative would meet us at one airport, hurry us into a taxi, and accompany us to the next airport. The airlines took care of their passengers in those days! Or, maybe Henry arranged it. Now, I cannot say for sure. The English morning sunshine was a brilliant contrast after flying across the Atlantic through the night. I would look out over the soft misty countryside and Winston Churchill’s words came to mind: “this sceptred isle, this green and verdant land, this England.” Remember, I was a child of WWII; Churchill quotes permeated our post war culture, somewhat like scripture.

Our Dad served his three year mission in England in the late 1930s, arriving back in the States just before war broke out. He loved England, and passed this love on to his children - well, intensely to me. We drove through Runnymede. The airline representative pointed out the meadow and woodlands believed to be the approximate site where King John, in 1215, signed the Magna Carta. I tried to visualize the signing of this first step toward constitutional government – so very long ago - out there in the open field, surrounded by the barons of England. Just this last fall I finally connected, when, with Allison, Olivia and Hunter, we stood in front of one of the four original copies of the Magna Carta, now housed in the National Archives in Washington DC. I stood there and remembered that day in the 1960s, driving through Runnymede on our way from Gatwick to Heathrow.

This trip, Peter’s family and I went to Trafalgar Square late in a lovely afternoon. The pigeons still perch on Lord Nelson’s hat, there atop his 186 foot high column. Families stroll about, quietly reading their tourist maps and looking toward the Houses of Parliament on the banks of the Thames, taking pictures of their children sitting on the bronze lions, cast from recycled cannons of the defeated French fleet. Jake and Bailey scrambled up onto the lions and, grinning, refused to come down. Peter climbed up to rescue them, it is quite high! Cindy took pictures. A calm and tranquil scene.

This was not the Trafalgar Square scene I remembered: the hippies of another era, those young people in spiked blue or orange hair, milling about, wearing chains and black leather. They looked menacing, but were well behaved and quite harmless.

South Africa House, facing Trafalgar Square on the East, is today quiet, and closed that afternoon. In the years we visited, this side of the square was the site of tense controversy. There were always longhaired intense men carrying signs: Free Nelson Mandela! They handed out leaflets protesting Apartheid. They shouted, jostled, staged sit ins. Those early visits to Trafalgar Square introduced me to Nelson Mandela. I believe that for the entire twenty-seven years Mandela served his prison sentence in South Africa, there was a continuous protest in front of South Africa House on Trafalgar Square.

There was a short time in history when Peter and Allison’s clothes were mainly from the English chain, Marks and Spencer, a bit like a J.C. Pennys. One day while going up and down the aisles in “Marks & Sparks”, we unexpectedly ran into our Lebanese neighbors from Tripoli, Tony and Adriana, and so ensued a great day together in London, ending with pictures of us all in Trafalgar Square in the cold of the night.

On this balmy afternoon we headed for Piccadilly by way of Leicester Square, the cinema and entertainment center of London. Peter and Allison, as elementary school age children, remember our being in Leicester Square the week between Christmas and New Years. We, unawares, happened upon an outdoor carnival, the annual Christmas Fair. This was a most unexpected delight. Henry, who refuses to be cold – hence, we have always lived in the deserts of the Middle East – was a good sport, buttoned up his coat, and we rode the ferris wheel, again and again, at 11 pm in the falling snow – those Englishmen don’t know when to come in out of the cold – nor do the tourists!

Peter and I reminisced about those long ago days while Cindy grabbed the little kids hands as we made our way though hordes of people on their way to clubs and theaters. We walked by a half-price ticket booth selling London theater tickets, and toyed with the idea of taking Bailey and Jake to The Mousetrap, written by Agatha Christie, as you know. Henry and I have attended three times through the generations – by ourselves, (we got a babysitter through the hotel, she was a BBC newsreader, Turkish, beautiful and very well spoken – Henry joked about taking her to the play), with Auntie and Peter and Allison, and one other time. I loved the fact that before the play begins, tradition is we all stand and sing God Save the Queen. Do they still do that? The Mousetrap has run continuously in London since 1952, and is a must visit for every tourist, every time one returns. I was sorry we decided against going – it really was too late. We didn’t plan enough.

We walked by the Odeon Cinema – question, was that where we saw Bed Knobs and Broomsticks? No, in those pre-Marriott hotel days we usually stayed at the Cumberland at Marble Arch. Close by was “our” cinema, the Odeon Marble Arch on Edgware Road.

We loved it. The movies then had an Overture before the feature started, giving us time to buy ice cream from the uniformed ushers, they looked like cigarette girls in a Vegas casino in the 1950s, in their perky caps and carrying their trays of goodies in front of them, supported with a strap around the neck. And halfway through the movie was a nice long intermission, time for another ice cream. Going to the movies in England was an event.

In the 1960s, living in Libya, Henry and I were starved for movies. When we hit London, Henry had the schedules figured out so we could go from movie to movie, crossing - usually running - through Leicester Square.

It seems that one day we attended three movies back to back, although I usually tell this story as four movies. In retrospect, certainly four would have been impossible. Maybe not! I remember that on one trip we saw the movie Khartoum, about the British campaign in 1885, with Charlton Heston as General Charles George Gordon. The very next day we went to the Imperial War Museum and saw General Gordon and Lord Kitchener’s uniforms – just like in the movies!

The British Museum was a six minute walk – if you don’t get lost – from the hotel. Peter and Bailey and I made a fast trip over there while Cindy stayed with a sleeping Jake. We had to see at least the Rosetta Stone, since after the Saudi Reunion we would be in Egypt, standing at the site by the Sphinx where this was found. Every time we were in London we would drop by the museum and “check on the Rosetta Stone.” This thing never ceases to amaze me, even though it was “easy” to decipher the hieroglyphs with the same message recorded in three languages. Does not look easy to me. We made a fast run- everything on this trip was rushed – through the Egypt exhibition to see the mummies and sarcophagus (sarcophagui?). Peter had not been there for a long time, all was new to wide-eyed Bailey, who was really only interested in things Greek, as she is in her Greek mythology phase right now.

Peter’s Family and I decided on the general city tour – to give us an overview, a refresher. This was not a great idea. The major reason we took this tour was to get easily to the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace – we should have been there exactly on time, we were not, the bus was late, we had a mere glimpse. Ride the London Eye, that great Millennium Ferris Wheel, each car holds twenty-five people. Still on the winter schedule, The Eye closed before we arrived. Climb the stairwell at St. Paul’s. Closed for renovation. Oh well.

We had a wonderful several hours at the Tower of London, where Jake and Bailey climbed every stair and ran through every corridor, and Peter was on a team of men that fired a trebuchet (perhaps it was a mangonel) at the enemy. There were great cheers from his children as Peter and his team launched a – water balloon. We went through the rooms housing the Crown Jewels of the Empire, truly a stunning display of incredible beauty, and, during a tour conducted by one of the Queen’s Beefeaters, we were asked: “Are you enjoying this British history? Yes? This all could have been yours had you paid your taxes!”

Back at our lovely historic hotel – now the Renaissance Chancery Court London, there was a Ferrari parked in the court yard, and a large bowl of Toblerone candy bars on the counter. Five year old Jake’s mission in life was to see that all pockets were stocked with chocolate at all times. The concierge would see us coming and hand down the bowl to Jake so he wouldn’t have to scramble up onto the high counter.

I got to thinking about “hotels we have stayed at in London.” Two stories:

One time we must have come in from the States with an unusual amount of luggage, as Henry put the kids and me in one taxi, he told the cabby “Kensington”, and he followed with the luggage in a second taxi. Except, there are many hotels with similar names: Kensington Gardens, Kensington Close, Kensington Hotel ….. oops. Henry was at one Kensington hotel, we were taken to another Kensington. No contact. He had the luggage, the money, the passports, the tickets. I had the kids and nothing else. What I had was more valuable, naturally, but that was not going to get us back together. When we never did arrive at Henry’s hotel, after a time of patient waiting and then a bit of a panic, not to mention me, at the other hotel, wondering where on earth he was, Henry eventually realized there must be similar names, found a cabby to help him figure it out, and they eventually found us. Here we could describe a joyous reunion.

This is where I mention that Henry had the greatest respect for these occupations: drilling foremen, military commanders, airline pilots, and London cabbies. I believe the cabbies take first place. By the time they are certified, taking about three years, they know absolutely every address in London. They are the modern wonders of the world. Actually, there is medical evidence that through their preparation to pass “The Knowledge” exams, London cabbies develop an especially big hippocampus, a region of the brain where information is located. (You might Google London cabbies and read about their training – amazing.) Henry loved talking to them and asking about areas in London. They are NEVER stymied, they know everything about London.

And, this particular cabby found his family.

The other hotel story: September 1969. Late in the day we were finishing up a tour of Hampton Court Palace, once owned by Henry VIII. On the street where we caught the bus was a newsstand with late afternoon papers – the headlines – a twenty-seven year old Muammar al-Gaddafi had disposed King Idris I in a bloodless coup d’etat. Another oops.

The next day Henry was to be off to Houston to one of the many company sponsored schools he attended throughout his career; kids and I were to return to Tripoli, as school was about to start. What to do? He waited with us in London a day or two. Tried to contact the Esso office – there simply was no contact in those days. Finally, we decided that he would go on to Houston to the school; we would stay in London while things settled down in Libya. Henry found a lovely small hotel, the manager was very understanding, and said we could stay at least ten days, if necessary, longer. Everything was satisfactorily arranged, and Henry was off. We learned to love breakfast - marmalade with cold try toast, just like Paddington Bear. I took the kids across the street to Hyde Park, where we watched children and their grandfathers launch toy boats on the Serpentine, an artificial lake separating Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and sat by the Peter Pan statue, where Peter insisted the fairies lived…he was age seven. This idyllic life lasted exactly two days. A different manager came on shift, called me in and informed me that the hotel was previously booked, and threw us out! Virtually into the street.

Somewhat startled and very dismayed, I called BOAC airlines, my only contact in London, and cried. Didn’t mean to, cry, I mean, that was spontaneous. The lady was so nice on the phone, calmed me down and assured me she would find us a place. She did. However, by then London had lost its luster, I decided I simply needed to go on home. The Tripoli airport was closed, naturally, but the first day I saw in the paper that flights resumed, I went out to Heathrow to get a reservation. What a madhouse at the Libyan Airlines desk. Every Libyan national in England who had been stranded as we had been, now wanted to go home. There was a great shouting and waving of passports, pushing and shoving in a great sea of heaving humanity pushing up against the counter. In all the confusion, I heard a clipped British voice above the commotion: “Queue up! Queue up!” That was a joke! Somebody took me aside and got us a reservation.

When the plane landed at the Tripoli airport, a WWII aircraft hanger, the doors opened to the desert and a wave of suffocating heat. Armed soldiers patrolled the tarmac. Never before had there been a military presence. I just sat in my seat and could not move. To this day I remember my confusion, looking down in my lap - I can remember even the dress I was wearing - it was checked, blue and taupe. The captain came and sat beside me and the kids and had a gentle talk with me. He explained that while on the plane the kids and I were safe and still on “British territory.” He invited me to simply stay on board and return to London on that flight, at no charge.

I thought awhile – what to do back in London? How to find another hotel? I had no money. My only connection was the airline, BOAC. Henry was still in the states. There simply was no way to talk to him. I decided to take my chances and “go home.” Got through customs, and hailed a taxi – that was a new venture for me, as had never had a taxi in Libya, always we were picked up by friends. Not the case in this instance! We arrived at the house in the twilight. There in the yard were three neighbor families. How did they know I was coming? Far from being a welcome committee, they had run out of kerosene, what with the revolution stopping general day to day commerce, and since we had been gone for several weeks and obviously would not be returning during this historical upheaval, they were dividing up our 55 gallon drum of kerosene among the neighborhood! Imagine their surprise when the kids and I emerged from the taxi.

End of story. We settled into life. School was late starting. Henry returned in good time. The oil fields never missed a beat.

This is the account of the London trip for this year – a time without Henry, a time to remember. It is lovely being with wonderful children and Beautiful and Brilliant Grandchildren, making the next generation of memories, but – certainly a strange lonely difference.

On to the Saudi Aramco Reunion. Peter and his Bunch flew BA to Bahrain so they could come across the Causeway. I flew back to Amsterdam where I met Allison and Olivia, Bobby and Anne, and many Aramcons! at gate D7, waiting for the flight to Damman.

Much love to those of you out there still with me. Bonnie and the Cook Family

2 March 2009

Bonnie Cook — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 14:21:00 -0700

Hey anybody out there still with me – nothing like an evacuation story to get attention! Writing about that event on Henry’s site here took several days, as I thought and considered and re-read several times the letter of July 1967 that precipitated that last posting. Generated memories, many, that did not get written.

About thank you notes: When I wrote the letters to Auntie and to Dad, I also wrote a most heartfelt thank you to, to whom? Generally to the military people at Wheelus, thanking them for all they did for us, they were so very efficient and so very kind. Later that fall, after our return to Libya, the wife of the helicopter pilot, remember? the helicopter flying over our house every two hours in the first days of the war? The wife told me after the evacuation the Air Force had an evaluation meeting with their personnel, and read my letter at the meeting! Her husband recognized it as from me. Am so glad I did that. Henry taught me to write thank you notes, he would not take laziness for an answer, he insisted, until I learned this basic tenet of society. Henry seemed very close here in the house as I re-lived our experience in the Six Day War and tried to figure out how to write it “concisely”! Concisely - that word has become my nemesis.

Well, Nemesis – the Greek goddess of retributive justice, or as we think of it today, a bane or a curse – unexpectedly, Nemesis brought me to where I was thinking to go with this anyway.

Greece: The fact that Henry is no longer present does not go away. Now, being alone, I do not cook. Know that this is a major switch for me – me, who married into the name Cook, and, over the years, actually developed into a cook, sort of, thanks to the expat life style – there was not much to do but have people over for dinner. I met some fabulous cooks – a few definitely in the high end chef category - in the several places we lived. I learned by watching and observing, asking, eating those fabulous dinners, and finally, plunging in, trying for something a little more than grilled cheese sandwiches and canned tomato soup – my reliable dinner of our first year of marriage..

This has been a year of culinary inactivity. However, there came a day last week when I was in the kitchen, immersed in an all day project of fixing three dinners – one for the sick, one for the “needy” (that would be my child’s family!), some dishes for the Cub Scout Blue and Gold Banquet at church. There I was, chopping and stirring and so fully involved, it was as life had been before, except I did not have our man Rahiem coming along behind me, helping and cleaning up. The History Channel was on as background companionship, I paying no attention, really, but suddenly my ears picked up on the Greeks - ten years after the victory at Marathon, Leonidas of Sparta and his 300 fought to the death at the Battle of Thermopylae; Themistocles convinced the Athenians to built a navy, wherewith they were victorious at the Battle of Salamis.

I dropped everything and headed into the Dodger Den to tell Henry to switch the ballgame over to the History Channel – and, there was a silent TV and his empty chair……

On the table beside his chair sits, still, a stack of brand new books he was reading, or going to read, high in the stack a rather academic volume on the Battle of Thermopylae. Years ago he mailed off his book on the Battle of Salamis to someone he thought would enjoy it. If today we had all the books Henry mailed off through the years, we would need an additional room with floor to ceiling bookshelves. About three years ago he ordered a new edition of the Iliad and Odyssey. He sat there in that recliner and read through them. He could speed read when necessary - as in wading through stacks of resumes, applications for a drilling job. He would page through a book in an hour if he were just checking it out. The writings of Homer – he savored. With great pleasure he would settle in and pick up the Iliad and Odyssey day after day. Finished, these books disappeared. I wonder to whom he mailed that set of books?

I stood there, looked at that empty chair and remembered when the movie “300”, the story of the Battle of Thermopylae, was “at a theater near you” in 2007. Henry had read so much about the movie, anticipated it for so long - however, by the time it was released he was very ill, unsteady when he walked, and no longer able to drive. With some effort at swallowing his pride, he had me take him to the movie. I volunteered to go along, he assured me I would not like it! Reading the reviews later, I see I would not - watching each of those 300 die a gory death at the hands of the Persians. So, I dropped him off at the 10 pm movie – the late movie, since he had so much trouble sleeping he dozed through the days, and would be awake most of the night. I worried about his getting to a seat without someone at his elbow, but he insisted he “would do it myself, mother.” I picked him up a bit after midnight. He was ambivalent, trying to think of something good to say about this movie he had waited so long to see. Not much to say. Disappointed. That is when he ordered this academic study of the Battle of Thermopylae.

Once we moved overseas, there were a few places Henry was most anxious to visit. Berlin, Greece, Egypt, England, Switzerland – well, lots of places. After Berlin, we made a real effort to get to Greece, and managed a couple of trips there. One trip, we were to meet a friend in Athens, he arrived a day before we were due, this just happened to be the day before a military coup. Henry and I were actually an hour into our flight that next day when the airport in Athens closed, and our plane was diverted while in the air! to Rome. We enjoyed a wonderful impromptu visit in Italy; the friend spent several days holed up in his hotel room listening to the sounds of gunfire as the change of government took place in the streets. Never connecting in Greece, of course, we reconvened in Tripoli days later. (I cannot remember for sure the friend’s name, Frank, I think, but I remember the expression on his face as we had dinner together some time later, safely back in Tripoli, and he recounted the events of his Greek “vacation.”)

Our first trip to Greece, a primary goal was to visit the Plains of Marathon. We could hardly comprehend the fact we were actually there, standing on, quote, holy ground. I walked around the monument. It seemed to me the stylized Greek warriors looked like Kirk Douglas.

A few days later Henry arranged things so we could stay in a hotel on a hillside over looking the site of the Battle of Salamis. He was fully into this history – had read considerably on the Greek-Persian Wars and was very familiar with the battles and the commanders. We came out of the hotel (maybe lodge is a better term, there was not much built up there at that time) in the early morning and looked down on the straits of Salamis, a body of water between the mainland and the island of Salamis. Such a scene that morning, the wild countryside, the water, blue as only water Greek waters are blue. “They say it is the light that makes the waters that fabulous blue-green.) Henry stood there, trying to verbally imagine the battle for me. Alas, I had not read the book, and was not quite with it. He was disappointed in me a bit. However, I “got” it when we went to Mycenae, and the Agamemnon connection with the Trojan War. I had paid attention in school when we studied the Iliad and Odyssey, but learned so much more from Henry. He could talk about it as if he were on a personal basis with those ancient people. Being married to Henry was a great education. I often felt like the woman who, as the dogs, “ate the crumbs from the children’s table.” (I just read that incident last night in chapter seven in St.Mark.) Thrilled to be there, but not worthy!

His fascination with Ancient Greece coupled with his admiration for Olympic athletes stirred a desire in Henry to attend the Olympics, however that seemed like an impossibility. We watched the 1960 Roman Games on our little TV while living in a motel room in St. George, the summer he field mapped the Arizona Strip. That did stir up a desire to travel, as so many events were held in ancient Roman sites, places we had never seen, of course. I remember watching the Mexico games in a theater – newsreel type movies. This must have been in Tripoli.

We watched newsreel type movies in Abqaiq of the Olympics. I remember someone pointing out to me a really nice young Arab, who worked for Aramco on whatever his schedule was, and then on his week off went to Lebannon to fight with the PLO!

The 1972 Games in Munich was Henry’s opportunity. From Libya to Germany was an easy trip. He met his good friend from college days, Jim Sherman, in Munich. (Peter was named in honor of Jim, but I will not mention this, because Peter does not like his middle name. This is too bad. Henry had supreme respect for “Sherman”, as he always called him.) They rented a little red VW bug and toured before the Olympics began. I bring this up, because while looking for a picture of Henry to email Lasher in Dhahran – I think to add Henry’s picture to the roster of Drilling managers through Aramco’s history, I came across a snapshot – a beaming Henry standing beside a red VW Beetle parked by the road in Germany’s Black Forest. They toured Germany, steeping themselves in WWII history. The concentration camp gas chambers completely unnerved this man, this Great Teddy Bear. Henry possessed empathy for others that is truly a gift. He never really recovered from visiting those death camps.

Jim had to return to the States, Henry went on alone to the Olympic Games in Munich. As I remember, everything was arranged through Lufthansa Airlines. Securing a ticket was akin to a lottery. The “tickets” were a package deal: the airfare, a place to stay, and tickets to a set number of events. I don’t remember that he had much choice in events, and no choice in the place to stay – simply assigned. His place was a bedroom in someone’s home, about an hour train ride from Munich. He saw the opening ceremonies, and now I am not sure if he saw Mark Spitz swim his way to seven gold medals. Henry loved the summer games and was thrilled to be there. He really wanted to see the basketball events, believe he saw the early rounds. The massacre of the Israeli athletes by the Palestinian terrorists occurred in the second week of the games. Henry said people attending the games had no idea what happened. Without notice nor explanation, events were cancelled one day. People arrived at the Olympic Grounds, milled about, confused. The day of the massacre Henry was on the train with a family who were so excited to have tickets to the basketball game. They got to the gate and realized they had left the tickets back at the room, an hour train ride away. Nothing to do but buy another set of tickets. Just before game time, the event was suddenly cancelled. They bought tickets twice to a game that was never played, and there was no recouping the monetary loss. There was no news that day, just cancelled events, no network in place for dealing with a situation such as this unprecedented disaster, so a day or two was spent wondering just what did happen.

Henry had to come back to work before the Games ended, so he missed the closing ceremonies. It would have been quite a thing to be there, considering the situation. It was miserable, to have this wonderful trip, and then the spirit of the Olympics destroyed by this senseless massacre.

On the bookshelf in the library room is a book Henry read about three years ago – Vengeance, the story of the Israelis hunting down and killing the central figures of the PLO’s Munich operation.

From the notes on the cover, indications are that revenge, in the final analysis, does not satisfy, and eventually destroys those seeking revenge. While he was reading this book, Henry was quite deep in thought. Wish we had talked about this.

He brought home an Olympic banner, which in this house I hung high in the hall – had visions of a Hall of Banners as in St. George’s Chapel at Westminster in London. Well, that didn’t happen, but it WAS a good idea.

As Henry declined, he walked stooped over, his eyes on the ground. One day he decided no one could see the Olympic banner where I had put it, and insisted we take it down and hang it lower. So, I put it in the bedroom, just at eye level. He didn’t like that either, HE still could not see it. Well, by that time, it really didn’t matter. We knew what it meant to him.

Got to stop here – this entry is “concise” for me – am boarding a plane in two hours for Memphis – Amsterdam – London – Dammam – Cairo and on back. The Aramco Reunion – three kids, two spouses, six of the three grandchildren are taking The Trip. His memory will be with us constantly, had it not been for him we never would have had the Expat Life.

Bye for now, and much love – Bonnie and the Cook Family

21 February 2009

Bonnie Cook — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 04:51:00 -0700

Hey anybody still out there? A few of you are – thank you so much for the comments on the guestbook – I love hearing from you.

A couple of days ago the first daffodil of Spring 2009 bloomed – suddenly, there it was. A miracle. I’ve always said that Christmas lasts, really, from Thanksgiving through Valentine’s Day – that is my leeway for answering Christmas cards – well, that didn’t happen much this year. And, I leave on the front door the wonderfully aromatic wreath (the Smiths always see that it arrives by December 10th – the fragrance of the north woods when that wreath slides out of the box is the very essence of Christmas) until Valentine’s, by which time it drops needles profusely every time someone comes through the door.

Henry would make many comments, while grinning: “Blast you, Smith, sending that thing to mess up my house!” This year, with no audible comments from Henry, I was stretching Christmas indefinitely, since a bird, while not nesting exactly, has been spending much of his days and every night in the wreath. However, with the appearance of the daffodil, and the fact that one day the bird became confused and flew into the house when I opened the door, and it was a real project to get it to fly out the way it came in, I finally put the wreath into the trash, while thinking about Henry’s Celebration Service.

Eight DVDs of his service have been sitting on the window box for six months. I could not watch it; I could not think of to whom to mail one. (If anyone wants one, at this late date in history, let me know, I will mail it to you. That is easy to do.) A stalemate. So, finally, the day after the 5th, I settled into Henry’s chair and watched the Celebration Service. It was wonderful. How we all love him. The music selection segment is bubbled a bit, the fellow must have spliced the tape there - but when Jason sang the segment from the Frank Loesser song – Spring will be a little late this year…

Ah well. There was the daffodil, despite all this. A friend said to me once, “you are allotted only so many springs. It is good to pay attention when you are granted the next one …” Piggyback that thought onto a letter I received last year, written on the 5th of February when the news went out over the internet. After about three typewritten pages of wonderful solace, Ladine – in our Dhahran days she was my piano teacher, Anne’s piano teacher, a good friend, - said, and I paraphrase here: “so, when things settle down, you will need to decide whatcha gonna with your life, Bon.” There followed examples of what others of her acquaintance had done when faced with my situation: Going seriously into music. Found an international children’s relief organization. Descend into drink. I am thinking!

Meanwhile, we tend to the mundane: the house alarm system. It seems it was installed when we bought the house, but were not moving back to the states for three more years. Having it in place was an insurance thing. Since living here, we hardly ever used it. Henry would set it occasionally, but I basically never paid any attention to it. Several people have suggested that now I use it, and I have tried, intermittently. The last several months the technician has been here to the house many times, about several issues – for one thing, the battery should be replaced at least every five years – it’s been fifteen years, and no one ever thought of it.

Next, there was an article in the local paper - a woman here in town who heard occasional noises in her attic. Assuming she imagined things, she ignored it. Turns out a homeless man was living in her attic. He came down to eat in her kitchen while she was at work. That triggered a memory – Ras Tanura – the Shepherd family, with the four lovely children, two of whom attended The Orme School in Arizona about the time Allison was there. The story: Charlie and Kathy Shepherd attended a function in RT, came home rather late, and went to bed. This is RT in the early 1980s, most of us were not too serious about locking up. In the night, there was a terrific crash - a person falling down their stairs. It seems an Aramcon was a bit soused, staggered from a party to his home, he thought he was on his street, got confused, tried every front door on the Shepherd’s street, their’s was the first one unlocked, so he went on upstairs to bed. In the night he awoke, still confused, and stumbled out of one of the kid’s bedrooms (the kids at boarding school by this time, I am thinking, maybe they were not) and fell down the stairs. The very startled Shepherds helped him on home.

I thought of the Shepherds – Kathy who stenciled our dining room – it was a beautiful room after she finished with it, and she smocked Allison’s 9th grade graduation dress, and a lovely dress for our baby Anne – thought of Kathy’s story, the newspaper story, and I no longer was comfortable coming home to an empty house. Would there be someone silently waiting upstairs? Hence the many visits to the house from the security people, getting the system functional again. I’ve tried diligently to use the thing – sometimes I come home, I had put the alarm on, but forgot to lock the front door! Or, close the garage door. Or, the little kids have been playing in the back and left that door unlocked. Sometimes I would be rattled and not remember the code, frequently reversed the numbers – so – I wrote it on Henry’s Mickey Mouse sticky note paper, and taped it to the keypad – very convenient for all - friend or foe!

Mickey Mouse – Henry loved Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse, he was entranced with Disneyland – our first real date was there, as I mentioned once. By the time all three kids had worked summers at Disneyland, and or World, and later as a real job for a few years, nearly every shirt Henry owned had the embroidered Mickey on the breast pocket – since the kids got us the employee discount.

Early on, though, in Libya, when we started living by plane schedules and 24 hour military time instead of “civilian am/pm time, Henry had a favorite joke, the punch line lived on with us always.

The silly joke: The BOAC pilot (that’s how long ago we are talking here - British Overseas Airways Corporation – to Henry it was always “Better On A Camel” -

BOAC became BA in 1972), the pilot, checking in with the control tower announced: flight arriving at fifteen hundred hours. The Pan Am pilot, checking in: the flight will arrive at three pm local time. The Libyan Airways pilot checking in: Mickey’s little hand is on the three, his big hand is on the twelve….” Henry would just crack up over this line. Often through the years when we were checking time with each other he would say to me …Mickey’s little hand is on the three…

Our time in Libya has been heavy on my mind, as arrived in the mail a few days ago, a lovely note from Henry’s cousin, Mary Carolyn. She enclosed a picture of Henry’s Auntie and Nana holding an infant Peter – a very cute baby he was – and also a letter I had written in 1967 to Henry’s Auntie. Mary must have found it in her mother’s papers. Auntie used to pass around my letters to the ladies at the beauty shop, at her church, and then often Aunt Ruth would take them to read. This letter was written June 10, 1967, from the Hotel Royal in Naples, Italy, where the kids and I had just been evacuated during the Six Day War. It is written on old and fragile onion skin paper, looks to be written with a pretty good manual typewriter. I wrote a similar letter to my folks. Granny insists it is in Dad’s file in his office, someplace. Some years later I did write basically the same thing in essay form for a writing class – kind of a “what I did for my summer vacation” assignment.

Since this is our history – I’m thinking I will put the letter here, and then a few paragraphs from the essay afterward. The letter is very hurried, and assumes the reader is current with the times. A friend read the letter yesterday, he was lost – never heard of the Six Day War, and many terms in the letter are not familiar to him.

To define: the Six Day War, June 1967, had been building up for some long time. It was another of the wars of that era, Israel against the Arab world, this time basically Egypt, Syria, Jordan. Other Arab countries participated in various ways. Israel struck first, the war was over in six days, much to everyone’s surprise. Some historians maintain that the result of this war set the stage for the situation in the Middle East today, and that “we are still fighting the Six Day War.” Gamal Nasser was president of Egypt. “The base” is Wheelus Air Base, just east of Tripoli, at that time the largest US base outside the states, I believe. The pilots rotated from US bases in Germany to Wheelus to train – bombing practice over the Sahara. Church was held on the base, in a little chapel built by the occupying Italians in the 1930s. “Santa Fe” is Santa Fe Drilling Company, contractor for some of Esso’s rigs. Georgimpopoli is the area where we, and many expats, lived, about nine kilometers west of downtown Tripoli, situated on the Cairo to Tunis highway. Our “villa”, on a bluff, had a stunning view from the kitchen window of the Mediterranean Sea. Peter and Allison would be ages 5 and 2 later that summer.

So – here goes – the letter:

Dear Auntie, Thank you for calling Dad. Had planned on sending the identical cable to him, but when I discovered that two cables would be eighteen dollars, changed it to one. Henry was extremely emphatic that I cable you, as you, quote, “worry so much more.”

It’s been an interesting week. Cannot remember how the political situation was when we wrote last. For two weeks before June 5 – War Day – things had been pretty tense. Demonstrations in town on Fridays and Sundays, Americans advised not to go down town. I ran around down there some, out to the base on Sundays to church, never saw anything different. Except on June 4th, three families of us went out to church in a caravan, and not through town. It was very quiet; I felt like things must be calming down, and planned to shop Monday morning at the Italian place I go. It’s a half-block from the Egyptian Embassy, where the mob scenes are organized and given final instructions. But, Peter slept in Monday morning, and I let him sleep, which was a stroke of divine intervention. When our friend Mel Cardin came by at 10 am to tell me war was declared, Peter was just out of bed. Learned later the street where I would have been was one big mob scene.

Well, decided if we were going to sit out a war, better get some milk and eggs, at least, so went to the supermarket in Geogimpopoli. Nearly had the place to myself. The traffic coming out of Tripoli was worse than the Hollywood Freeway – suppose the Arabs are manning their battle stations. Someone told me Radio Cairo had been announcing Tripoli would be bombed. By noon, everything was closed up and the traffic was still roaring along bumper to bumper. Downtown Monday, the US and British embassies were stoned – pretty badly, they finally barricaded them with sand bags and barbed wire. Streets of Jewish shops in the Old City were burned, have heard some Jews were killed. The pro-Nasser faction also broke the water main to the base – water was rationed there for three days until it was fixed. And, heard they beat up some US G.I.s caught in town when it all started. One died and two were pretty seriously injured. By Monday afternoon, I had about six offers to move in with various families should I be afraid to stay by myself. I really was not – all this was going on a long ways from Georgimpopoli, and besides, I expected Henry in from the desert. He didn’t make it – the plane was full. Tuesday, there was a fellow from church checking on us at 6 am, since the nation-wide curfew is now 7 pm to 6 am. Things have been really quiet with that curfew. Some Libyans were congregating on the sand dunes across the road from us a little after 7 pm Monday night. A truck load of police came by and ran them indoors at gunpoint. Was so quiet – not a car nor person moving - could smell the smoke from the fires downtown.

Throughout the day Tuesday somebody was checking on us every thirty minutes, it seemed. I’ve never been so safe. More riots today, the two main shopping streets in town were gutted – Jewish merchants; more offers to stay with people but I felt okay still. The police today were patrolling with rifles, and on horseback. A Wheelus helicopter was patrolling overhead every couple of hours – it is a friend we know from church – checking on me and the Cardins down the street. Ada Cardin is due any minute now, her baby was due two weeks ago, and is the main concern around here. Police patrols are going by every 20 minutes, arresting any Arab who could not explain his presence in Georgimpopoli. Henry made it in Tuesday night, finally. He knew some of what had been going on, as the Santa Fe plane had arrived earlier at his rig with 40 crates of dynamite. If Santa Fe were forced to leave Libya, they were organized to blow up everything that belonged to them – the rigs, camps, trailers, and the last stick to be for the Land Rover the men drove to board the plane.

Henry no more than got in the door when the block warden came by with the news that Wheelus was accepting dependents. I had no desire to go out there where there wasn’t any water, and sleep on the ground. The next morning at 5:30 am some friends – the Cody’s we knew from our days in Hobbs, New Mexico – Gil came by to tell us he was taking his family out to the base in an hour and wondered if we wanted to go with them. That shook me a little, as I had talked to Trudy the day before and she was very calm. So Henry went to the office to get the official Esso view of the situation. Their view – “what problem?” He took an informal poll in the office, found enough people who were staying that we would not be alone. Several companies – Mobil, Oasis, Phillips, had all their people move to the base Tuesday and Wednesday morning. However, we decided to stay. That decision made, we had lunch and everybody took a nap. I was tired, had been up until two every night listening to the BBC and Radio Israel, and had been a little nervous, but with Henry home now and the decision made, just plopped off to sleep.

About 3 pm the block warden woke us up – it was mandatory now that all dependents evacuate to Wheelus immediately. I was not prepared – not in my mind, nor in this house. Had clothes in the washing machine, ironing sprinkled, and the kitchen stacked with dirty dishes. Only thing I could think to do was iron. I forgot the clothes, they are still in the washer. Then, I sort of packed. Was mass confusion. We were allowed one suitcase and blanket per person, and a flashlight. Said goodbye to the tape recorder, the Navajo rugs, the things we bought in Egypt, the Great Books, and took off.

There were seven cars in our caravan – neighbors. We left about 6 pm. Had a funny feeling as we pulled onto the highway. There were hundreds of Libyans standing on the dunes across from our place, just watching us and noting which villas were deserted. All the way to the base it was like a parade, people lined up on both sides of the street. We went around town – Esso said it would be safer – it was not. Town was heavily policed now, but the way we went the police were only at the major intersections. They waved us through, but in the long stretches between we were booed lustily and Libyans threw rocks and bottles at us. Caravans had been going by for two days now and the people were pretty worked up. Two windshields in our caravan were cracked. I was missed. Henry brought up the rear in another car – they really pelted him. Dented some places but nothing too serious – enough to make a good story. We made it okay to the base – those soldiers wearing green fatigues carrying their M-16 rifles and waving us through the gates, were a lovely sight.

We stayed in a school building, 25 cots to a classroom. It was considerably more than I expected and we did fine. The kids were good, the chow halls operated 24 hours a day. They were prepared for 15,000 people – I thought the oil community was 7000.

Thursday morning it was to the office as usual as far as Esso was concerned, although Oasis was evacuating men, women and children. The men could not leave the base until a military patrol had gone through town to see how things looked. Henry did not go to the office that day, instead he stayed with us to see what they were going to do with the families. Esso put out no official word about families leaving, although the “airlift” had already flown out 5000 people. Heard planes landing and taking off all night long. Later in the day an officer made a speech in every building advising us to get out while we could, the planes were available for three days – until Friday – then they had commitments in the Middle East.

Was an interesting situation. MATS were evacuating around the clock to Europe, jet fighters flying observation around the war area, and the Libyan Royal Air Force – 10 planes with 0 qualified pilots – they trained at Wheelus – took off every day to an undisclosed destination. All this at Wheelus. At Idris Airport, twenty miles away, Algerian MIGs were refueling for runs over Israel, Russian transports were arriving, and TWA, Alitalia, KLM were flying in tourists and new families!

After much consideration, Henry decided to send us on. Now, he is not sure where we are. I cannot get in touch with him. The job, the company, for that matter, is uncertain. The oilfield shut down Thursday morning, which in itself is a major operation. There is no communication to Tripoli so I don’t know if the company is staying or leaving or what. The last thing I heard before leaving was that the Government was officially dismayed at the America evacuation, and declared there would be civil peace in Libya at any cost, and the safety of Georgimpopoli was guaranteed. A mob of desert Bedu had decided to try their luck in Gerogimpopoli on Thursday, each one hoping for an American washing machine, a TV set, and a refrigerator, and were met on the outskirts of town by the Libyan army with tanks and machine guns and some got shot before they went on home again. Maybe there will be something to go back to.

The feeling here in Italy today is even though the fighting has stopped it will take a long time before Georgimpopoli is safe and the people who were fighting a holy war have calmed down. Esso had no official word on what we should do, just sit tight in Naples – maybe tomorrow there will be some news.

We flew here to Italy in military transports – not exactly a Pan Am Clipper. These things are like you see paratroopers jump out of in the movies. Webbing for seats and extremely cold. Not insulated for people, these planes are for cargo. There were blankets for everyone and the guys on the flight were wonderful. The bathroom arrangement was a blanket hung over a wire in one corner. I did not get out of my seat, so never saw what was on the other side of the blanket. We left at midnight arrived in Naples at 3 am. I remember I was asleep before the plane got off the ground and Peter was tugging my arm to inform me he would wake me up “as soon as we get there” and then he promptly fell asleep. He was very excited about our big trip. We received a royal welcome in Naples – met by Consulate people, Italia Esso people, and the Red Cross had things to eat and drink and a baby booth with diapers and formula and food. There was a sailor to carry every child and every suitcase – we landed at a US Naval Station. They put us in hotels by the plane load. We were lucky, got a first class hotel on the water front.

We are doing fine – the kids are good, though think this is a strange vacation without Daddy. Will wait a few days to see if Esso is leaving or staying in Libya, then, depending on the word will go back to Libya or come on to the States. If to the States, am seriously considering taking a train to Florence first. Cannot convince Henry we should see Florence; so, in a way, this is a golden opportunity. Depends on the cost. Henry gave me the American Express Card and $100 and said, “you’re on your own, kid.” So we are not destitute, if we were, Esso would advance us money. The Italia Esso man was here today from Rome, passing out $100 bills. I could not, in all conscience, take any money, besides, I imagine it will all have to be paid back.

Will let you know of further developments. Once we think of this as a vacation, it is fun. Henry, I am sure, is safe. He was living on the base, and promised he would not go to town “unless they issue rocks to throw back with.” Love, Bonnie

Well, that is the letter – some further comment about our living there and the War Week: From our kitchen window, looking north, we had quite a view of the Mediterranean, just a few blocks down the hill. However, between there and here was the limestone block wall surrounding our yard, across the street a similar wall which then served as an open air latrine for the workers walking up out of the shanty town located between us and the Med. Men lined up unconcernedly in front of this wall each morning while I would be standing in my kitchen fixing breakfast. There we stood, on separate sides of the road: they, unzipped in front of the wall; me, zipped, flipping pancakes in the kitchen. I learned to look away from the window.

The shanty town was fascinating – a large population of recently arrived Bedu from the interior, hoping for jobs in the city. Little children ran in the garbage strewn streets, there was no water, no sewage facilities, a few strings of electric lights. For festivals and wedding celebrations that lasted about six days, they erected huge tents, the drums throbbed far into the night, a thrilling sound.

The great fear was that Israel would bomb Tripoli – which, in retrospect made no sense as they were only hitting enemy military targets. By the second day of the war I watched the panicky flight from the kitchen window: a steady stream of cars – Peugeots, Fiats, Volkswagens, Mercedes and Fiat trucks, horse-drawn lorries and donkey carts. Many vehicles piled with mattresses, furniture, plastic jugs of water and WWII jerry cans of gasoline. I still remember the sounds of disorganized panic: the shouting, the gunning of motors, the shots of backfiring cars, the donkeys braying – and, quiet wide-eyed children.

Nobody seemed to leave from the shanty town – we shared a strange camaraderie of inertia. They had no means to flee. Neither did I. As I waited for Henry to come in from the rig. Peter and Allison played with hot wheels and puzzles and their blue and white wooden Fisher-Price mailbox, quite contentedly.

What I didn’t tell Auntie in the letter, when Henry came in, and we “packed” – I really was in a confused state – remember putting into my carry-on two books of S&H Green Stamps!!!! Explain that! And a brand new bottle of Jergens lotion – unopened. That thing, in those days in a heavy glass container, became an albatross as I lugged it for days through Italy. Never thought to simply abandon it.

Packed, and ready to leave, in retrospect, I do remember standing at the front door and looking back – like Lot’s wife – at our “priceless possessions” – in those days possessions consisted of three Navajo rugs, the new Ampex reel-to-reel tape player, our books, the kids’ Christmas toys. I do remember Henry putting his arms around me and saying something to the effect: “ it’s okay – they are just things, they don’t matter, we can replace them. Come on, let’s go.”

One reason we stalled so long to evacuate: Henry’s boss at the time had been in military intelligence, stationed in Cairo during the 1956 Suez Crisis. He was convinced that the 6th Fleet, which was at the time sailing in circles in the eastern Mediterranean, had an evacuation plan for us, as he had helped formulate a plan in 1956. That was then, this was now. No plan ever materialized, much to his great disappointment and disbelief. He spent much time on the roof of his house with a telescope, fruitlessly watching for the ships to arrive. Because of his firm faith in impending naval assistance, we stayed, as they stayed.

Our time at the base, living on our cot in a classroom, was falsely festive. We were assigned a time to help cook, a time to help clean up, a time to eat. Was like summer camp, with a scratchy grey wool military issue blanket. I remember the wife of Esso’s president finding every Esso wife and giving us each a twenty dollar bill, along with positive words of encouragement. Years later, we were both in the hospital the same week in Dhahran, and walked the halls together. She was a gracious woman.

There was an American high school at Wheelus, and oil company kids went to school on the Monday. The base was closed later in the day, the students were evacuated by Tuesday, many families did not get to the base until Wednesday, the end result being that some families were split up into different countries! In some cases parents did not find out where their children were for a week or so!

When the kids and I were put on a plane – would have been the Thursday afternoon – we said a brave goodbye to Henry. The plane did not leave for hours, they finally had us go back to the officers club and sit out part of the night. A few hours later, we saw Henry and Mel Cardin, strolling through the officer’s club, looking for anybody they could assist. That is when I broke down - it was much more difficult leaving the second time.

The planes departed on quite a strict schedule, not exactly the Berlin Airlift, but a similar situation – they had just three days to fly out about 15,000 people. Remember in the letter I mentioned Gil Cody taking his family to the base? We knew them in Hobbs – in fact, Trudy gave me a baby shower for Peter. Trudy not only took her children to the base, she took her little dachshund, Heidi. No dogs allowed, on the base, certainly not to be evacuated. There ensued quite a discussion between Trudy and the pilot, - he met his match with Trudy. The plane was taken out of rotation as the discussion intensified. Eventually the plane departed, with Heidi. No man had better ever stand in the way of a determined woman.

Two things I remember about the first sunny morning in Naples: The crates of Bing cherries on the sidewalk at the green grocer. That engendered a wave of homesickness for Utah and stability. And, talked in the street with an American couple, tourists, who were astounded at the sudden great influx of families with no husbands, and found that within a few hours the drug store shelves were bare of toothpaste, deodorant, razor blades, and Kotex!

Dad received the same basic letter I wrote Auntie. It was posted through the US military, a special service offered to evacuees. Being accustomed to a three week lag time for mail, I was startled when the phone rang in the room about three days after I wrote the letter – first off, I didn’t realize there was a phone, and second, who on earth would call me? It was Dad. He had just received the letter, and spent a day tracking me down through the state department. One thing Dad is, is persistent and did not take I don’t know for an answer. He found someone to track down the plane manifests and figure out which hotel we were in. He was almost hysterical, as only a Dad can be after reading that letter. We talked quite a bit, he insisting I come back to the states immediately, me saying, but how? And, who would pay for the ticket? That brought use to the realization I really was okay in Italy, and would simply have to wait until there was word from Esso. So, he was placated some, but he sure didn’t like it.

Another thing. Esso said absolutely no men were to be evacuated. On our plane there were a couple of men, and there were a few Esso Libya men in the hotel in Naples. They were terrified to stay in Tripoli. Maybe they did love their families so much that they felt they were a special case. I saw one man push aside people to get himself onto the plane. I saw one man, a silver tongued devil type, and very handsome, talk his way into making Esso believe it was necessary “for the women and children” that he be there when they landed! I always really resented him.

I did eventually accept 400 dollars from the Esso Italia representative. Then, discovered that our neighbor, Sandy Jansen, and her two children, almost exactly the ages of Peter and Allison, were in our hotel. Sandy was very familiar with Italy, having traveled there before. We got to talking, she ended up in charge, and we did take the train to Florence and stay a week – in a class D pension – a very humble abode, but centrally located. We put the war behind us and sallied forth each morning with our two children each. Sandy gave me quite an education as she walked us through museums and discussed art.

It had been just seven months since the Arno River’s historically devastating flood. The carnage wrecked on thousands of priceless art treasures was a terrible loss to the world. The floors collapsed in some churches; we gingerly walked around the edges, hugging the walls, next to great fans twelve feet high. The fans ran night and day for nearly a year, trying to dry out old wood, old walls, old art. In some buildings canvases of ruined paintings were stacked against the walls, ten or twenty to a group, rows and rows of a swirl of color and muck. Entire art collections had been wiped out by the flood waters. If you brushed up against any wall, instant muck on your clothes. I had a skirt that I wore for years afterwards with a greasy stain that would never come out – wore it as a badge that I had “been on site.”

I fell in love with Florence, with the church bells ringing in the early mornings, the skinny pines, the balmy air, the Italians always waving their arms.

I would wash Allison’s cloth diapers in the sink, and hang them on the iron railing on the balcony to dry. One day we returned to find the diapers had fluttered down four stories and were scattered over the courtyard – the landlady was not happy that they fell, draped over the stone lion in the fountain. She really did wave her arms as she blustered at me.

Sandy and I hired a babysitter for the afternoons, the kids were hot and tired, figured they could sleep and play, and we could see more of Florence faster. Our boys did not like her. She wore sleeveless dresses, did not shave under her arms, nor did she use deodorant. Her babysitting technique was to pick up the boys and kiss them. It was a warm June. Peter would almost swoon, half sick from her pungent underarm aroma. Then, we discovered she was not feeding the babies properly, they were dehydrated.

Sandy was a nurse, an RN, she saw the signs immediately. Too late – Allison went into convulsions. I had never seen one, and was terrified. Sandy handled things as well as she could. All I knew to do was get the pension people to call a doctor, to call the LDS missionaries we had met a few days earlier, and try to contact Henry in Libya. The missionaries came in great haste, assuming the baby was dead. After a priesthood blessing, Allison did very well. The doctor never showed up. There was never contact with Henry – no one in Tripoli had a home phone, of course, and there was never any contact with the office.

That did it. The adventure was over for me. We contacted Esso Italia in Rome, who lined out our options as: 1. stay in Italy indefinitely. 2. Stay somewhere in Europe indefinitely. 3. They would get us a ticket to the states, where we could stay indefinitely.

We opted for the states – kids and I spent the summer with the folks in Utah. It was a long summer, as the only contact with Henry was the mail – about three weeks each way.

Henry had a quiet life that summer – wonder how his family was, work on the rig, and when in town he would lie awake at night with the windows open listening to the clip clop of horses’s hooves - King Idris’s mounted police, patrolling the streets of Georgimpopoli.

We had a joyous reunion in September when we finally went “back home .”

The Six Day War dramatically altered our lives for the summer, then, it was over for us.

However, the war continues, in that events of that summer hardened attitudes and precipitated the turmoil and unrest that swirls throughout the Middle East today.

There you have it – I could write pages more! Anybody still with me? I always remember the day this site was set up, Terry Smith’s instructions to me. In fact, his little yellow note is still taped here, right above the screen:

1. write a concise journal entry.

2. … does not matter about two. I cannot be concise, and, I re-invent the wheel every time I manage to post an entry.

Love to you all - Bonnie and the Cook Family

27 January 2009

Bonnie Cook — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 01:38:00 -0700

Hey – anybody out there – thank you for the comments on the last entry. It had been so long, was gratifying to find a few people still with me.

Next week, as we all know, it will have been a year – I’ve been alternately in a black funk, or, doing fine. There is so much I wanted to get onto Henry’s site before we mark the 5th of February – I just could not seem to turn on this computer. Tonight, am thinking:

Money – which leads me to a bit more about Yemen.

Henry used to “visit his money” every few months at the Merrill Lynch office. He would encourage me to accompany him, so I would understand the state of our finances. However, about ten minutes into the meetings, my eyes would glaze over and I would start to think - lunch. After all, it’s just numbers on paper, we push those numbers around. Sometimes they go up. Sometimes they go down. (At this time in history, they are really going down.) I rationalized my lack of interest by informing him I was dying first – he simply was not leaving me with all that paperwork! Well, here we are.

So, the financial planner called the other day – his concern about a tiny chunk of stock sitting there, doing nothing. “We” should divest ourselves of it and buy something with a better rate of return. Fine. As I am about to hang up the phone, he suggested Phillip Morris – which has a good rate of return. Phillip Morris!!!

There ensued a bit of discussion – I cannot invest in a tobacco company! Aside from the fact I am LDS and have issues with the use of tobacco products, I’ve spent my life in not very tactful (am getting nicer as I get older) suggestions that people don’t smoke, for their own health, not around children, nor around me. “Tobacco companies prey on the young, the uneducated - as Americans become more health conscious tobacco companies are moving aggressively into the Asian market.” I read that somewhere. The financial planner was trying to tell me they also own Kraft Foods; true at one time, but not now.

Okay okay says our Merrill Lynch man – kid, actually, a really nice kid. How about AT&T? They are paying the next highest return. AT&T!!! The last six months of my life has been miserable dealing with AT&T. The phone connection was so terrible that one of my children would virtually hang up on me if I called from the house phone, insisting I just give up on the land line and use the cell. The TV reception was quite poor, and, I was paying for the highest speed computer connection although it is not available in my area. Did AT&T apologize for that oversight or stop billing me??? Took me a couple of months to back out of AT&T, pay the fines, and crawl back to the welcoming (and snickering) arms of Cox.

Okay okay – next, may I suggest Coca Cola, still a pretty good return, but pays less than half of what you would have gotten with Phillip Morris. Coca Cola!!! I don’t think people should drink Coke! All that caffeine. Diet Coke is as bad – all that sugar! (Of course, don’t anyone dare take away my chocolate – containing caffeine and sugar. That is entirely a different matter. Other than chocolate making my clothes shrink, surely there must be a health benefit? Please.) Henry simply loved Coke. Through the years I prevailed on him to gradually give it up - he did for domestic peace, but not cheerfully. Some years ago one of my children decided to prove to his spouse he was not addicted to Coke, by going off of it for a month. Guess what – headaches. Big surprise. And, he lost weight during this experiment. He did come to the conclusion, on his own, he was addicted. The Merrill Lynch kid was almost laughing by now – Coca Cola also sells water and juices – “they are not all bad products.” After some discussion, we settled on a bit of Coke stock – good grief – and on Vodafone stock, an international cell phone company. Could I find any reason to veto Vodafone? I saw Vodafone advertised in Yemen, so I felt a connection there, sort of.

As we finished this stock buying conversation, I thought, now - that is probably the cell phone company terrorists use to detonate roadside bombs in Iraq.

During the Yemen trip, I was mildly surprised that in such a poor country, so many Yemeni had cell phones. I hope they all are with the Vodafone plan.

Am thinking of the night Vicci and I left the Great Souk in Sana’a, simply too tired to walk back to the Guest House, so decided to take a taxi. Immediately outside the Bab el Yemen is a great congregation of men, milling about, chewing gat, visiting for the evening.

We picked a nice taxi driver from the many crushing in on us, all pleading for our business. I had the directions, in English, written on a little piece of paper. He could not understand our English, nor read the directions. A great crush of men crowded around, shouting and pushing, and passing the paper from man to man, (upside down – well, I would have had it upside down had it been written in Arabic) giving this man advice. Things were not looking good. Another taxi driver pushed his way up to us, and said, in extremely limited English, he knew where we wanted to go. There was much nodding by some of the men surrounding him. Obviously there now was developing two separate groups, as though two tribes, jockeying for our business. We went with the second man - he held the paper right side up – to the desperate dismay of the first taxi driver and his clutch of friends. We got into the second taxi, the driver took our paper, nodded wisely, sped off, and then – pulled out his cell phone! and stayed in constant contact with someone, until we arrived at our destination. Driving through the intense traffic in Sana’a while talking on a cell phone causes the passengers in the back seat to regret they had not written their wills. I’m thinking he successfully delivered us to the right place due to Vodafone. May I live long and well on that company’s small rate of return! I was surprised to read, just now in the journal I kept then – the taxi driver smoked in the car. Now I remember! Swirling blue and pungent smoke. It never occurred to him to ask us first – after all, it IS his car! He was probably smoking a Phillip Morris product, on which I shall never have any return, other than trouble from second-hand smoke.

Tonight, as I read through my notes on Yemen – it’s been since April last – I see there is too much to recount, even though I wrote quite a bit on this site last summer. What a fabulous trip. How lucky we were to go there.

Here is a mention of some highlights of the last week of the trip:

We flew from the capitol city, Sana’a to Seiyun in the eastern part of the country, known as the Hadhramawt. We were supposed to take a seven hour overland trip so as to visit the Marib area and the Old Marib Dam. Seven Spanish tourists and their guides had been killed there by terrorists the year before – so, it was deemed advisable to avoid the area at this time. (Okay – no further comment. My neighbor was quite concerned about my going on this trip, so will not mention the recent attack on the American Embassy a couple of months ago.)

We were met at the airport by a security escort, as we had had in Sana’a. They were six gun toting young men, in the blue and white camouflage uniforms – tourist police, spilling out of their military SUV. They reminded me vaguely of the old Keystone cops movies - except this was not very funny. The new wrinkle was the addition of the truck always following behind us with five men in green and brown camouflage, manning a mounted machine gun on the truck bed. Oh dear. Dr. Anthony mentioned that the Hadhramawtis are not disposed to join the government forces, so the military for this area are recruited from tribes in other parts of Yemen, particularly the north, I think. During the several days these men accompanied us, they seemed to really enjoy being tourists with us, as it appeared everywhere we went was new to them also.

I was really excited to see the historic sites in the Hadhramawt – the very name conjures up romantic traveling, in the classic sense of The Grand Tour.

We were quite privileged to visit the prophet Hud’s tomb – Dr. Anthony, who spent time in Yemen as a student, has returned many times since, and founded the Malone Fellows Program, the sponsoring organization for this trip, was thrilled to finally have a chance to visit this site. The Prophet Hud is considered the first of the five Arab prophets, tradition holds he is descended from Noah, that he is actually Eber of the Old Testament, that he is the ancestor of the south Arabian tribes and the father of all Yemenis, plus tradition holds that Abraham descended from him, thus Hud is considered to be the common ancestor of all Jewish and Arab peoples. This information you need to know so as to appreciate the high esteem and reverence the people have for this prophet. Other than our group, the only other visitors that day were a family, pilgrims, from Indonesia. The tomb consists of an impressively large rock partially enclosed by a domed, dazzling white building. Through the rock’s large fissure, believed to have been opened by God, the Prophet Hud escaped from his enemies. During four days each year, at least 160,000 pilgrims come here for a religious festival, the ziyyara, that dates back to ancient times. It is mind boggling to imagine such a huge crowd in this tiny little space. Knowing a bit about the history gives this silent place, with the gleaming white dome over the huge rock, and aura of mystery. We took off our shoes, walked by a large bookshelf with row after row of very old and worn Korans, ran our fingers over the fissure as thousands of pilgrims have done before us for hundreds of years, took some pictures, and left. Waited, actually. A girls’ school is located very close, down the hill from the tomb. Some of the women in our group were gathered into the girl’s school, madrassa, so thrilled were the teachers and girls to interact with Western women. These girls are of Indonesian descent, and wore beautiful colorful flowered dresses. Such a contrast to the black we saw nearly everywhere else. Our ladies had a difficult time extracting themselves from the very enthusiastic hospitality. I was not part of this group - I could not walk down the hill – as I was still hobbling from an injury sustained days before while trekking in Manakha. In fact, to get to the tomb, our police escort drove me in their vehicle as close as possible, and then two soldiers assisted me up the steep, and many! stone steps.

Another site of great interest was the al-Ahqaf Library at Tarim; this city, for centuries, has been “the” great center of learning. The thousands of manuscripts in the library date back many hundreds of years, one manuscript dates to the 1100s. There is a huge Old Testament, hand written in Arabic, about four hundred years old, donated to the library by a prominent Jewish family. There were a few books in English on Arabic manuscripts, and a few books in German on things Arabic. The volumes are arranged by subject – history, medicine, literature, law, the Hadith.

So you will not have to look it up, Hadith means, and this is a loose definition: a tradition based on reports of the sayings and activities of the Prophet Muhammed and his companions, and the prophet’s approval of what was done in his presence. Well, maybe you should look this up! One could get into paragraphs about the definition of Hadith – as I saw in the library, the largest section of books, more than double the size or the rest of the entire library, were under the category Hadith, and that had many sub-categories.

I realized Dr. Anthony took great personal pride in this library - he was part of the team, or, I think, headed the team, that in 1972 cataloged the manuscripts to organize the library as it stands today. It is the only library of its kind on the Arabian Pennisula.

Tarim is a most interesting town of about 200 mosques (tradition says 360 mosques, one for each day of the year) and at least twenty-five large mud-brick palaces, the mosques and palaces constructed with money from wealthy families who made fortunes abroad – particularly in Asia, hence the south Asian influence in this part of Yemen.

Shibam: sounds like a pop song from the 1950s. (I know, that was Sha-boom. Still, I was humming Shi-bam, shi-bam, yadadada…silly, yes, but I was…humming, I mean.) Shibam is a World Heritage site, recognized by UNESCO since 1982. I knew about Freya Stark visiting there in the 1930s, and later wrote that Shibam is “the Manhattan of the Desert.” First, a quote about Freya Stark, that intrepid Englishwoman who traveled to many forbidden places she should not have gone, she went anyway, and asked permission afterward: “she existed in the borderland between literature, politics and exploration; her travels opened the Middle East to Westerners and brought the cultures and people of Yemen to the West through her writings and photographs.”

I was so excited to actually see Shibam, and had it built up in my mind to such an extent, was primed for disappointment. I was not disappointed. The tourist drill is: drive to the city, looming out there in the desert, stop and walk through the streets for a bit, have to rush, as want to be on the other side of the valley in time for sunset. At this point, we are too close, in that “one cannot see the forest for the trees”. The mud-brick skyscrapers tower above street level. They are about eight stories high, with ropes strung between the buildings – like a spider web. That is for passing things from window to window, rather than walk down eight flights of stone stairs, and then back up eight flights in the next building. The streets are narrow dirt paths between the extremely tall buildings. In those narrow paths run little children, many goats, a couple of donkeys. The streets give off a pungent fragrance in the heat, what with the goat urine and poop, and the over whelming closed in feeling. Oh well, just watch where you step, smile at the shy children, and notice the doors with their most unusual locks. They are old doors, the classic Yemeni carved door, some are hundreds of years old, one dates to 1609. There are a few “antique” shops catering to tourists, this really is a tourist site! The real antiques are long gone decades ago, but Yemeni craftsmen can make anything look old. Our group kept business brisk that day.

We could not stay long, had to cross a huge wadi bed, a valley, really, and go to the village way up the mountain facing Shibam, settle onto a rock, and wait for sunset. And, there it is. The sun glinting on those buildings of rose colored mud bricks, looks as if the city is floating. This is no other place like it in Yemen, or anywhere: about 500 mud-brick eight story skyscrapers, clustered together on a mound, an island of skyscrapers in a vast and empty desert. Stunning. There are no words. We sat and watched the city until the sunset turned to twilight. Gradually the children and teenagers gathered in the valley below us. Pickup soccer games materialized, kids running around playing tag, kids rolling tires with tin cans in them, girls playing something akin to jacks. The people were so far down from us they looked like little figurines, but could hear the shouts and sounds of the games. Women in black gathered, holding babies, visiting in groups. No men. Where were the men? Answer: working - in the Gulf States, or further on East into Asia, sending back remittances. Remittances, almost safe to say, the major factor in the economy. What we saw was a civilization without the men, somewhat like a town where all the husbands work in drilling! and are out on the rigs, doing what drillers do. Or, could project this onto the men who work out on the pipelines weeks at a time, or the other massive projects we came to know about in Aramco. I was thinking, our situations are similar, no matter where we live.

Here is a mention of a bit more about our visit to the Hadhramawt area:

Honey. The people take great pride in their delicious honey. There are four types of honey, as it is gathered in summer, fall, winter, spring. Each has its own peculiar flavor. We saw rows and rows of square boxes along the roadsides, it took a couple of days before I realized these boxes are beehives. This honey is said to be the most expensive in the world, so of course we each had to buy a jar, sealed with duct tape so as not to leak in our luggage.

A cemetery. The burial site of hundreds of holy men, some extremely old tombs, many of them descendents of the Prophet Muhammad. It looked like a miniature city with so many white tombs in there. The sign at the gate read “entrance for Moslems only” so we stood a ways off, under some trees. I tried to listen to a quiet conversation going on between Dr. Anthony and someone, about Yemen’s recent history – I knew nothing of the subject, the stories so violent I could not comprehend what I was hearing, plus, I was eavesdropping and missing much, so here are the two lines I wrote later - think what you will: “1967, (maybe it was 1968,) there was a brutal wipe-out of the village leaders here. The Chinese and Russians turned them into Marxists, and then turned them against each other, as Great Britain and the USA retreated and abandoned them.” There was then a graphic description of the killings, this I didn’t write down but remember even now - the deeds done on the order of the ancient Assyrians, just about the most brutal army of all time. As I thought about this, realized we, well, I speak for myself, just am not aware of what actually goes on in the world.

Gypsum. Nearly every building in Yemen is decorated with a white frosting of sparkling gypsum. This gypsum is a local product from the Hadhramawt. We saw the great kilns with the gypsum rock stacked onto them, looking like a pyramid. Inside the kiln the hot fire of oil, sawdust and palm fronds burns two days. After the firing, the gypsum rock pops open, explodes, like popcorn, when put in water! This demonstration was amazing, and it does explode – get too close, as I did, and white powder is all over you. They lump it up like play dough, and beat it with sticks – for hours and hours, the beaters wear cloths over their faces to keep the powder out of their eyes and ears and nose. What a rotten job. They never could be paid enough for what they do. Sack that stuff up, and sell it all over the country. This is what makes Yemeni buildings so unique, so beautiful - the frosting.

Public water. In a village we saw men drinking from the public water fountain, an arrangement of about six faucets with tin cups attached. We who drank only bottled water were horrified – certainly in Sana’a no one drank the public water! We asked a local resident, who smiled at our concern. Said the water is clear, cold, clean. Said a local sheik paid for the village water system about thirty years ago. He also paid for all the paved roads in that area. We are coming to understand that the government does little for the people, whatever gets done, gets done by the local sheiks. Or, by descendents of old Yemeni families, who now live in wealth in Saudi Arabia or other Gulf States, and come “home” to Yemen to finance projects in the villages of their grandfathers.

On the day we left the Hadhramawt I wrote in my journal:

Observations: No blowing trash, well not much, as we saw in areas around Sana’a

A poster on a wall, in English: Stop Gat!

Saw no one chewing gat.

Saw only one man wearing a jambiyyah – in Sana’a every male over the age of about ten years wears a jambiyyah.

This is where the women are totally covered in black, and wear a very tall – about two feet tall – straw hat. They are a most astounding sight, riding in their donkey carts or working the fields.

This is all for tonight.

Back in Sana’a there was one long day of intense political meetings – I’ve thought of that day quite a bit – plan to write it soon here – and then, be finished with Yemen! And on to other places, perhaps.

Bye for now – and much love to you out there – Bonnie and the Cook Family

3 January 2009

Bonnie Cook — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 23:25:00 -0700

Hey – anybody still out there?

I’ve turned off CNN – it is a media feeding frenzy - the Israeli ground assault on Gaza. The news anchors are so excited to have a war to report. Terrible. Is there an answer to this mess? I don’t think so. I wish someone would think of some way to end this situation, but not a lot of hope.

It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten onto this computer – since the 10th of November. My mind was charging along – wanted to write for Henry’s birthday on the 17th, but I broke my wrist on the 15th! Very stymied. Henry always said my crises (is that the plural of crisis? Help!) are self-inflicted. Had I been home minding my own business nothing would have happened. However, I was off on one of my do-goodie errands, and, walking across a leaf strewn yard, stepped into a hole – perhaps a gopher hole. Went down like I had been shot, somewhat like the old Tarzan movies, you remember - the booby trap on the jungle trail for animals, (or the bad guys). It’s a wonder I didn’t break a leg. I was SO embarrassed, and relieved that no one witnessed the event. Finished my business for the day – while gingerly cradling my wrist by my side – and drove the three hours home and checked myself into the emergency room at midnight. “You are here by yourself?” asked the nurse. Yes, and don’t you dare contact any one of my children, I am too embarrassed. They cut off my shirt, almost had to cut off my finger to get the wedding band off, was so swollen, patched me up, and sent me home in the middle of the night.

The problem: the next day I was to play the piano for the Primary Children’s Program at church, we had been practicing for some months. I showed up – without much sleep! – thinking maybe we could get through this somehow. Here I have to say: “The Lord doth provide” – as I arrived at the church a woman I’ve never heard of before was just finishing up with the choir and “a-fixin” (as I am learning to say in Arkansas – this term does apply well in certain instances) to go home. Before even introducing myself I persuaded her to stay, she agreed to play the bass, I played the treble, and the program went very well.

I enjoyed much attention with my heavy cast from my fingertips to my shoulder.

After two different casts and now into a brace, I am typing!!!!! Back into the world of communication.

As I pouted with the two casts, the inconvenience, the pain, the embarrassment, two memories merged:

A few months ago I babysat Anne’s children, the youngest then about two. While this kid loves Nana, the love of her life is her daddy. That night she was carrying around a picture of her daddy, and every few minutes she would pause, look at it, and kiss it. Kiss again and again. She was fine when I held her, as long as she was kissing that picture of her daddy.

The merging memory: Anne was five, in kindergarten, we and another family went roller skating on the “rink”, a slick concrete slab beside the garden club building in Ras Tanura. Henry was there, certainly not skating, must have been there with his bike, just watching. Anne was very unsteady. I, the great skater of the 4th grade, had not had much experience since. Anne got going very fast, could not stop, and ran into me from behind, her wheels jammed into mine, and I went down like a lead balloon onto that concrete. And, did not get up. The final diagnosis – the arm broken so close to the shoulder it could not be cast. They put on a “hanging” cast, to pull the bones straight until the break healed. Every time I moved, the bones moved and ground together. Not only could I hear them, I could feel them! Not a happy situation. The rumors around town were that I was crippled for life, that one arm would be much shorter than the other… The misery was quite intense there for a few days. I couldn’t lie down, I couldn’t get up, I couldn’t DO anything, I was scared and I hurt. Probably I just don’t do pain well. One day I was sobbing, and Henry, so concerned and worried, came to me and said, “What can I do? How can I help you?” I cried – YOU can’t do anything! I just want my Daddy!!! Henry was so taken aback, he was dumbfounded. Your daddy? Well, if you ever decide a husband would do, just let me know.

The point of all this? Although husbands are wonderful – I sure do wish Henry were here - every girl DOES need her Daddy - our girls ache for him - so does the son.

Last fall – just before Henry’s birthday, I cleaned out a corner of the Dodger Den, and found two paper sacks, closed, hastily put there months ago. They became part of the décor and I forgot about them. Opened one up to find Henry’s last Christmas presents the kids gave him: a mouse pad, a work of art by a grandchild. A stadium seat and a Naturals tee shirt to wear for watching the games this summer. Warm caps for his very bald, very cold, head. He always had bloody spots on his head where he bumped into things. He needed to wear a cap for protection.

That last Christmas, 2007, Henry was miserable – and we would not see it nor admit it. On the 26th he went with Anne to run an errand up in Fayetteville – he was so pleased she asked him to go. I remember his getting up very early and being dressed so she would not have to wait on him whenever she wanted to leave. I woke up just in time to watch him force his terribly swollen feet (he had severe edema, part of the situation) into his really nice black dress boots. He had not worn them for a couple of years. He wore them for this date with Anne. They returned in the late afternoon, he settled into the Dodger Den to watch Cash Cab, and by that early evening he was in the emergency room, to leave the hospital seventeen days later into hospice care. Peter and family were on their way from Florida on the 26th to spend the week with us, they arrived later that night while Henry was still in the emergency room. None of us realized it was the beginning of the end.

The other sack contained the things the funeral home people brought back to me: the sheet in which they wrapped Henry to carry him out of the house. The Dodger tee shirt he was wearing the last time we saw him. I held those items and thought of an essay on NPR: the widow who waited and waited for the military to return her husband’s things after he was killed in Iraq, and her disappointment – the uniform, the other clothes, nothing smelled like him – all was freshly laundered, everything was sterile, had no flavor of her husband as he had been. That was the way of the things in this sack. The funeral home people had had everything laundered, the sack smelled of fabric softener, not of Henry. I just sighed, and put his shirt back into the top drawer of his dresser with stacks of other Dodger shirts, the sheet back with the mate, a set. A friend said to me months ago, “it does not get better, you just get used to it.” I guess so.

One more thing – the custom has developed over the last few years, the day after Thanksgiving, aka Black Friday, the grandkids sleep here and the adult kids hit the stores very early, about 4 am. They drag in about one in the afternoon, haul in sacks and sacks of things into the kitchen or the Dodger Den, where ever Henry happened to be sitting, close out the little kids who try to open the doors or peer under the doors trying to see, and show Henry the great deals they stood in line for, for hours. He loved seeing all the stuff they (Santa) bought. This year – all three families were here for Thanksgiving Week. We had the dinner – without Henry. Friday morning, with all the little kids asleep, the adults left at 4 am returning a bit after noon, starving for waffles,

(Aside here: remember the Thursday morning waffle breakfasts we had in Arabia? with three Belgian waffle irons going, we could feed many teenagers and their parents who dropped by. Now, I am down to one waffle iron, which produces a Mickey Mouse embossed waffle.)

As I was saying, the kids returned with stories of deals and finds and people they met that clued them in on other deals. There was excited talk, the little kids tried to see what was in all those sacks, but it was not the same. I paid attention, but not like Henry did. We didn’t close off the doors and have the Big Show of finds and deals, with Henry commenting and grinning, “Wow! Unbelievable! Here, put all that stuff right here in my closet.” That was his contribution, storing the Christmas things in his Dodger Den closet.

One day a couple of months ago I finally got onto one of Henry’s Merrill-Lynch websites, and was startled to read: This account was last accessed December 25, 2007, at 9:35 am. He was on the computer then, his last good day, killing time, waiting for the kids to arrive.

So, at Thanksgiving the kids got on his Amazon.com site – I have never been on it, Henry always did the ordering. They found that in December of 2007 he had put in the shopping cart the latest Alexander McCall Smith book, The Miracle at Speedy Motors. He loved the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency Series, we have them all; he often mailed them out to people he thought would enjoy them. Reminded him some of Kobar when we first arrived. Well, perhaps I should say, he said once that people who had spent time in Kobar would have a greater appreciation for these books. Also, he had on the Amazon site a Garmin GPS for each of the kids, but never actually bought them. I remember now, we wondered which one they would really want. This year, the Garmin price is down by a hundred dollars, so Cindy went ahead and finished his book order, cancelled the Garmins, and they went to Wal-Mart on Black Friday and bought themselves each a Garmin – from Pop.

Ah well – let us change the subject. Pecans. After we moved into this house here in Fort Smith, we realized that in addition to the two huge native pecan trees that produce zillions of teeny tiny pecans the size of deer droppings, we also have two paper shell pecan trees. The first year we lived here, our total crop was 12. That would be twelve pecans. Henry lined them up on the counter, and we laughed. The next year we became aware that there is a space of time, some weeks in the fall, when people all over town are walking around their yards with heads down – they are picking up their pecans. We started paying more attention, the next year we picked up a bucket of pecans. Some years are better than others; the trees produce in cycles. In the good years we filled buckets and buckets. Allison found a “Pecan Picker-upper” for Henry so he wouldn’t have to bend over. It’s a spiral spring at the end of a handle, pop it over the pecan, while standing upright, and the pecan goes into the cavity of the spring. He absolutely loved it.

Next, to get these things cracked. Henry bought at least five different crackers, each guaranteed to be easy on the hands. Nothing was easy. Some years he took them out to the stone wall, lined them up and hit each with a hammer. It got to be a real project, getting those pecans cracked and shelled. We discovered the mechanical cracker in Van Buren. The shop is closed this year. For several years we hauled our buckets of pecans to the cracker – a very interesting contraption – pour the pecans in the hopper at the back, they go up a conveyor belt to the top, fall down into the cracker, there is much clattering and snapping as they fall through the machine, and are spit out, cracked, at the bottom. This contraction was housed in an old, very small building, just large enough for two cracking machines, and crates and sacks of pecans stacked against the walls; no heat, the noise of the crackers was deafening, the operator in a leather apron busily tending his machines, the entire scenario reminded me of the Dr. Seuss Sneetches story - Sylvester McMonkey McBean and his “very peculiar machine… my friends, you want stars like a Star-belly Sneetch? You can have them for three dollars each!” It seemed as if a star should be stamped on each pecan as it emerged from the machine.

Henry would spend most of January shelling pecans while watching old movies on TCM, waiting for the Dodgers return to Vero Beach for spring training. This meant baseball again on TV. In those days he had three TVs in the Dodger Den, so as to watch three games at once. I would do a second check, picking out the little pieces of shell and then sack up the cleaned pecans, and Henry would mail them off to various people. Question: who was on the mailing list? I am mailing Granny hers – she will shell them herself, because if she waits for me it could be a while. However, I am getting into the swing of things now, and shelling at a pretty good rate lately – this is one thing I can do with a wrist in a cast. If you were on Henry’s list – or wish you were! – let me know. I will mail them out until they are gone. They are very good.

At Thanksgiving we had no pecans, and Madele brought us some from her mom in Texas. We were grateful, they were wonderful, and we used them all in pecan pies. Now, I have to say, our pecans this year, maybe because they are very late in dropping, are really good. When the wind blows I hear them rattling onto the roof and into the driveway. Much like some folks have to shovel snow before they can get the car out of the garage, if I am in a hurry to go somewhere, I have to plan to allow enough time to pick up pecans before I drive our car out of the garage!

Henry had a favorite story, which he told time and again: He was sitting here at the computer one day, and heard pecans falling, but there was no wind. He looked out the kitchen window and witnessed perfect teamwork: a squirrel was in the tree shaking the branches to make the pecans fall. Two squirrels were in the driveway, waiting. Each would pick up a pecan in his (her?) mouth, run off, presumably to store it somewhere, and return empty handed (empty mouthed) and wait for more pecans to drop. Henry would tell this story about the squirrels stealing his pecans, (and since then have felt a bit guilty when we picked up ALL the pecans) and laugh until the tears came, and always end with, “Unbelievable!!!”

There is a local story that appeared in our paper last week, Henry would have been interested: the report was that a man died in his pecan tree! Appears that he tried to get into it from the roof of the nearby house, must have jumped and gotten wedged in there - and died? How can this be? Henry would have exclaimed: “Unbelievable!” Better to sit in the kitchen and watch the squirrels take off with your pecans. There are enough to share.

Enough for tonight. Thanks to those of you still out there who stick with me – love to all.

Bonnie and the Cook Family.

6 November 2008

Bonnie Cook — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 15:16:00 -0700

(Well, it WAS the 6th when I started this, in the middle of the night.)

Hey, anybody still out there with me - love the comments on the guestbook. Thanks to you who are there.

As we well know, memories of Henry permeate everything I do… After the Aramco Reunion, not a hundredth part of which I could chronicle, Granny and I went up the road – now it’s Interstate 15, in 1959 it was the old Highway 91, to Cedar City to wait a week and then attend the Dixie High School Reunion – it’s been 50 years!

I wondered if it would be anti-climatic, after the three days in Vegas hugging and kissing Aramcons who knew Henry, to next spend a weekend with old friends who scattered into the world before Henry was part of my life.

No. Just different. One cannot compare apples and oranges.

We were a small class of about 120. We attended K -12 together, we literally grew up together. In 1958 St. George had a population of not quite four thousand, just small enough that everyone knew everybody’s business. Not always a bad thing.

Two different friends reminded me of Dad taking us to Salt Lake, and what a wonderful time he provided for us – took us to the symphony, sightseeing, out to eat – Chinese food, of course. Taking young teens to Salt Lake just to hear the symphony was not something that many parents in that day and time could manage, or, thought about. We had a great Dad.

Several classmates at the reunion knew about Henry’s death, and gathered me up, like brothers and sisters, wanting to make sure I am alright, and “Now, when will you be moving back home?”

Admittedly, I surely do miss those red rocks and black hills. The longer I am gone, the more beautiful “home” has become. However, moving is not in the plan.

On the second day of the Dixie Reunion, I missed the people I should have met for the parade, so went on into the old Historic Tabernacle for the Founder’s Day/Homecoming Program, and sat beside a lovely lady, even older than I, who smiled, so I said something like, “Hi. Are you a local, or here for one of the several class reunions?” She responded, “Oh, I’m local, I’m Edna Mae Sampson.” !!!!!!! I looked at her – no recognition from either of us. I babysat for the Samsons while in my early teen years, she and husband and my folks were part of a “group” that did dinners and social functions together. She didn’t remember me at all. That’s okay. I did not recognize her!

I sat there in that historic and most beautiful New England style building, and memories of my association with this place washed over me:

Here I played in my first piano recital, in the second grade - I wore a pink fluffy dress and black patent leather shoes. Wish I could remember what I played. And Arbor Day! Anybody celebrate Arbor Day anymore? I was one of the “speakers” on the program – could not have been more than eight years old. I don’t remember being too frightened – Dad always drilled me carefully before giving any talk: “Stand up! Speak up! Look them in the eye! Enunciate!” I remember the sunlight streaming through those old beautiful windows.

Here is where I shook hands with a latter-day Mormon Prophet, George Albert Smith. He stayed after conference so he could greet every last child. He had such a kindly smiley manner.

Our mother’s funeral was held in this tabernacle. January of 1950. The place was absolutely full – when you are related to a great percentage of the population of the entire town, they all come. It was very sad. She was so young, so beautiful, and so very ill - and, left three little kids and a very handsome husband.

This is where I first heard the 24th Psalm – as part of a program - a large group of college age women representing Ruth the Gleaner, each holding a sheaf of wheat and reciting in unison – “…Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who shall stand in His holy place? He that hath clean hands and a pure heart…”

The last association with this building – graduation. I was one of the speakers that night. I remember being invited to give my speech again, in various Sunday School classes, and to the Kiwanis Club. I wonder what I said? Wish I had a copy now. However, my story is not nearly so interesting as my friend Nancy Sue’s, who relishes telling of walking down that aisle clutching her diploma, out the door and down those stairs, and before the night was over she was in jail in Cedar City! Now – THERE is a story!

Nancy Sue - now a pillar of propriety in her community. When our brother Carrick died in 1991, of cancer – we seem to do cancer in this family - I flew in from Arabia for the funeral, still in shock, and at the funeral home the director handed me a note – from Nancy Sue, she had been there from SLC attending a family funeral a few days before, saw that Carrick was “on the schedule”, and took the time to write a nice note about him. Thoughtful notes are never forgotten.

Coming out of my reverie as the program concluded, I turned around and discovered sitting right behind me was Willa Nita Brooks – a cousin. When our mother was in the hospital in Los Angeles, Dad had to farm us three little kids out for a year to family in St. George; I lived with Aunt Nita and Uncle Will and shared a bedroom with Willa. So good to see her - we spent an impromptu few hours together.

Later in the day, at the Bar-B-Q, I was the last to leave – and still I didn’t manage to talk to everyone.

Driving back to Cedar City, was thinking about Henry, who the next summer after our graduation drove into town in his white Corvette, our lives intertwined, and changed forever. Funny, there is hardly a girl in my class who remembers him, but several of the boys do. I think it is the Corvette they remember.

A week after the reunions, I went with Allison and Olivia and Hunter to Washington DC. The excuse for this trip was to attend the International Horse Show in the evenings. This was enlightening, we sure did learn a lot about horses.

Henry and I took Allison and Peter to D.C. – in 1974. As we rode the Metro on this trip I thought of our driving through Washington at dusk, those years ago, the Metro was under construction then, and the rats – displaced by the mammoth excavation project – were strolling down the sidewalks – a bit like a Disney movie.

Perhaps we could say the Metro was one of the most memorable parts of the trip for little kids from the Oklahoma countryside. Olivia was thrilled that we were “going Green” instead of supporting the taxis. At the first nearly perpendicular escalator that rose straight up out of the depths of the earth by several hundred feet before we came to a landing and then onto another section, I was visualizing the Baker Street tube stop in London. It is as steep as this, and perhaps even higher. I remember it being a wooden escalator, with the rickety sound like the old wooden roller coasters of the 1950s. Anybody out there remember the Baker Street Tube stop?

I just looked it up on Wikipedia – Baker Street is the oldest tube stop in the world – 1863 – one takes this stop for the Sherlock Holmes walking tour. We took it once.

Back to D.C. The International Spy Museum is new this year – Henry would have loved this place - he read literally every spy novel printed in English. I stood there in front of the German’s Enigma Machine, WWII vintage, as you well know, and longed for Henry to be with us. He was fascinated with the history of this thing.

During the tour of the White House we peered into a china cabinet with a sampling of china from various presidential eras; I was most disappointed that the Eisenhower china was not on display.

Because – during one of those years living in Tripoli, a china salesman came knocking on our door – much like the Fuller Brush Man. Except, this was a German, peddling china and crystal from the Frankfurt Pavilion – I remember that name, what exactly was it? A duty free warehouse? When we were married our dishes were Melmac – quite pretty with blue and taupe flowers. I do not suppose Melmac is a word we know anymore, it was a plastic forerunner to Corelleware. Is Corelleware still out there? Melmac is, was, everyday serviceable dishes that did not shatter when thrown from a high chair.

Now that we were a young family in a situation where “everyone” had dinner parties with the houseboy slaving away in the kitchen, we obviously needed china and crystal. This salesman found us to be a willing customer, except – we could not decide on the pattern. I was in the cutsey stage, wanted the china flowery, Henry put a reign in on that. His measured advice was “not only is this a major investment, we want a classic design that lasts through the generations, something our children and their children will want to inherit.”

We first settled on the brand. Rosenthal, naturally. Actually, we knew nothing about china, absolutely nothing. However, we had both read Leon Uris’ book, Armageddon, about World War II and the last days before the Allies occupied Berlin. What struck us - and you will have to trust me on this as the library does not have the book, I cannot check this story - was the German housfrau. Her sons had gone to war and were killed in battle. The husband was at war, somewhere. The daughter was taken by the Nazi armies for “comfort service”. Her family destroyed by the war, the woman remained alone in the family home in Berlin, enduring nightly bombing raids in the underground bomb shelter, to emerge with a few neighbors each morning, like rats coming out of the ground. Through all this terrible grief she was stoic, stolid, numb, steadfast. The day she finally broke down and cried was the morning she climbed out of the bomb shelter to find her Rosenthal china and crystal shattered, shards of glass covering the floor.

Rosenthal, the finest German porcelain, in production since 1889.

So, Rosenthal it was. The pattern? The salesman guided us to elegance – creamy white, the rim circled in 14 carat gold. He assured us the Eisenhowers had a similar Rosenthal pattern while in the White House. What he really meant, I discovered later, was the Rosenthal people sold the patterns and styles to an American china company, and one of those patterns, very ornate and vaguely similar to ours, is what the Eisenhowers bought for the White House. Oh well, we always thought of ourselves as elegant as the Eisenhowers!

Cannot remember the name of the crystal pattern – it is truly beautiful. Whenever we use it, people comment, “They just don’t make pieces like this anymore.”

We waited many weeks for the shipment to arrive from Germany. And then, it was painfully evident we had no silverware to complement these wonderful dishes and goblets. We looked, we talked. The only thing I liked was an Old Baroque pattern, sterling silver, advertised in The New Yorker – ten thousand dollars – even then! So, to this day, we use our cheapo stainless steel and imagine it is sterling silver.

We valued our Rosenthal so much, the houseboy was of no use. We washed it ourselves – so he would never suffer the guilt if he broke something. Or maybe it was so we would not do him in if he broke something! Henry enjoyed washing those beautiful dishes, while I dried and put away.

We used our china and crystal often, at the slightest excuse. What good is it if you don’t use it? Amazingly, the service for twelve stayed intact until we had grandchildren. The sound of fine china tinkling into smithereens on a parquet floor is beautifully musical, a sound like no other. I am tuned into it. The first grandchild and the present last grandchild have done in a few pieces. Don’t suppose they can ever be replaced. The dishes, I mean. Well, the grandchildren either, for that matter.

Back to the Washington DC trip. The tour of the Capitol Building was wonderful, as Allison had written ahead for an appointment. Our guide was Congressman Boozman’s secretary. Our little group of ten consisted of a nice couple, and the kid’s doctor and family from Fort Smith! Old Home Week. I will remember best the National Statuary Hall Collection - states were invited to provide two statues each of individuals who bought distinction to their home states. The statues are so heavy the floor is collapsing, so they are gradually being moved to another site. However, Oklahoma’s Will Rogers, the only person so honored while still living, will stay right where he is, placed, at his direction, where he can keep an eye on congress at work through the open door of the chamber. Nearly everyone who passes by him rubs the toe of his shoe for good luck – really – the toes of his shoes are shiny shiny gold, the rest of the statue is standard greenish brown patina. We followed tradition and rubbed his shoes, one cannot help it.

We devoted a day to touring the sights via the Old Town Trolley, transferred to the bus to Arlington Cemetery and then onto another trolley around the cemetery. Not so 34 years ago. We simply drove the rented car through the cemetery and parked beside President Kennedy’s grave with the Eternal Flame. Then, we stood there, considering where we were the day JFK was shot: we were visiting Henry’s good college friends, Don and Peg, in Carmel by the Sea in California. Peter was just eighteen months old. We were parked in front of a jewelry store, suddenly the owner came out to the sidewalk in shock and tears, announced in a shaking voice that the president had just been shot. He locked the door, and left. We looked at each other, stunned. We drove back to the Barrett’s place, they had just heard the news. Our visit now was just sitting around the TV, watching history unfold. Two days later I was standing in their living room in front of the TV, holding Peter, and I actually watched as Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald - live and in stark black and white.

The country was in turmoil, we drove back to the folks in Utah, driving through Las Vegas while listening to the funeral on the car radio. Several blocks of Fremont Street, in those days, was lined with casinos with no doors – or at least doors that never closed – just a curtain of forced air conditioning – walking down Fremont Street to the sound of thousands of handles being pulled on slot machines is, was, a sound for the ages. The day of the State Funeral was a day of stone silence. Vegas actually closed down for twelve hours. This was the first and last time I ever saw the doors on Fremont Street.

They were closed and draped in black wreaths. There was not a sound nor a soul about. It was as the End of the World.

We arrived in Cedar City as the funeral cortege was pulling into Arlington Cemetery, the horse drawn caisson with the flag draped coffin . We walked into the house - there was my family, grief stricken, sitting around the kitchen table, watching the little TV on the kitchen counter, frequently pulling another Kleenex from the box in the center of the table. This was day in American history like no other. We watched little John John salute his fallen father. My Dad could hardly control himself, the Kleenex muffled the sniffling.

All this came back to me as Olivia and Hunter and Allison stood there, in 2008, in front of the eternal flame, a most simple setting. They have no connection to these events of 1963 as we of our generation experienced.

The trolley delivered us to the Tomb of the Unknowns – WWI, WWII, and Viet Nam - except, now with DNA testing, the Viet Nam unknown is known, and re-buried in his home town. So that tomb is empty. No matter. It is symbolic. The changing of the Guard ceremony is longer and more convoluted that I remember. Perhaps it was the commentary on the trolley that opened up the symbolism to me this trip. There were perhaps 100 people there, some kids, and all extremely quiet and most respectful. This was an emotional time, as we watched and considered the ultimate sacrifice. I was glad to be there, to be with the kids and feel this connection with the price of freedom.

The mast of the Battleship Maine – sunk in Havana Harbor in 1898 – (Remember the Maine! How many times did your history teacher say this?) is enshrined in Arlington Cemetery. Beside the pathway walking toward this remnant of the Maine, we discovered a brass plaque on a raised stand, about four feet high, in honor and memory of Ignacey Jan Paderewski, who was buried in Arlington in the early1940s, later buried in a free Poland in the 1960s.

What an opportunity! Had to instruct the kids:

Paderewski was a composer and concert pianist; he made his American debut in Carnegie Hall in 1891. Whatever critics thought of his technique, he was a darling of his American public, very much akin to a rock star. During WWI he worked diligently for Poland, raising money and acting as the spokesman for his people. At war’s end he became the first prime minister of Poland. After his term, he came back to the concert stage; for the rest of his life truly a star to his adoring public.

All this history is leading to:

Shortly after Henry and I met, he said something to the effect: “So - you play the piano? Can you play Paderewski’s Minuet in G?”

I had tinkered with it, vaguely aware it existed. It is a favorite of Henry’s – also a favorite of much of the concert going public in the USA. I read that Paderewski grew to dislike that piece intensely, as it was requested at nearly every concert.

I learned the Paderewski for Henry, and at one time in my life, did a lovely job of it. At Henry’s Celebration, we had a selection of themes of some of Henry’s favorite music – so beautifully done by Jason Johnson – the Paderewski was the first number I requested – perhaps it could be considered “Our Piece.”

I was surprised at the personal memories Arlington Cemetery stirred in me – we ended the day walking a long ways in the rain to the Iwo Jima monument, we were within twenty minutes, could not give up then. We did it for Milo Cumpston, aka Mr. Abqaiq – married to the wonderful school teacher Norma – when they retired from Aramco Norma left a legacy of good English skills with hundreds of children who passed through the Ras Tanura and Abqaiq schools. I became aware of Milo during an AEA sponsored parade in Abqaiq in the 1970s. Every horse in the Abqaiq stables must have been in that parade, and they left copious deposits in the street. Bringing up the rear of the parade was Milo and Larry Tanner, (Larry, I think was the Absolute Mr. Abqaiq) dressed in black and white striped chain gang type outfits, pushing a wheelbarrow into which they shoveled the horse deposits. They obviously were having a great time, laughing and waving and shoveling.

Milo, I understand, was one of the few survivors of the Iwo Jima battle – I felt we had to make the trek to the monument for Milo. Henry and Milo were buddies, well, Milo never met a stranger, and we both admired him immensely. Besides, during the year of the Abqaiq Gas Plant fire, Aramco brought Milo back to the Kingdom as a consultant, as he was on site before blueprints! Well, it just SEEMS he had always been there.

So we stood in front of that massive monument, and thought of Milo, surviving the battles of the Pacific.

On a gloriously sunny day we “Biked the Sites” – had the bicycles about six hours and biked the Mall and around the Tidal Basin. I wondered if I could really do this – have not been on a bike in years. After Peter was born Henry got me a beautiful brown and white three speed Schwinn with a baby carrier, and we biked often as a family.

In Abqaiq, I biked out to the Souk, left the bike by the gate and when I came back, the bike was stolen! I have never in my life felt so betrayed – I thought we all liked each other! Well, finders keepers.

I never had another bike.

Henry virtually grew up on a bike – had a paper route several years – in the days when the paper boys folded papers at 4 in the morning, put them in the canvas bag and threw them onto the top of porches or into the ditch. Actually, Henry had a great aim, it was with a sense of pride that he delivered papers to the exact spot. Throwing papers must be the way he developed his great pitching and throwing arm. He also learned a lot about human nature, as part of the job was collecting at the end of the month. He said this was much more difficult than getting up every morning in the dark. Most people were nice, however one little old lady cheated Henry time and time again. He learned to temper his trust.!

Henry had a good racing bike in Ras Tanura which he rode frequently for exercise. One day he struggled home, very banged up, had hit one of those tiny four inch wide concrete drains in the street and took a terrible fall. On top of his injuries sustained when the ladder collapsed in Abqaiq a few years before, while working on the atrium cover, he was pretty miserable for a long time, and there was no bike. It was too bent up.

Later, in Dhahran, he decided to try biking again, and ordered a really nice bike from Holland; I think a contractor must have brought it in. He was quite excited when it arrived, uncrated it and assembled it and rode it around the block. Anne came home shortly thereafter – she must have been in about the 7th grade – she saw that bike and was ecstatic – “O, thank you Dad!” Big hug and kiss. She couldn’t believe he would surprise her like that – hopped on and SHE rode it around the block.

Henry and I silently looked at each other, he shook his head and said, “guess I should have ordered two bikes.” He never said another word about it, except, “You are most welcome. Hope you enjoy it.” Occasionally he borrowed it!

Got sidetracked there.

Biking to the monuments was a good idea. There we were, there was the Washington Monument and the Mall, not 200 feet away, and between was a river of 30,000 people running the Marine Marathon. The security people said it was permitted to cross, just don’t interfere with the runners! Allison and the kids made it, darting through those legs and elbows. I stood there and stood there – Allison was about to come back for me, and some nice man, watching this drama, came up behind me: “Hey lady, let me help you,” he took my bike and got it across with no trouble. I followed. Thank you.

I had seen the monuments years ago; still, they are so impressive, so serene, they engender such feelings. It is quite emotional when you think of the sacrifice for freedom, and the hell of war. I was not prepared to see the WWII monument, there only within the last ten years. That wall of four thousand Gold Stars, facing the Washington Monument, each representing a thousand fatalities, makes one not only think of all those fallen men, but their Gold Star mothers, those women whose sons never returned.

And The Viet Nam Wall – I thought I was prepared to see this. No. The park service ranger showed me that if you stand in exactly the right place, facing the years 1959 juxtaposed with 1975, the Washington Monument is reflected in the black marble. We were visiting the Connery’s in London – friends from Masa el Brega days – Pat took me on her appointment to Westminster Abby and we did four brass rubbings that day. Henry said, “now, this is her appointment, we just happened to be here the week, so whatever you do, don’t expect to take anything home. It all belongs to her.” We returned five hours later with four full sized figures, two abbots, and Sir John and Eleanor, spread them out on the living room floor, and Henry said, “mmmm… I don’t see why we can’t divide these up!” We did those rubbings the week Saigon fell to the Viet Cong. We watched BBC TV one morning, saw the last of the helicopters lifting off the roof of the US Embassy building, overloaded with people desperate to flee. That is my connection to The Wall and what it means – the basic Living Room War was fought while we lived in Libya and Tripoli, without a TV.

For some reason, the Korean War haunts me. I didn’t know about the memorial. It is nineteen statues of men cautiously walking across the rough terrain, some of them just coming out of the trees, with their rifles, helmets, great ponchos because of the cold, the radios and equipment. Every face is different, every pose so realistic. They are seven feet tall, and so heroic. While standing there transfixed, up walked two twenty somethings with backpacks, their conversation something to the effect: “Korea? We were in a war in Korea? When? Why? Who won?”

I was ten when it started, and remember standing in Aunt Nita’s front yard as she read letters from her son Clare, who was in the Utah National Guard, and called up soon after the conflict started. Korea was a miserable war – well, they all are.

Between the reunions Granny and I visited a new War Memorial in Cedar City, dedicated this September. The Korean section had the names of all the men who served in the 213tjh National Guard Unit. Not one of them was killed. Many wounded, some seriously diseased, no fatalities. Locally they are known as the modern day Stripling Warriors - that is code for anybody who has read the Book of Mormon.

Henry was just young enough to miss being drafted into that war. He read everything he could find on Korea, he was as versed on the war as any general.

We biked from monument to monument – a lovely day, a day of remembrance, a day that generated much thought and gratitude.

The Lincoln and Jefferson memorials, as well as the FDR, were more standard for me – perhaps they hark further back in time and I’ve always known of them and considered them. It IS something, though, to stand at Lincoln’s feet, and look up into that craggy face.

Am thinking Halloween – Allison got the kids reservations to trick or treat at the National Zoo. What a nice thing. We walked the three blocks from the hotel to the Zoo, with hundreds of children and parents on the sidewalk, in all sorts of costumes. As we trick or treated at the Panda House, the Reptile House, and on and on with six thousand people (I asked how many tickets they sold) for three hours, got to thinking that Halloween time always meant Henry was leaving for Dodger Camp, which was a week after the World Series, which usually put it starting around November 1. Henry would be finishing up last minute business at the office, we would wait and wait on him, and sometimes give up and go without him. He would rush home, do a little trick or treating with Anne, and then rush off to the airport. He would usually manage a business trip in connection with baseball, and always timed it so he could arrive a day before Camp started so as to have the evening with the Labines and a few friends, a tradition for years. I never met any of those dear friends of his until much later.

Now – a political note. As I watched a bit of TV these last two days and observe a seamless transfer of office – from the sitting president to the president-elect, in the greatest land in the world – I am reminded of the day Henry came home from the office in Dhahran – Clinton had just won the election, defeating the first George H. W. Bush. The story he brought: as I remember:

A Saudi employee, very educated and sharp in person, dress, and manners, came to Henry with a serious concern. Bush was a great favorite among many Saudis then, he had driven the Iraqis out of Kuwait through Operation Desert Storm. This Saudi could not believe Bush had lost the election; he asked Henry how he thought the revolution would start. What???? This Saudi gentleman just assumed that since Bush was commander in chief of the American forces, he was not about to take defeat without a fight, and fully expected Bush to retain the presidential office by force. He wondered if Henry would leave and join the fight.

Henry was astounded. Sometimes we think we understand each other, but not quite. It was a learning experience for both men, as Henry explained the democratic process. This man could hardly believe it, nor did he think it necessarily a good thing.

This is bye for now – thank you for reading to the bottom – to those who made it to the end….much love…Bonnie and the Cook Family

10 October 2008

Bonnie Cook — Sat, 11 Oct 2008 02:46:00 -0700

Hey anybody out there still with me - it’s been a long time. I wrote the following article seven days ago - at Granny’s - no internet - am thinking today I will find a place to get online. As I read through this, I see many people and our stirred up shared memories are not included …well, this is what I have written at the present….thanks to those of you who stay with me.

3 October 2008

Hey anybody still out there with me…

Presumably you know that today is a travel day for the Dodgers. This day, 3 October 1959, was also a travel day for the Dodgers - in that era the first week in October was World Series Week. We all know Henry agreed to be married only on a travel day, so he would not miss a ballgame - hence, the importance of 3 October 1959.

Today one of our children mentioned that for this first wedding anniversary without Henry, I came to the place where it all started. It does seem fortuitous that I was in Las Vegas for the Aramco Annuitants Reunion just two days ago - Vegas, where Henry and I met and courted - and now here I am at the folk’s house in Cedar City, site of the wedding dinner in the unfinished basement, as they had moved into the house two weeks earlier, and in a few days I will attend my high school reunion in St. George, the town where we were married.

What remains are the memories - Uncle John’s Pancake House at 9th and Fremont, where we met, is gone. Wilbur Clark’s Desert Inn, where we spent the first night of the honeymoon, and watched the Dodger game the next day, (late check out, as had to watch the entire game ) is gone. The white 1959 Corvette, with the small trunk holding our one suitcase (Henry, with a raised eyebrow and a twinkle in his eye assured me, “you don’t need a whole lot of clothes for this trip!”) is gone.

Tangible remains of the last 49 years are three marvelous children, their wonderful spouses, and six Brilliant and Beautiful Grandchildren. In one of those last days before he left us, Henry, so very miserably ill, in the midst of the medicating and the tending, looked up at me and stated simply, “you know - family IS everything.“

In our fortunate case, Family is actual relatives. Henry and I are the firstborn in our respective families; our brothers and sisters, those little kids, have grown up into terrific adults who are Wonderful Friends.

Also, in our fortunate case, Family includes a network of Friends, people who have come into our lives (by design?) from even before 1959, from Henry’s early days with Humble Oil in Texas and New Mexico, from the Esso-Exxon Libya days, and from the Saudi Aramco days.

When Henry retired in the summer of 1994, pur last child, just graduating from the 9th grade, pleaded “please, can’t Pop get an extension, so I can go out to boarding school and be a Returning Student?” It was not to be. Henry was so overworked and under such heavy stress that his face had taken on a green pallor. One more year in that office high in the Expec Building, I felt he would have dropped dead at his desk, his name plate scooped up to be replaced by another, his personal files carted out to the hall, and Aramco would roll on, never skipping a beat. It was time to go. Within six months of being in the States, the heavy responsibility no longer his, sleeping through the night without the phone ringing, Henry began to relax. He looked ten years younger. Several people mentioned this before I realized it.

We played at being retired. We did some traveling, but Henry would never agree to traveling to the Aramco Annuitants Reunions. I pleaded. He would not budge.

Now in this, the fall of 2008, I hesitated, then - went with it. Amazingly, attending the Aramco Reunion this first year of loss was the absolutely right thing to do. Granny agreed to go with me, to give me courage. She had a marvelous time - as a great percentage of the approximately 1100 Aramcons there hugged and kissed her and told her how glad they were to meet her. By the second day of the reunion, Granny said to me:

“I have never ever been so hugged and kissed in all my life. Now, I finally do see what you mean when you say Aramco Blood is family blood. You all ARE one big family.”

Through the joy of meeting old and good friends, most not seen for many years, sharing long forgotten memories, someone there came to me and said, “Hey, Bonnie! Don’t write about us, okay? Just enjoy this.” Well, okay.

However, I cannot leave “this” alone. How about writing about memories triggered when reconnecting with old friends. We are bonded through our shared lives.

So, I am not writing “about us.” There is no way to write here of the many people reconnected with and the stories told. Here, instead, is a random listing of some long forgotten memories, stirred by sudden and unexpected meetings of people from our other life - not one of these memories had I consciously brought to this reunion. Talking “remember when…” dredged up memories from the deep recesses of the mind.

For instance - I was cutting through the line of people standing at the Heritage Gallery giveaway, trying to get to the line to sign up for the Gala Dinner, and walked right in front of a woman, who, when she turned in surprise, I discovered was Kate Crawford - a neighbor in Tripoli in the 1960s, we connected in Dhahran as Aramcons in the 1980s, but lost each other again by the early 1990s. In my surprise to see Kate, what came rushing to mind, most unexpectedly, was:

Vacation, about 1966: The suitcases were packed and by the front door of the villa in Tripoli. Peter and Allison were dressed and ready to go, fidgeting, waiting. Henry was still at the office. Finally, Henry returned home in midmorning, his face drawn with worry, with the distressing news that the exit visas were not in the passports. Crif Crawford, Kate’s husband, had insisted Henry go on home, collect the family and get to the airport (well, “airport” then was a World War II landing strip and a war era aircraft hanger), ask the pilot hold the plane!!! not such an unusual request at that time in history. We would have been flying KLM to Amsterdam, or BOAC to London, and he, Crif, would do his best to see about getting the visas into the passports and meet us at the runway.

We did. He did. The suitcases were loaded on the plane, the other passengers, seated and broiling in the heat coming from the open door, were relatively understanding, at least there was not open revolt. We stood there at the curb, waiting, and presently in the far distance was a bubble of dust, trailing a speeding VW Bug. As the dust bubble approached, we could see Crif’s long arm extended out the driver’s window, jubilantly waving four passports with visas! The transfer of those precious documents from Crif’s hand to Henry’s hand was as seamless as an Olympic team passing the baton from one runner to the next - the VW barely slowed down. Henry took the passports, and we sprinted, dragging Peter and carrying Allison, through customs and onto the plane. As we appeared at the door at the top of the stairs and walked down the aisle to our seats we were greeted by great enthusiastic cheers from the other passengers - happy for us, and relieved that their trip was finally to get underway.

All the above flashed through my mind in a split second, as I recognized Kate - momentarily seeing her as a young wife and mother in the 1960s, dressed in a pleated plaid skirt and blouse with a Peter Pan collar, the Ivy League look I so admired - stopped to hug and rejoice in our reconnecting - and move on to my destination at the other side of the room - the line for signing up for the Gala seating.

This line was moving slowly, I turned to say hi to the woman standing behind me, and was face to face with a Jo Bewley - that’s what was printed on her name tag. However she looked very much like Jo Carter - well, I was not aware of her married name of the last twenty something years. Allison was in Jo’s gifted and talented program in Abqaiq, I‘m remembering it as the 6th and 7th grades. Jo and I had not seen each other since then. We picked up where we left off in 1977, our conversation while standing in line was recalling The Trip. This took some casting into the past to reconstruct the event.

As we remembered: Jo promised the kids a trip if they would spend the year preparing - the class choose a trip down the East Coast of the USA - Jo said that she never expected that trip to come to pass, that she didn’t think the kids would persevere and complete their part of the bargain. However, they did - the reading, the research, the letter writing. She said Paul Simms was a major reason The Trip happened, because Paul never let her forget her promise - and to honor a promise she went through with it. At that time, Henry and I were so pleased that Allison could have this wonderful experience. At this time, I cannot imagine a lady crazy enough to do what Jo did - alone. She flew to Washington DC with the six kids - Paul, Allison, Kevin Durham, Eva Burns, Cathy Enfield, Joanne McDonald, They toured the sites in DC, the places they had studied, and then Jo drove them down the coast in an old paneled station wagon, with the back seats down forming a large area where they could all sit, playing cards, reading, talking, snoozing. Obviously this the era before seat belts. The baggage, lashed to the roof, got soaked during a memorable rainstorm. They toured many historical sites down the coast. The trip finished up at St. Simon Island in Georgia.

I looked at Jo, this dynamic woman, this wonderful teacher, and thought how lucky we were - Aramco gave us a superb faculty, which resulted in good schooling.

Another day at the Reunion, another flash of memory: A couple from the Abqaiq days, Phil and Linda Rickard, talked me through the early Abqaiq tennis days, remembering the many times Phil played tennis with Henry, he smoking a cigarette and Henry chewing on a cigar as they volleyed the ball. Phil made mention that age and health reasons put a stop to simultaneous cigarettes and tennis. We remembered bystanders holding Mason quart canning jars containing various home brewed liquids…my mind moved over a notch to the Abqaiq Club tennis parties, one in particular held at our Row House. There was a huge number of people crammed into that little place. Axel Green, the premier chef of that time, (his drilling expertise took second place to his culinary artistry at the grill) did the steaks marinated in his famous wonderful recipe, lost to memory now.

I quizzed Axel at breakfast the last morning of the reunion - he can almost recall the recipe - it has evolved, as most good recipes do. Wife Sharon said people still call occasionally asking for the marinade recipe, he can give them what he remembers.

Axel’s wonderfully tender steaks were to be served with scalloped potatoes, which were my assignment. Novice that I was, preparing for a crowd, I fixed the several pans of potatoes early in the day putting them in the fridge to bake later. When later came, I baked them, the potatoes had turned black. Disaster. A true disaster. They tasted sort of acceptable, but looked like something from the TV Adams Family kitchen. Those attending ate the steak and salad and politely bypassed the potatoes. I wanted to fade into the woodwork, nursing my embarrassment. Henry grinned and kissed me and said, “it’s okay kid, don’t worry about it. This really is not the end of the world. “

It was for me. I took awhile to recover.

However, after the initial shock of spooning up black potatoes, it’s doubtful anyone else ever gave this incident any further thought.

By the third day of the Reunion, Shirley Hurt - a teacher in the Abqaiq Junior High - and I finally connected. We have not seen each other for nearly thirty years - this meeting triggered another memory:

Peter was in the 9th grade when Shirley and Larry Benchich, the band teacher, took the junior high kids - I remember only about eight students going - the Abqaiq graduating class of 1976 was 13 or 14 students only - on a trip to Shiraz, Iran. I pleaded my case, and they let me go along. Shirley and I were roommates. With our little group we had a good trip of cultural and historical sightseeing. I remember the startled surprise when, on the last day, we settled up the hotel bill - and I, Miss Teetotaler - had, by far, the largest bar bill. It seems that fresh squeezed lemonade is more expensive than anything in those fancy bottles. The days were hot, and evidently I visited the bar more times than the other two chaperones combined. Larry took great delight in announcing to all within earshot my enormous bar bill. Larry, may he Rest In Peace, could get away with this teasing - we had a Mutual Admiration Society going - still do, even though he is no longer with us. For years Larry delighted in reminding Henry about his a barfly wife.

While we are talking about Peter’s 9th grade year, here is the place to mention the brief meeting with Cindy and Byron Hebert the first night of the reunion. Byron was Peter and Allison’s junior high math teacher. As we were talking, I could see in my mind’s eye their Blazer that they drove from Amsterdam to Arabia. In the night of the Class of 1976 graduation, Byron found his Blazer mysteriously filled with billows of fire extinguisher foam. Now, who on earth would have done a thing like that? A loving gesture from the departing 9th grade? It seems no one was responsible, but everyone knew about it. Byron, while not particularly happy with the situation that night, laughed then, and he laughs now.

We were transferred to Ras Tanura in 1978, Henry as the new manager of Offshore Drilling. Bonnie Clark, the Drilling Secretary, had quite a job getting him oriented - she was wonderful. Henry said he could never have done it without her. She said he was a fast learner and a nice guy. I had not seen “the other Bonnie” in Henry’s life in nearly thirty years - and there she was, at the Reunion with good friends, Al and Darlene Dowell. We hugged and reconnected, and as I stood in front of those two most beautiful women, this memory, unanticipated, flashed through my mind:

We were new in RT by just a few weeks. The Dowells and Clarks were hosting a Christmas Party, it must have been the Drilling Christmas Party. Bonnie invited us by phone, a most pleasant conversation, as she encouraged reluctant me to come and get acquainted. Although Henry knew the drilling people, I was not at all integrated into the community - didn’t know a soul. I never even thought to ask her what to wear. My Great Mistake was asking Henry, instead of calling Bonnie to check. Henry, absent mindedly said, “Ah, it’s just a bunch of drillers. It doesn’t matter what you wear. Jeans. A clean shirt.”

So, I took him at his word. I did have a nice new pair of corduroy slacks ordered from Eddie Bauer. I was quite anxious about attending this party. We walked over to the Dowell‘s atrium, rang the doorbell, and Darlene opened the door with a sincere welcome to Ras Tanura. There she stood, absolutely stunning in a full length gown and jewels. I nearly choked, my face flushed, I almost fainted! Henry, realizing this was about to be a crossroads in my life, put his hand in the small of my back and gently but firmly pushed me across the threshold, while whispering in my ear, “don’t you worry about it. I’m the new boss. It does not matter what you are wearing.”

And, it didn’t. The party was lovely. No one remembers I was the only woman there in slacks - however - I was scarred for life, I thought. Actually, I learned that it does not matter so much what one wears as how one acts. That statement is whistling in the dark - however, now that I am grown up, finally, I do understand this principle.

How wonderful to connect with Mike and Patt Staley - she the secretary at the Dhahran Hills School when I was there as a Library Aide, he was Anne’s 6th grade teacher. We have not seen each other since 1994. Mike said to me, “your daughter Anne is one student I will never forget.” I said something to the effect that, “Come now, after teaching hundreds, yea, thousands, of kids for 38 years, don’t tell me you can remember Anne?”

Unless - it was the day during the 1991 Gulf War when the school degreed that every child had to bring his gas mask to school. At our house, Henry had already decreed that we were not going to panic, therefore were not having gas masks. So, we didn’t, even though we knew that Jary Archer had the assignment to purchase gas masks for all Aramco employees, and that they were available. Anne went off to school, and in short order we received a call from the school office. Mr. Staley had had to evict Anne from class for not following the rules. We found her outside the school, sitting on the curb, sobbing.

Henry relented, and sent me to pick up the gas masks - where oh where was that building? Cannot remember. However, I do remember hundreds and hundreds of Saudis and other nationalities, men, there, a vast sea of faces, could hardly see the building in the distance, no queue, as the British say, just a jostling crowd of very concerned men anxious to get gas masks for their families. It was a very tense situation, some pushing and shoving, but by and large the men were polite. I was the only woman and only western person there - the last one! All other expats had picked up their gas masks days earlier. Someone in charge came through the crowd and took me by the hand to the side of the building and gave me three gas masks - I did feel guilty, moving out of turn up to the front like that - however - I took the gas masks and fled. And vowed when this is over, I am hanging these things on the wall as decorations. At home, we had to pursue this all the way, since Dr. Hahn was drilling his four girls, timing them with a stopwatch - they had to be able to get their masks on in under nine seconds. The Hahn’s were wonderful friends, what they did, we had to emulate. Out came our stopwatch, and we practiced. Henry sighed, and cooperated - he was the fasted of us all.

No, Mr. Staley did not remember this incident.

He was referring to his birthday that year - this I had completely forgotten. I was absolutely blank, but as he talked, the story came back. He said his class had gone to a special - music, perhaps - and when he went to pick them up, the room was empty. Assuming they had gone back to his classroom, he returned there - no class. He was quite concerned, did not remember that they should be anywhere else, and while double checking the schedule, the principal appeared - “Hi Mike. Where is your class?” Had to admit he had not the slightest idea. After some discussion concerning the fact that a teacher is responsible for his class at all times, the principal suggested he look further - perhaps they bolted and went to Anne Cook’s house? Mr. Staley was incensed. He told the principal that he was where he was supposed to be, and those kids were not where they were supposed to be, and he was not about to go after them. The principal laughed, and said, “Mike, just go on up to the Cooks.” He relented. There they were at our house, waiting, most excited and thrilled they had pulled off The Great Surprise. He was truly and absolutely and astoundingly surprised. That came back to me - the look on his face when he came through the door and there were his kids, grinning and shouting “Surprise!!!”

Mike told me that he was most impressed with Anne, who he understood to be the mastermind behind this project, and the kids in his class. They had arranged with the principal, had written the permission slips and gotten everyone of them signed properly and cleared through the office so they could walk up to our house during music class, and that nearly every faculty member knew about this plan except him. He continues to this day amazed at the thoughtful planning and organization of a bunch of Dhahran 6th graders.

Ah, yes, our house in Dhahran, with the swimming pool, the huge eucalyptus trees with the rope swing, and just two blocks up the hill from the school. I ran into Mike Grimes and his mother, Bobbie, as they exited the elevator to The Gala of the last night of the reunion. It was the Grimes House, number 1290, that we were assigned when we were transferred from Ras Tanura to Dhahran. The Grimes were moving on - to where? Retired? I had met Bobbie just a few days before they left, she told me about the heater in the pool house, never hooked up. I spent some years, futilely trying to get minor maintenance to connect it - there was not the proper electric box on our side of Main Camp. When we left, that brand new heater was still in the pool house, after twenty years, never used. The Grimes did not remember me nor the Cooks at all, though her husband Ollie and Henry were friends through work. Our families had crossed in Abqaiq when they lived there, one of the daughters, Cindy? gave Allison horseback riding lessons - I remember the day she brought Allison home with a broken arm - she had fallen off (while learning to cantor with arms extended) Cindy’s well known horse, Malik, that would be King in Arabic - he was a king of the Abqaiq stables. A few months later, Allison broke the other arm roller skating.

We lived in the Grimes’ Dhahran house nearly as many years as they did. Got to thinking about that house, saw in the Reunion Directory the name of a couple that instantly triggered another memory. I wanted to track down those people while there in Vegas. I never did find them. In Dhahran I never met the husband, knew the wife slightly - here is the sudden memory:

The Halloween Party - I think it was when Anne was in the 7th grade. We agreed on inviting about twenty kids. She brought me the proposed guest list, which precipitated one of those little mother to daughter talks - these were names of kids she never had any connection with in school. We talked about inviting the kids she actually knew, kids who said “Hi” to her, kids who had lockers by hers, kids who were in band with her, kids on her baseball team - you get the idea. A turn around in the list. This party became a major production, some of the families - the Hahns and Teemulls, (who else? Tammy White and Randy and Marilyn Judd maybe? It’s been a long time!) - were major movers and shakers in putting on this party. There were thirty kids now. With the help of these people we built a terrific spook alley in the garage and through the back yard. Every kid carved a pumpkin (well, a fat green squash, I bought them at the Dammam souk). Since we had thirty kids wielding knives, Dr. Hahn stood at the ready with a well stocked first aide kit. No problems. We lined up those wonderful jack-o-lanterns, with a lighted candle in each, around the far side of the pool - it was a fabulous sight in the dark. Kate Brundage, one of the school librarians, came in her black jester Halloween story telling costume, and held the kids spellbound with spooky stories, there in the dark, under the stars, with those thirty jack-o-lanterns grinning at us. It was a magical night. At the appointed ending time, parents arrived to pick up their children, the kids would not leave. They stayed for hours, lots of the parents just settled in and talked while the kids went through the spook alley time after time.

The next day a mother came to the door. This was the mother, the name I saw in the directory, the people I never found at the reunion. That day she wanted to come tell me in person what a wonderful time her son had at the party. He was one of those who simply would not go home. The next day he could not stop talking about the party, what a wonderful time he had. Then, in tears, nearly, she said her son had never, in all the years they lived in Dhahran, been invited to a party, any party, this was his very first party. She could not thank me enough for this wonderful experience we provided for him. I had never known of them before - he was just a nice kid who said “Hi” to Anne at school.

I was working the hospitality desk at the Reunion one day, a lovely dark haired lady, Tonie Maheshwari, whom I had never met but heard her name for many years, looked at my name tag and realized Henry and I went together. She reminded me that she worked with Henry in the Dhahran office. She also was active in the Dhahran Drama Group - and was production manager when they produced Damn Yankees. Someone suggested she ask Henry to be a consultant about all things baseball for the script and the set. He loved it. I remember his correcting various baseball related mistakes, especially something in the scenery - wish I could remember exactly what it was. I do remember his astonishment that such a mistake was made - probably there were few people who would actually pick up on whatever it was - but with his input he felt confident everything relative to baseball and the Yankees (fanatical fan Dodger fan that he was, he knew all things baseball about any major league team) was correct. He loaned several items from his baseball collection for the production Henry really got a kick out of attending the play and seeing his name in the program as “technical consultant.”

While talking to Tonie about Henry and baseball, suddenly I saw in my mind, in our first years of marriage, our the dinner table (this was before my attention was diverted to kids in highchairs) where Henry would prop up the Baseball Register in front of my plate so he could see only the cover, and while eating, instruct: “okay, open to a page, any page, and ask any question.” Drilling him with baseball questions through dinner became routine. He had nearly a photographic memory, it is amazing all that he knew and remembered.

This Reunion provided a time for connection and healing as friends from the Aramco Years hugged and kissed and spoke so fondly of Henry.

Many thanks to the Fallons, Al and Karen, and their several extended family members, and the many other volunteers, for the outstanding job and supreme effort in organizing this monumental undertaking. While the Reunion was for all Aramcons, of course, this year, for the Cooks, it was especially poignant.

Bye for now, and Love to All - Bonnie and the Cook Family

11 September 2008

Bonnie Cook — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 03:39:00 -0700

Hey, those few of you still with me – thank you thank you for your comments on this site. I just love it – this being connected.

Have had the TV on much of this day – listening, while shelling a massive amount of shrimp (where oh where is the Shrimp Man of Abqaiq days when I need him?) to the solemn ceremonies commemorating the seventh year since 9/ll.

I have just now decided I will post this following article – I wrote it in April 2002, seven months after the World Center Trade Towers fell. Even then, I was beginning to feel a great need to record some of these stories for our grandchildren, and in the last few years some of you have read this already:

In 1986, Henry and I, and seven year old daughter Anne, attended a dinner with the East Coast contingent of Dodger Campers and their families – men Henry had become very close to through a mutual love of Dodger Baseball. The dinner was at The Windows on the World restaurant at 1 World Trade Center in lower Manhattan. Memories of that night are still vivid. The buildings were so very huge, the lobbies enormous, at first we could not find our way. We finally located the express elevator going directly to the restaurant. Immediately, there was a problem. Henry was not allowed into the elevator because of the dress code – he was not wearing a coat and tie. There was an extended telephone conversation between the elevator operator in the lobby and the maitre’d in the restaurant. Finally, it was established that a dinner jacket, brought by a friend, was waiting for Henry at the desk – so that he would not be entering the restaurant improperly attired. With great reluctance, the elevator operator let us board. We discovered why the 58 second ride to the 107th floor was one of New York City’s attractions. It took our breath away. We emerged into the arms of anxious friends worried that we were stranded in the lobby. Henry could not shrug himself into the jacket. It was many sizes too small, even though he and Roger Warren, who brought the jacket, are the same size. Evidently someone else had run the gauntlet and made his way to the restaurant to a waiting dinner jacket, and had mistakenly worn the one brought for Henry. There was quite a scene as the maitre’d searched among the diners, and discovered a small Asian man with shoulder pads falling nearly to his elbows, and the oversize sleeves dangling into his soup. There was a (double) switch.

The dinner buffet was impressive. We sat with good friends, ate wonderful food, and during the course of the evening the restaurant revolved several times. I watched in fascination. As we revolved, the Manhattan skyline passed in review. At that height, from the 107th floor, the skyscrapers seemed closer. The Empire State Building was imposing from this viewpoint, but the Chrysler Building, a gleaming stainless steel Art Deco gem, was my instant favorite. The spire is patterned after the radiator grill of the 1929 Chrysler Plymouth, and the gargoyles are Chrysler hood ornaments.

This wonderful evening is a memorable highlight of our travels.

The World Trade Center Towers, at 110 floors, were taller than the Empire State Building which has eighty-six floors and an observation deck at the 102nd floor. The Towers were completed in the early 1970s, and dominated the lower Manhattan skyline. They were just two tall plain towers. Twins. They were the heart, the center of world trade. Now they are gone. They leave a gaping hole in the skyline.

February 2002: Henry and I were on our first trip to New York City since the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001. The unstated question became an actual presence between us: Should we go to Ground Zero? Would going to the viewing platform be a ghoulish exercise in curiosity, or an act of respect?

We settled into the hotel and bought a copy of the New York Times. Since 9/11 the Times carries a daily tally of numbers: the dead, the presumed dead, the death certificates issued, the death certificates requested. Along side the numbers runs a daily feature, A Nation Challenged: Portraits of Grief. This page is devoted to a brief biography, with picture, of the dead. About twelve victims are featured each day. On the 2nd of February we read about Marie Pappalardo, protector of cats, returning home from Boston to California on flight 175. Thomas Pedicini, who literally lived to play his guitar, and got his job with Cantor Fitzgerald in the World Trade Center through a brother in law who worked there and died with him. Darya Lin, an Iranian who lived through the eight year Iranian-Iraqi War of the 1980s, is now – was – a senior manager with Keane Consulting Group, and stayed on the 78th floor to help a pregnant client while others in her office made it down the stairs to safety. The grief is endless.

The attack on the World Trade Center has forever affected New York City. A nation grieves, but New Yorkers live with the finality of the aftermath. We wondered – how would we react to the altered timbre of this city?

We could not make a decision about going to Ground Zero. So, we stalled. We walked down 42nd Street, all the way to the pier, and took the two hour cruise on the Circle Line around lower Manhattan. It was late afternoon. The gray skies literally gave way to a determined February sun that broke through the overcast, and bathed the buildings in a golden glow. The light appeared so suddenly, and was such a contrast, it was as if The Voice had declared, “And let there be Light.” The effect was stunning. The skyline is a thrilling sight. Those buildings seem to jostle each other for their bit of space; they haggle right down to the shoreline.

From the vantage point of the ship, we saw that The Empire State Building stands aloof, in the mid-section of Manhattan, removed from the crowd. It towers over all adjacent buildings for blocks in every direction. The Chrysler Building, only a few blocks from the Empire State Building, is a seventy-seven story skyscraper. It stands in the mid-town area because it is built of stainless steel and aluminum; it is light for it’s size. In silver and chrome it looks like an art deco Roaring Twenties object d’art suitable only as a coffee table ornament.

Why does the Empire State Building stand alone, while the other skyscrapers huddle together down at the lower end of the island? I had never thought to question this until the ship’s tour guide gave us a geology lesson: Manhattan sits in it’s entirety on a rock formation known as the Manhattan schist. On top of the schist is a layer of topsoil of varying thickness. The foundations of skyscrapers cannot be built on topsoil, therefore the depth to the bedrock determines the location of large buildings. The Empire State Building stands on an area of bedrock only a few inches below the topsoil. Across the street, in any direction, the bedrock drops away to more than 200 feet below street level. The bedrock does not surface until at the tip of lower Manhattan, where it again lies just a few inches below ground level. Hence, the dense cluster of skyscrapers huddling in that area.

Our ship passed a row of piers jutting out in the water. There is an empty space where a pier had been. Now, just a few splintered pilings haphazardly stick out of the water. The pier was built by the White Star Line for the exclusive use of the Titanic. Now – was an unexpected time of reflection, as I gazed at that empty space and imagined the crowd on shore, there to welcome the great ship that never docked. After the Titanic sank, the White Star Line declined into oblivion, the pier was never used.

Our crew cut the ship’s engines and we glided in silence past the empty space in the Manhattan skyline. It was 4:30 in the afternoon; we turned to look at Ground Zero just as the great halogen arc light came on, illuminating the twenty-four hour rescue effort. It was a long way to the shore. We could see cranes moving over an empty area that is so flat it looked like a construction site. Bagpipes played “Amazing Grace.” It was the ship’s recorded tape. Our emotions were numb – such a great sadness, combined with rage at evil run amok.

We felt bewildered disbelief that such a thing could happen. History does provide a precedent. In 538 BCE Nebuchadnezzar was in bewildered disbelief when his great city, Babylon, fell in a single night to Cyrus, king of Persia. The World Trade Center towers, a product of more than 30 years of planning and construction, disappeared within an hour.

The ship picked up speed. Life will go on. We turned our attention to the Brooklyn Bridge, a marvel of engineering and endurance. The oldest of the borough bridges, it stands in need of the least repair of all New York’s bridges.

The United Nations complex came into view. Ah yes, a world organization to end all war, to promote and maintain world peace. What a very good idea.

The ship turned, facing due west, and as if on cue, the sun, now a great glowing globe, sank into the sea just beside the Statue of Liberty. There she was, in dark silhouette against the glowing sunset, her arm holding high the great torch. At that moment the lights came on in the torch and in the crown. The seven points of her crown represent the seven continents and the seven seas. Lady Liberty has welcomed people from the seven points of the earth.

Our feelings? Gratitude. Grateful pride. Intense grateful pride.

The ship turned, we sailed again past the empty space in the skyline with the bright halogen lights playing off the cranes and piles of rubble on the perimeter. A huge moon hung just above the massed buildings of Manhattan and cast a swath of glistening light across the water. A glistening path to where? To hope? To determination?

After that afternoon sailing around Manhattan, we made the decision.

Yes, we would go to Ground Zero.

We would pay homage to those who died, and to those who survived.

We would make a show of solidarity and respect.

It was unseasonably warm and sunny that Tuesday, as we emerged out of the Black Hole, the subway, at City Hall Park Station. The small park to our left was once New York City’s village green. The Declaration of Independence was read to George Washington and his troops on this spot five days after July the 4th, 1776. Knowing this history put into some perspective the sight of the iron railing surrounding the park. The railing now serves as a bulletin board for mementos to the 9/11 attacks. The mood was somber as we walked past tee shirts from fire departments across the nation, flags and banners signed by school children from around the world, flowers and candles strewn along the pavement. There were posters of missing persons, put there in the immediate aftermath, by relatives and friends hoping someone would recognize their loved one as a dazed or confused survivor.

We walked to South Port pier and picked up our two tickets for the viewing platform. The ticket is for that day and there is no choice of time. It was just before noon, the kiosk had been open less than an hour, and while there was a steady stream of people, there was no line. We knew that on weekends the wait for free tickets to go stand in line for viewing can be as long as two hours. Our viewing time was for 1:30 pm. The lady in the kiosk instructed us to present ourselves in line 15 minutes before the allotted time slot to avoid congestion.

We waited at the South Port Pier. We ate ice cream and gazed out at the Brooklyn Bridge. New York is a big place and has been the scene of big disasters. In 1883 there was panic on the bridge. Someone tripped and twelve people were crushed to death in the ensuing panic. It was estimated that 20,000 people were walking across the bridge at the time. Taking some minutes to assimilate this information, we turned our gaze to the historic ships at the dock. The four-masted Peking, beautifully painted in black with gold and red trim, is the second largest sailing ship in the world. We turned back to the Brooklyn Bridge. 20,000 people? On the bridge at one time? We considered 50,000 people working in the World Trade Center towers at one time.

It was time to walk to the viewing platform, or rather, walk to the line waiting to ascend to the viewing platform. Up historic Fulton Street, one block from the harbor, is a small lighthouse – a tribute to the dead of the Titanic. We paused and reflected. This was a day to consider disasters.

We walked on past closed businesses which have not yet recovered from the events of 9/11, their metal shutters drawn over blank doorways. It was good to see some businesses advertise, “We are open! We are back! We will overcome! Come in!”

The streets in lower Manhattan are very narrow, and now even smaller because of the many street-side vendors selling pictures of the rubble, pictures of firemen raising the flag, pictures of the tower burning. We worked our way through the crowds of people and the carts with their pictures, and continued up and down over great serpentine humps of asphalt that lined both sides of the streets along the sidewalks. The black of the asphalt was a bleak statement, a deathly contrast to the white cement curbs.

A policeman confirmed our assumption: to get the lights and phones working after the towers collapsed, miles of cables had been laid out along the sidewalks, in the curbs, and then covered over with asphalt for protection. The asphalt was so black, the humps so strangely tall – they took on a personality of their own. They are a Band-aid for the present. How long will it be before the miles of electrical lines and telephone cables will again be put underground and the asphalt removed?

There is no answer.

The line formed at St. Paul’s Chapel. Hundreds of people were in line, we moved along at a steady pace. The mood was somber, subdued. The very polite policewoman patrolled the line announcing over and over, “You must have a ticket to be in the line. If you do not have a ticket, you will not be allowed onto the viewing platform.” We were standing by St. Paul’s churchyard. The ten foot iron fence was totally shrouded in mementos from all over the world: flowers, candles, flags, hats, shirts. Most artifacts are signed by members of fire engine companies, by members of police forces, by children from schools from across the country, and indeed, from throughout the world. The line paraded past the gate opening into St. Paul’s courtyard. The entrance to the chapel is very close to the sidewalk, perhaps twelve feet. Wired to the gate is a handwritten sign stating that the chapel is currently closed to the general public because the ministry is now exclusively serving the firemen and police rescue units who come in after their shift at the site. They come for prayer, for solace, for food. “Please,” was the plea written on the cardboard sign, “respect their privacy by refraining from taking pictures.”

Our line turned the corner by the historic church cemetery. There was time to realize that St. Paul’s, completed in 1766, is the only church left standing in New York City that was built before the Revolutionary War. George Washington worshipped here at this very church. For the last thirty years the old church has been in the long shadow of the World Trade Center towers.

Interesting. The old church has prevailed. The great towers are gone.

Our tickets collected, we waited to be the next group of twenty-five people to ascend the ramp to the viewing platform. All we could see was the plywood ramp up to the platform and the plywood fence with 10 foot high sides. Off to the left we could see an open space where the workers coming off their shift walked to the church. A fireman, bone weary and very dirty, walked past our line, looked at us, turned around, retraced his steps back to Henry, put a hunk of rock into Henry’s hand, and said, “Here, a piece of the World Trade Center.” He walked away and disappeared into the crowd before we realized what had happened. How to describe the catch in Henry’s throat? Let us just say, it was a powerful, quietly emotional moment.

Our group was next to walk up to the plywood platform. Everyone crowded to look out over the edge. Four months after the attacks, there was nothing to see. The site was now a vast flat area with a pile of debris over to one side. The cranes were working on the subterranean levels, therefore we could not see the recovery efforts going on so far into the ground. The mood on the platform was quiet, respectful, tearful, numb. We were given three minutes, and after a very firm “Thank you for coming this day” announcement from the attending policeman, we understood we were to move on down the ramp, and allow the next group to crowd into our space.

Situated beside the down-ramp is a life-size pewter-colored sculpture of eleven workmen sitting on a skyscraper beam, eating lunch, smoking, talking. It is almost an exact copy of a the famous picture taken in 1932 of men working on Rockefeller Center. This sculpture is on a rented truck, parked there by the artist, an immigrant from Sicily, who has made friends with the ironworkers at the site. He managed to drive it past the police lines and get it parked where everyone who exits the ramp must walk past it. The sculptor said: “the firefighters are heroes, the police are heroes, but now the work is done by the ironworkers. They need recognition.”

With this last image of construction in our mind’s eye, we walked away.

Is this a subliminal Phoenix rising from the ashes?

People ask – Is it worth it to go? What do you feel? What do you see?

The worth, the feel, the seeing, is directly related to what one brings emotionally to the site.

We walked south, and within a few blocks were across the street from the Stock Exchange, shrouded in red, white, and blue lights, and now a fortress of security. Tourists are no longer allowed inside. We were standing by the steps of the Federal Building, built on the site where George Washington swore the oath of office as the first President of the United States. The Bible used in the ceremony is on display inside. Lower Manhattan, this disaster area, is replete with historical reminders.

It is “A Small World After All.” The friendly Federal policeman standing a casual guard in front of the Federal Building was most talkative. We had a nice chat, and learned that he had served in Fort Smith at Fort Chaffee during the time the Cuban refugees were at Chaffee – he was stationed there during the riots.

To put a finale on this emotional day, we went to the Empire State Building. It seemed right, somehow. The Empire State Building was there before the World Trade Center Towers eclipsed it as the tallest building – and, it still stands. It comfortingly still stands. I just wanted to walk through the beautiful lobby and look at the stained glass windows which depict the seven wonders of the world. The eighth window depicts the Empire State Building as the 8th wonder. In 1938 it was.

Henry sat outside, too tired to walk through this enormous place. To get into the lobby now requires a picture ID and passing through a scanning machine. I navigated security, walked around the lobby, took the escalator to the second floor where I considered taking the elevator to the observation deck. We had been here years before. It was late in the day, and Henry was waiting outside.

Back in the main lobby, I came around a corner and there they were – Prince Charming and his Princess. He in a Dress Blues Naval Uniform, she dressed in a Sparkly Gold Gown with floor length fur cape with flowing train. The tiara reflected the sparkle from the braces on her wonderfully white teeth. I thought, Henry would say, “Hi there, Tin Grin.” There they stood, grinning, giggling, glowing, facing the stern lady manning the Information Booth. The woman was saying, “You are being married on the 102nd floor? Do your parents know you are here?” I stopped and listened. The Prince was carrying a video camera and a folder with a marriage license. I spoke with them. No - no parents. But they planned to show them the video. No, he is not in the Navy. He just thought it was a nice costume and would look really good. Yes, they are very confident, that this is what they want to do. The visibly upset woman in the information booth inquired if they planned to sanctify the marriage in a church later. They said, maybe – in a few years.

I wished them luck. I wanted to hug them. I told them marriage is the best thing they could jump into, and to hang in there and make it work. I could happily tell them that from the perspective of forty two years of making it work.

They smiled. They said forty-two years was a good omen.

I left them. They stood there – beaming, waiting for the elevator.

A pretend uniform. A pretend diamond tiara. An almost pretend wedding. Life sometimes gets so convoluted that, as one of my sisters-in-law said to me: if you are not happy, pretend you are.

How does this apply to the attack of 9/11? I don’t know.

But for a few moments there was no grief.

Pretend.

Bye for now those of your still with me – and much love from Bonnie and the Cook family.

4 September 2008

Bonnie Cook — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 10:55:00 -0700

Hey, anybody still out there? My mind is churning with ideas about Henry I wish I would write – but have been a long time away from this machine.

Working from today backwards: Since tonight is put out the trash night, decided I needed to start moving junk out of the garage. The goal is at least one sack of junk out to the curb for this week. Yes, well - things only got rearranged. In the process I came across:

1. The hand forged brass door knocker in the shape of a dolphin, a symbol of Malta. This Maltese Dolphin door knocker has defined our every house since 1967, it’s been on the front door of our houses in: Tripoli, Marsa el Brega, three houses in Abqaiq, in Ras Tanura and in Dhahran. We moved to Fort Smith where it stayed in a packing barrel with the bell collection for two years. When we unpacked to the bottom of the barrel and found it, Henry sighed, and indicated we would get that thing up – somewhere. The front door of this house has a leaded glass center panel, so, “we would think of something.” The brass dolphin was put on a shelf in the garage, and tonight, fourteen years later, I rearranged it to another shelf.

How this Maltese Dolphin came into our possession: During the 1960s I was a seamstress – sort of – and owned a cheap and not very dependable sewing machine. Actually, I bought that machine at Sears, used but refurbished, with the first 75$ I earned working at Uncle John’s Pancake House at 9th and Fremont in Las Vegas the summer Henry and I met. Eight years later, I aspired to a Pfaff – the miracle German sewing machine. “Everyone” I knew who overnighted in Europe on their way back from the States bought a Pfaff at a duty free shop. Henry worked with a man in drilling who spent his days off in Malta. He offered to have his good friend buy the Pfaff for me in Germany and then keep it at his place in Malta; he would bring it back after his next days off rotation. So, we gave him the money – it was quite a bit in those days, can’t remember now, but seemed a fortune at the time.

The plot thickens here – I was teaching several piano students, among them a lovely lady teaching third grade at the Oil Company School. She and the drilling hand had been to the house a few times for dinner, chemistry was evident, and they were about to be married. He made one last trip to Malta, to “finish up some business” and bring back my machine which had been waiting in his apartment.

He returned to Tripoli the next week, and there he stood at our door – flushed and embarrassed, and gave me, not a sewing machine, but a beautiful hand forged brass door knocker, The Maltese Dolphin.

The story: He was keeping his British girlfriend at his place in Malta while he courted the school teacher in Tripoli. Like a dummy! he wrote the girlfriend, told her he had decided to marry the school teacher, he was coming to Malta to settle up affairs and basically say goodbye. He arrived in Malta to find that the girlfriend had cleaned out his bank account, his apartment, and flown the coop with everything, including my paid for Pfaff sewing machine.

He didn’t have the money now to buy another Pfaff, so, he brought me The Dolphin as a consolation offering. He was SO embarrassed. I LOVE this Dolphin. I relish the story. They lived happily ever after. I never heard what happened to the girl friend. And, I do not miss having a Pfaff. I do miss having The Maltese Dolphin on the front door. That is one thing we should have tended to years ago, before Henry left us…

2. On the shelf beside The Dolphin is the hanging bell from Liberty’s in London. This is in two pieces, the bell with a most decorative bracket. When one pulls the chain to ring the bell a gargoyle goes up and down. This was also at the bottom of the bell barrel. Also put in the garage, to consider later what to do. Also rearranged to another shelf tonight.

We bought this bell on one of our several trips to London while living in Tripoli. This was such an exciting era of discovery in our lives. We learned to buy Peter and Allison’s clothes at Marks and Spencer (served as our JC Penny), we strolled through Selfridges, and always visited Fortnum & Mason because they had a department, Expeditions, that supplied the famous food hampers for British explorers going into the heart of Africa in the 1800s, and the Himalayan ascents in the early 1900s. We would walk through this place and revel in history.

I knew nothing of The Liberty Store – it’s famous scarves, it’s signature fabrics, the marvelous window displays, the absolutely lovely three stories (or is it four?) of amazing things I never knew I wanted until then. Of course, Henry was well aware of The Liberty Store on Great Marlborough Street. He had read about it, and could hardly wait to take me there for the discovery tour. I found this bell in the home wares section – objects no home should be without! - I had to have it, and lugged it back to Tripoli in the suitcase. Again, it was installed by the front door – our visitors now not only heavily banged the Maltese Dolphin door knocker, they also tinkled the bell. This bell weathered Libya, but after being outside in Abqaiq, it corroded quickly (would that be the Abqaiq Plant spewing something into the air?) The Dolphin didn’t seem to mind, but the bell was disintegrating, so at each move, Henry installed it inside the house by the hanging bell collection. Here in Fort Smith, he simply refused to put two screw holes into the lovely wood of this new house, he “would think of something”, and so went the bell to the shelf in the garage with The Dolphin.

3. And, here in the garage, beside the Liberty’s bell and The Maltese Dolphin, in an old plastic sack, are six house number signs, in Arabic and English. Remember the green signs with silver numerals, squared in a white wood frame, by every front door of every house in the old sections of the Aramco residental compounds?

It was just a few weeks before we were to move back to the States, the packers were coming soon, and Tim Sandin stopped by to visit and say goodbye. Tim, The Collector. Tim, one of The Original Aramco Brats, he attended the first kindergarten class in Dhahran way back in the Stone Age. Tim started his working career with Aramco as a teacher. We met him when he first arrived in Abqaiq as am employee – but still a Brat! Our friendship blossomed from the day I walked into his third grade classroom just as he was depositing Andy Goff headfirst into the waste basket. Tim looked up as I came through the classroom door, his hands around Andy’s ankles, in my surprise I didn’t say much, (very uncharacteristic for me), Andy was restored to an upright position – grinning, and without skipping a beat, classroom instruction continued.

Now, twenty one years later, Henry and I were living in the old part of Dhahran. Entire sections of seven units in streets close to us were empty and about to be torn down. Tim and I got to talking about what a shame, all that Aramco history about to disappear; one thing lead to another, he and I left in his car with Henry calling from his black recliner while reading The International Herald Tribune – “you will be arrested, and if I can’t get you out of jail I am leaving without you” – Tim and I took a claw hammer, a little stepstool, and “saved” as many house number signs as we could manage to pry loose.

I always expected I would take them to an Aramco Reunion and find children of the families who lived in those houses and give them their house numbers. Wouldn’t they be surprised?

These signs are so heavy. Maybe I can pull it off anyway, at the Aramco Reunion in Las Vegas this year. Tim took many for his collection, I kept only six signs.

Finding these artifacts of our past jogs the memory over a notch to:

One day, while teaching a piano lesson in the row house in Abqaiq, the front door was open leaving the screen door closed to keep out the Saudi National Bird – I know, a silly thing to say, but you have never seen flies like we had there – when, suddenly a sound, a loud but muffled “poof-boom” and the screen door, of it’s own, popped open quite wide then gently slid to a close. Startled, I got up, walked out to the gate – nothing. Quiet. So strange. In just a few hours the word was out, someone in the section of row houses across the street had been running a still in their kitchen – it exploded, and according to rumor the woman was quite injured, the Company got the entire family out of the Kingdom within twelve hours, the husband’s job was terminated.

I never knew their identity.

Our generation of Aramcons arrived in the decade after the little book,The Blue Flame, was standard issue, so I never saw it while living in Arabia. Those who did run stills seemed to have a copy, I always heard. It was the company’s way of facing the fact that since this activity would go on, people needed to be informed on how to correctly assemble the apparatus and cook brew that would not cause blindness (as happened in Brega, two Libyan lab techs decided to try what their Western counterparts were doing, they used the company chemistry lab, drank their own brew, and did go blind.) Within the last five years, someone gave us a copy of the Blue Flame, so our Aramco artifact collection would be complete.

After the incident across the street I became aware: a family living down the alley from our row house had brew always in a state of cooking or fermenting. The lady of the house was not happy to have visitors, as I discovered one day, dropping in with my cinnamon rolls. She was running a clandestine operation, I was not welcome. They made their money and left quite soon – wealthy - were the rumors.

A couple in the tennis club took us on a tour of their home – two of the three bedrooms were devoted to brew in various stages of cooking or fermenting. I vaguely remember several stills, all bubbling away. It was as interesting a tour as the Jack Daniels Distillery in Tennessee! These people were very open about their monetary goals – they invested the money in gold bars and kept a Swiss bank account. They made a considerable fortune – according to the rumors – and retired to Switzerland, because someone reported them to the IRS so they could never return to the States without paying zillions in taxes on unreported income. This was a juicy revenge story, in which we all took a peculiar delight in their plight – rich, but stuck.

My Close Encounter: Had a friend, she an accomplished pianist, who did not bring over much music. I had lots of music. I would take my music to her house, we played piano duets on a weekly basis. I loved this, so enjoyed playing with her. One day we were sailing along, caught up in the glory of the thing, and the phone rang. I could hear her husband’s voice over the phone line from my perch on the piano bench - she was far into the kitchen. Husband was speaking urgently, loudly, excitedly, intensely. One has to understand that there seemed to be an unspoken arrangement in those days, between the local police, stationed just outside the Abqaiq gates, and the Company. There would be periodic unannounced searches of the compound for stills and the product, but there was a Gentleman’s Agreement that there would be an anonymous warning of about thirty minutes before The Raid commenced. Jobs hung in the balance – homes found with forbidden apparatus and liquids were immediately vacated, the residents returned to country of origin to look for other employment – or, so went the rumors.

After the shouting over the phone, the music ended. The wife sprang into action. She disconnected the still and attached a garden hose to a pump, the pump into the barrel, ran the hose through the house, out the back door of the kitchen and the brew drained into the alley.

While she was doing this I was frantically instructed that I would be in charge of popping the corks of twelve cases of bottles and pouring the fragrant liquid down the sink. We were quite rushed. I quickly devised a system of getting four or five bottles emptying into the sink at once. Major trouble was the corks – as my inexperience slowed me down considerably. However, got all twelve cases taken care of, stacked the empty bottles back into the boxes and put away into the closet – my! That did look innocent… I finally went home, as my job was finished, while my friend was still pumping the several barrels empty; the alley a river of golden liquid.

Henry was home by the time I returned. He was horrified. First, at my very fragrant aroma – the stuff splashed, I wasn’t dripping, but I reeked.

He could hardly grasp my story. “What if the police had arrived and found you pouring the stuff down the sink???? I would have lost my job. You could never shop in London again.”

(Now, that WAS a real threat.)

Truly, and in all innocence, I answered something to the effect that, “So? I am on their side!! I didn’t make it. I don’t drink it. I was getting rid of it. Isn’t that what they would want? “

It never did occur to me I would be guilty by association.

Ah well.

We finished before The Raid.

I was home.

My friend and husband were “innocent”.

Thus ended my Brew Story.

Much love to you still out there – Bonnie and the Cook Family

21st of July

Bonnie Cook — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 04:46:00 -0700

Hey, anybody still with me. Tonight is 21st of July. I am writing while sitting in bed in Cedar City, Utah, here to visit Granny for a mini-family get together. This is the year, finally, that sister Trieste and daughter Kim and husband Tom hauled out from the closet under the stairs in the basement boxes of our Dad’s papers from his mission to Great Britain 1934 -1937, stored there, undisturbed, since September 1959, when the folks moved into this new house. The project was to arrange all those papers into categories, to make a master scrapbook, and scan the papers to a CD so every one of Dad’s descendents will have a copy. This is a mammoth undertaking, and we are all grateful to Trieste’s family for doing this.

By the time I arrived the project was well underway, I was absolutely no help, so I spent my time reading old letters and postcards - my! I could write about what is in those papers - but this is a Henry Cook site. The work was taking place in the big family room in the basement.

My mind went from Dad and his papers to the wedding dinner held in this very room in October of 1959. The folks had just moved in, the basement was not finished as it is today. I don’t remember appreciating what a miracle Granny pulled off, that huge dinner on top of the move, or being properly grateful. I do remember the banquet tables and chairs borrowed from the church. I remember Henry standing during the dinner, expressing his gratitude for this lovely event. Never in his life did Henry fail to be grateful and to say thank you - a wonderful trait I believe he has passed on to his children. I remember Henry talking a bit about how we met: our courtship, plans for the honeymoon touring up California’s Coast Highway 101 to San Francisco, our plans to live in the El Paso Motel in St. George (at that time in history St. George was a town of about 4000 people and the idea of a rental was non-existent) while he finished field mapping from the Utah line to the rim of the Grand Canyon, a stretch known as the Arizona Strip, and then move on to Roswell, New Mexico - then finishing with his pledge to take care of me. And, he did. I was about to become one of the world’s Best Kept Women - literally.

I guess here is the time to confess - a couple of days later he did have grounds to back out of the entire deal. As I remember the situation:

The Dodgers had moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles in 1958, and were playing in The Memorial Coliseum until the Stadium at Chavez Ravine was finished in 1962. In 1959 the Dodgers won the playoffs with the Milwaukee Braves the week before our wedding. Life came to a standstill during the playoffs, Henry was so very excited that there might be a possibility of the World Series being played in Los Angeles, literally down the street, well, the freeway. The freeway then did not amount to much. However, in the Corvette it was about seven or eight hours to LA. We were to be married on October 3 - not on the 2nd as I had planned - because the World Series with the Chicago White Sox was going to start that week, and Henry absolutely would not be married on a game day! So, we were married on a travel day - the first two games with the White Sox were in Chicago, then the travel day was on Saturday - the day he agreed to marry - then the next three games were to be in Los Angeles. Do you see what is coming here?

Henry was working right up to the day of the wedding - while glued to the games broadcast over the radio. I was very involved in getting things together - the folks were still moving piecemeal to Cedar City, the wedding was to be in St. George, I hardly knew what I was doing - this is very true, I was basically clueless - and in the midst of appointments and hair dos and last minute sewing for my trousseau (now there is a word we hardly use these days) when somebody - who? - approached me with the information that a couple in town had two tickets to the World Series they could not use!!!! Did I want to follow that up? I didn’t - we already had reservations up the coast for that entire week. I dismissed it and forged on ahead with wedding plans. When Henry was apprised of this news, and the tickets were long gone by then, he did seriously consider if indeed I was the girl for him. After some deliberation, he decided we would go ahead and be married despite this phenomenal lapse in my character. We watched those games in bed while in motels, day after day, as we traveled up the California coast, instead of being at the Coliseum in person, and I’ve spent the ensuing 48 years repenting and trying to make it up to him.

(For those who are too young to remember - The Dodgers won the World Series in Game Six, in Comiskey Park in Chicago. We were in San Francisco by then, and the thrill of winning The Series blunted his great disappointment that we did not see the three games in LA.)

Our wedding bands: were bought in St. George at Milne’s Jewelry. Henry was careful to ask if I minded not having a diamond. We were the generation of Don Cherry’s popular 1955 hit song “Band of Gold”:

I’ve never wanted wealth untold, my life has one design
A simple little band of gold, to prove that you are mine.
Don’t want the world to have and hold for fame is not my line,
Just want a little band of gold to prove that you are mine.

The next verse proved prophetic in our case:

Some sail away to Araby and other lands of mystery
But all the wonders that they see will never tempt me
Their memories will soon grow cold, but til the end of time,
There’ll be a little band of gold to prove that you are mine.

So - simple little bands of gold it was - it is. Henry stopped wearing his ring within just a few years, it is very wide, very heavy, and he very nearly lost his finger in a rig accident when his ring caught on a piece of moving machinery. After that near disaster, into the safe went his ring, never to see the light of day again. For some years I would ask him to please wear it, when he was working in the office. By then it was too tight, he is not a jewelry person, and he would assure me he didn’t need to wear a ring to know he was married.

However! This thinking did not apply to me, I never took my ring off. The light in his eyes and the look on his face when he put that ring on my finger is a treasured memory forever, and there on my finger that ring has stayed. Except - at one time I had a piano teacher who diagnosed my sloppy left hand technique as perhaps due to that heavy ring, so I was instructed to take it off when practicing. I did some, and once left it on the piano at the school in Dhahran - when rehearsing with Anne’s fourth grade for a school program. I got home, realized what I had forgotten, and Henry moved Heaven and Earth until we finally found it. I never took it off again; to heck with technique.

Three weeks ago I played the organ for a funeral, and while there was not exactly blood on the keys, to my surprise, I was bleeding profusely - my ring was so tight had quite a wound. This tightness has been coming on for some time, I have ignored it (could I be gaining weight?) and then it took some doing to get the ring off by using liquid soap. The jeweler kept it just a couple of days, enlarged it by an entire size - and he also polished it to it’s 1959 shine, quite a difference. I still could not wear my wedding band for another week, my bloody wound took so long to heal.

While riding the airport shuttle, Vegas to St. George, I was thinking about the day we bought our rings. Here is another example of how the human family is connected : the lady sitting by me, originally from Las Vegas - her maiden name was Milne - and yes, she is a cousin to Wes Milne, of Milne’s Jewelry where we bought our rings.

Actually - now it is the middle of the night - August 2nd. I never was on the internet while in Utah, and since being back in Fort Smith have had internet problems. Just yesterday paid a nice Buddhist man from Malaysia who got his degree at U. of Arkansas (he did not go to school in Australia, his other option, because he could not understand the accent there - he told his mother, while making six shooter pistol motions at me, “I need John Wayne English!” this guy is wonderful, knows his computer stuff - and is very expensive. And, have lost internet three times since he was here - but now I know what to do.)

So, tonight, I can post this article. I’ve missed writing, and missed those who comment on the guestbook. You are my lifeline, in a way. We are approaching the six month mark here, and I can see myself going into the next phase - as a friend told me last February: there will come a time when it will finally hit you: “he really is not coming back. You have to prepare for that.“ Yes. I am beginning to see. It is more difficult now than then, if that can be. Today I turned on the TV for just a minute, and there was Manny Ramirez of the Boston Red Sox - wearing a Dodger uniform! First the Yankee icon Joe Torres is the manager this year, and now Manny Ramirez is a Dodger? What is the world coming to? What would Henry think?

And, August 2, while also the day after Allison’s birthday - all the kids were born in August - when I think about this I remember Linda Simms, in the teacher’s lounge in Abqaiq, giggling at me one day with the comment: “You and Henry really did enjoy your Novembers, didn’t you?”

As I was saying, August 2 was the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1990. Like 9/11 and the day JFK was shot, we all remember where we were on those singular days in history. More on this next time. And, Yemen is not finished! My mind is churning about some more issues of the trip.

But, this is bye for now. Thank you to those who will come back after almost a month of no writing. Much love from Bonnie and the Cook Family.

8 July - Wednesday night

Bonnie Cook — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 03:38:00 -0700

This week I am in Fort Worth, Texas with 11 year old Olivia, at Sandra and Glenn Hardin’s home. Sandra is conducting a quilting camp for her two granddaughters - Jeanette’s girls, and Olivia and a couple of other girls.

We arrived very late Monday night, I was pretty tired as I don’t drive that much now - really need to buy an airline! - so just fell into bed here, under a lovely quilt I hardly noticed. While making the bed in the morning, I realized “Cook” is stitched in flowing script on the quilt, and on further notice found the design to be a stylized house, with a picture of Henry Cook in his ball cap and cigar in his teeth (how I disliked the cigar bit, but it was him - what could I say? A whole lot! through the years, about ashes making holes in his good shirt, his one good shirt! and brown juice dripping into the computer keyboard. Was a Great Day when he finally quit lighting them and just chewed them for the image. I was more than delighted when a few years ago he simply gave up cigars - but for other people who didn’t live with it - think they missed the cigar. A note about the cigar - Henry would save the beautiful foil rings that were around them, he kept a dish of foil rings on his desk. He saved them until he had a small manila envelope full, and then mailed them off to someone - I never really knew who it was. Someone who lived where he could not buy Cuban cigars - Henry would just mail him the foil rings - no note, no sorry - just a joke. He would chuckle every time he put one of those envelopes in the mail. Wish now I had paid more attention to who this was, part of the many years long running joke. The drilling people always brought Henry cigars back from their travels - he never lacked for a lifetime supply. I did enjoy those wonderful cigar boxes - have stacks of cigar boxes filled with sewing notions.)

Got sidetracked there. The quilt. Picture of Henry, with cigar and Dodger ball cap, looking out the window of the house, the front door with our address, and Welcome stitched on the doormat. On the reverse side is a lovely - beautiful - family tree, with Henry and Bonnie in the top of the tree, and in descending and spreading order our children, their spouses, and their children, with birth dates and marriage dates.

This is so beautiful, and such a beautiful thing to do - I am weepy just writing about it. Sandra just laughed. Said she started the quilt without us in mind, but as she stitched she realized this just needed to be a Cook Quilt. Now, she is threatening that I cannot take it, but will have to come here to visit it.

One needs to understand that Sandra is not a quilter - she is an artist. She hires custom quilters. What she produces are paintings done with fabric.

History: Henry arrived in Abqaiq in May of 1973. The Hardin Family arrived in early July. Cook, Hardin, Olfield and Winward were some of the first families in the port-a-camps that July. Port-a-camps were square trailers, so small I could clean ours in twenty minutes. Was wonderful, left lots of time for other pursuits. I’ve never been so free in my life as I was while living in the port-a-camps.

Henry remembered coming in off the rig and there would be two kids - that would be Jeanette and Lee then age 8 and 10, sitting on his doorstep - “do ya’all have any kids we can play with?” Not yet. We arrived in late July, within a few weeks of the Hardins. Our two kids and their two kids were the same age, and became instant friends - there was no other choice!

Both our families moved on to the rowhouses within a year or so; again, we lived about two doors apart. The kids grew up walking walls (that surrounded the rowhouses - walking walls was in integral part of their childhood) and riding bikes and playing in the school band together. Our household is permeated with the Hardin influence. Henry always had a thing about Mickey Mouse, long before our three worked at Disney World. So, Henry’s Christmas stocking, that we hang every year including just last Christmas, was made by Sandra in about 1974, has a sequined tennis racket and a Mickey Mouse face.

Everyone in our family (except Henry who prefers blackberry cobbler) always had a Mickey Mouse cake, baked in the Mickey Mouse cake mold that Sandra brought us back from the States one year. We never asked. She just thinks. To this day, for our kids and some of the grandkids (the tradition is not strong in Florida) it is not really birthday until I produce a Mickey Mouse cake.

Sandra agreed to be the Girl Scout Troop Leader in Abqaiq - I don’t remember being much help, if any. She had the girls - Jeanette, Allison, Marcy Winward and Joann MacDonald, each make a quilt. We have Allison’s quilt still - consider it quite a treasure.

Jeanette and Allison stayed in touch through the years. And now, the next generation, their girls, are learning to quilt under Sandra’s tutelage, It is so nice to see them become friends, and maintain the family connection.

There must be an Aramco story somewhere in this quilt camp. Sandra’s quilting room is set up with five sewing machines (she has four other machines) the cutting table, two ironing boards, space age irons, and several of every implement ever produced for the quilting industry. As I watched the girls, each doing a different quilt, and Sandra juggling it all, helping each one in turn, I thought, “what if we had not come to Abqaiq when we did? We never would have had these wonderful people as friends, and look what the third generation would have missed.

The next item:

Considering last week - it was a strange 4th of July this year, missing Henry sitting in the Dodger Den, where he would be, figuratively, glued to his three TV screens, watching Wimbledon on and two baseball games simultaneously. One of his greatest desires was to attend a Wimbledon match at center court, or, any court, on any day - he would have been in glory just to be on the grounds.

I look back on our years of celebrating the 4th of July in Arabia - it was intertwined with Wimbledon. When Wimbledon began in late June, Henry followed the matches from the first day on the radio. I would hear that wonderful BBC British accent resounding through the house, and realize that was the clue to begin thinking about a 4th of July party in a couple of weeks, as the Wimbledon finals and the 4th were often on the same day.

I remember tennis club people up on the roof of the house in RT, stringing wire to Henry’s shortwave radio, trying for better reception. Then everyone huddled around the radio, visualizing the action on Center Court.

Within all that tennis, we did have one great 4th of July party in Ras Tanura - at least 120 people came - anybody remember this? When everyone wore a name tag as a signer of the Declaration of Independence, or some other Revolutionary War associated name. David Scott, our British friend who we met on our beach and thus he became a regular at the house, was General Gentleman “Johnny” Burgoyne. He loved the role, as the only Brit at the party. We read the entire Declaration of Independence, everyone present, in turn, read a line or two, except our token Brit, of course.

When David Welshenbaugh, in that booming voice, and quite emotionally, read the final paragraph, “…we therefore, the representatives of the United States of America…appealing to the Supreme Judge…solemnly publish and declare that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states…that they are absolved from allegiance to the British Crown…As free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce…with a firm protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.”

We all, as one body and simultaneously, stood up and cheered! At that moment we would have taken up our muskets and marched against the enemy - David had us so inspired.

A chorus of about 15 little kids - Anne, and who else had little kids at that time? there were many family names represented in that “chorus“ that practiced many days. We made them red, white, and blue construction paper three corner hats, they sang This Land is Your Land and Yankee Doodle, followed by Chris Pocock singing The Star Spangled Banner. There was, literally, not a dry eye by the final note. Nothing engenders patriotism like being deprived of one’s county, even though this was a choice: working and living in Saudi Arabia.

The food people brought was fabulous. We had a whiffle baseball game on the lawn behind the house by the beach. Races, in huge refrigerator boxes. Someone produced one package of sparklers!!!! Each little kid got one to himself, or shared - holding it for half it’s sparkling life! Imagine, being thrilled to share one sparkler.

An adult piano student of mine - I see your face to this day - was insistent that her family back to the States “so my children can grow up attending a real church with stained glass windows, instead of meeting in the school gym in RT”, told me that her attending that 4th of July party almost changed her mind - that one can generate happiness, in any situation.

They moved anyway.

Later, while living in Dhahran, we often attended the 4th of July festivities on the American Consulate grounds. The role call of the States was very moving. Nearly every state was represented by at least a smattering of applause, but when Texas was called the there was an eruption of cheering, stomping and enthusiastic flag waving of the Lone Star of Texas state flag. Those loyal Texans came prepared, every year.

The 4th of July of 1991 was a defiant and triumphant day. Many of the 700 plus Kuwaiti oil wells the Iraqi’s had blown up during the Gulf War months earlier were still burning. Our sky, even six hours by car away, was slate grey and black particles were still falling from the sky. And, I remember a friend, in particular, following me around, desperate to have my allotment of beer tickets! as it was pretty evident I was not going to use them. Henry was laughing at me, as he does, getting so tickled he almost choked - I was oblivious, all that attention - I did not realize how desperate this person was for my tickets (how did I have them? Seems like each person was issued an allotment of tickets.) Who cared? Somebody really did!

After we moved back to the States, the 4th of July never again seemed so meaningful. All the fireworks, the Boston Pops on TV, the grilling on the Bar-B-Q, was nice, but lacked the intensity of patriotism we generated as expats. I came to realize it is a state of mind, somewhat like Christmas, which always was more poignant to me while living in Arabia.

Since this has been heavy on my mind, here is an abrupt shift to the Yemen Trip:

The third day into the trip we had a respite from the political scene, and drove west and north and into a bit higher altitude, almost 8000 feet, to the town of Manakaha. The road through this region was built in sections, by the Americans, the Russians, and the Chinese. During the civil war of 1994 the Americans and Russians left, the Chinese, who had the most desperately difficult section, stayed. Many Chinese workers died and are buried in Yemen, their burial place an honored site and a shrine to their courage and sacrifice. The road winds through qat fields, and some other crops, no one seemed to know what they are! and climbs higher and higher, with vistas of terraced mountains far into the distance. In good years, one sees lush green terraces far into the horizon. This year is parched dusty brown, little is growing. Nothing, really,

We were accompanied by our RV load of soldiers, one now carrying a larger gun than the others, with a tripod, and a huge belt of cartridges across his chest. He swaggered a bit. He is actually quite cute and very nice and smiley, and very young.

We stopped by the side of the road, a picture stop - well, it would have been in a better year. Appeared a local man, literally out of nowhere, running and panting up to our van. He squatted in the dirt, his back two feet away from the precipice that dropped a thousand feet below directly behind him, spread out a dusty gutra about 36 inches square, which revealed an assortment of local jewelry. “See,” he said, “my shop. This my shop.” I was so impressed with his ambition and, he was still breathless, that I bought some necklaces from him. And some more. It was fun. Our buying encouraged others in our group to buy, the man’s business did very well.

This set a precedent. Everywhere we stopped, our vehicle was inundated with jewelry sellers, of all ages. Vicci and I settled on buying from an eleven year old girl whom we saw several times in the next two days. Finally we realized she was not keeping the money, her father and brothers were in the background, collecting.

Manakaha, our destination for next two days, is a wonderful mountain town of very tall Yemeni buildings, teetering on the edge of the mountian. The people here are known for their dancing and cheerfulness. We stayed at the Al-Hajjarah Tourist Hotel and Resaurant. I love the name. The food was served on straw mats on the floor, everyone sitting cross legged, except me. I finally learned to sit in the window sill and have someone hand me up a plate. I simply could not get up and down. Henry never could - he disliked those Arab feasts, cupsa, because he had such trouble getting down and up. By osmosis, so did I - have trouble getting up and down.

We visited the nearby villlage of Al-Hajjarah, a fortified city with only one entrance gate. One climbs up and up the stone stairs and through the narrow gate and into the very narrow alleys between the houses. For defense purposes, the lower floors of the buildings have no windows.

We had been advised that this village is a good place to get “picked up”. Mohammed adopted me, he materialized at my elbow, and for the next two days he assisted me up stairs, down steep alleyways, carried my purse, and in his fractured English consisting of perhaps ten words, he was my guide, and he was not to be dismissed. He was mine and I was his, and at the end of the stay, he did receive a tip. Of course.

Mohammed showed me around town, had me pose while he took a picture beside the door lintel with the Jewish symbols carved into it - this village at some centuries ago had a Jewish king. At other times in history Jews lived as third class citizens in the Jewish Quarter. Mohammed decided I should visit the sheik of the village, so up the seven flights of uneven stone stairs we toiled - to the reception room on the very top floor - where, much to my surprise, their was one of our group, Peter Kenyon the NPR man, interviewing the sheik, his sons, and some village elders. Since we had rudely arrived, it was even worse to leave, so we sat and listened to the interview.

The bit I understood from the interpreter, with many of the village men adding their comments in fractured English, is: the town is out of water. This is not a surprise. During election years the government promises water piped in, and maybe a doctor, a clinic. But after the election nothing ever happens. The water is a trickle, piped in from Manakaha. People die in the taxi on the way to the hospital in Sana’a, nearly two hours away.

The sheik is a small, tiny man, regal in bearing. I wondered if he hoped this interview on Public Radio would actually help his village. A young men there, one of the sons and obviously the next in line, adamantly insisted he had no desire to be the next sheik. He has a shop for tourists, and that is much better for him than the responsibilities of this poor village.

Someone in our group had read in a local paper that since the attacks on the US embassy two weeks before our arrival, there were only six tourists left in Yemen, and our group raised the number to twenty. This afternoon we found one cannot believe all that is in print. We met several tourists - French, Greek, Italian, and a lovely couple from Slovenia, he a lawyer and in wonderful English asked me incredulously, “ what are you doing with all these soldiers? Don’t those gun frighten you?” I had no decent answer. Their being along was not my doing, but he was not convinced. They were happy to distance themselves from us.

It is time to talk trash. I read somewhere in government literature a line something to the effect: please enjoy our beautiful country and unusual architecture, our friendly people and wonderful food. It is forbidden to take pictures of Yemeni women, it is customary to ask men before taking their picture, and do not take pictures of trash. ???

By this third day into the trip, I see. In some areas, this country is one big trash pile. We drove through villages where the trash was whipped up into great swirls flying through the air by traffic, so that it lodges into trees and shrubs. The little roadside villages we drove through are virtually ankle deep in trash. It would seem that nobody picks up. We saw a few trash cans in Sana’a, never in the villages. I was beside myself with grief over this sad situation. Such a lovely place. With the onset of plastic bags and plastic bottles, cardboard boxes, and garbage, they are drowning in filth. Those wonderful mountain top villages, which from a distance are fantastic works of architecture are fronting a mountainside of trash cascading down the backside from the village. A major source of income is tourism, but, within a few years there is going to be little to see over the trash. I am just sick about it, even as I write here. The next week we were on the other side of the country, the Hadhramawt, we did not see trash like this. And, there were actually a few trash cans in the towns and villages there. So, somebody, somewhere, is trying.

To close out on a cheerful note - almost a pun there - the evening at the hotel was a wonderful night of Yemeni folk dancing and singing and music - sights and sounds not possible to describe. The throbbing beat went on for some hours. Many of the tourists we saw in the day, we sat by that evening, or were circle dancing with them. A nice touch was the local men who came and went throughout the evening, just checking on the current crop of tourists and visiting with the family members who run the hotel.

This is a hotel popular with trekkers - some people come there and trek for days at a time. Consequently, the accommodations are spartan, a fact about which we were not advised before hand. No sheets, no soap, no towels, no toilet paper, a trickle of water occasionally - flush the toilet with a bucket which took a while to fill - shall I go on? Vicci and I decided we are NOT wimps and would NOT complain, what good would it do? We would consider this “quaint.“ At least we had a bed which be found out later was a most fortunate situation, as some in the group slept on the cold floor. I had bought that day, from a very cross local woman, a peasant type piece of fabric, about the size of a tablecloth, so that was our blanket, and we had a jacket. Not too bad. The next day, breakfast was good, and the staff so very pleasant and thrilled to entertain us. We were glad to be there.

It’s late and I am giving up here. Again, thanks to you who read to the bottom of all this, and to those who respond. I love it.

Much love, Bonnie and the Cook Family

Middle of the night - 24 June

Bonnie Cook — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 08:51:00 -0700

Middle of the night - 24 June - hey anybody out there still with me?

After the sidetrack with the pearls and gold story, here is the next installment on Yemen:

After the meeting with President Ali Abdullah Saleh, in the morning of the second day into the trip, I assumed all would be downhill from this event. Not so. Every hour, it seemed, just got better.

Within a few minutes of leaving President Saleh’s Residence, we met with the President of the Shura Council, H.E. Abdul Aziz Abdul Ghanni. Information of note: of the countries throughout the world, only Yemen, Oman, and Bahrain have Councils on the order of a Shura Council. This is a body of men - a woman occasionally - who are no longer serving in government positions. They are former ambassadors, governors, cabinet members, parliament members. This group of former public servants, instead of “retirement”, meet in council to debate, vote, and submit to President Saleh recommendations for action. Seems to me a good idea, these out of office public servants continuing to serve the public. My notes are scrambled here: I believe there are 111 members in the Shura Council, they form 13 committees in areas of education, agriculture, tourism, finance, environment…you get the picture. They also suggest candidates for the presidency, look into economic plans and international treaties. Someone asked if their meetings are in secret - no, meetings are open and televised so the public knows who votes for or against ideas and decisions.

The issues President Ghanni emphasized during our time with him were heard again and again in subsequent meetings with other ministers throughout this trip. Following is my listing of major issues facing Yemen, as I understood this discussion:

1. The economy. Sound familiar? (“it’s the economy, s…..”). The rising price of basic commodities, wheat, rice, oil, sugar, have affected Yemen desperately. If the government subsidizes foodstuffs, they fear, they know, corruption will follow. The Yemeni are very aware that their rich neighbors to the north and to the east are subsidizing food, which creates resentment, not only in Yemen, but in the Sudan, in Egypt. And, as we heard so often, they think America should do something about the food crisis. They lay much of the problem to our using grains, corn, and sugar cane for ethanol, causing food prices to rise throughout the world. Only three per cent of Yemen’s land is arable! This is an astounding figure. Only 3% of their land? Through the centuries they have terraced the mountain slopes, so that 25 percent of that three per cent is in terraces, and when it rains they do pretty well raising crops (on land they have left after planting qat.) Agriculture is totally dependent on rainfall. Now, they are gripped in a serious drought, which they lay directly to Greenhouse Warming, whether this be so or not, they believe it, and state that it is a situation not of their making. Food is very scarce. Mention was made of the starvation and famine in 1968, a violent and dark year in their history, and there is fear of a similar situation developing now.

2. The high birth rate is a serious crisis. These figures took a minute to sink in: 120,000 entrants into the labor market each year. The government can only employ 10,000. There is nowhere for the other 110,000 to find jobs. This problem compounds itself year after year. There has been a trend in the last fewyears toward technical education, but there is not much opportunity in Yemen for graduates in these fields. In the past Yemeni have gone to the Gulf countries for work, but can no longer compete with the Asians now being hired in the Gulf. President Ghanni made the point: “the devil has work for idle hands.” Now there is a universal statement - as kids, our Grandmother Leavitt often reminded us of this fact..

3. They feel they cannot take an effective stand against terrorism until the Yemeni labor market improves. They would like to ask the USA for help in getting work for their people.

4. They feel now Yemen has the best government available, with the unification of the North and South (although war is currently raging in the North and the Aden area feels like an unloved stepchild), and they are working on decentralization..

5. There is an increase in the education of women, allowing women to work, and allowing women the right of divorce - although some modern theologians in Yemen have much different views on this subject.

There was some good discussion about religion, religious leaders, and religious laws concerning inheritance, marriage, divorce, and business. I was just on the edge of this, not understanding the translator very well, so would not dare to make a synopsis of this most interesting subject. Sorry.

From Dr. Ghanni’s office we traveled straight to the Ministry of Planning and Development. This was turning into a heavy morning. We met with Dr. Motahahar al’Abassi. He earned his Ph.D. in Economics from the University of Missouri. This cheerful man was friendly and funny, and serious about his government post. He apologized that his power point presentation would not run - something about the equipment. So he gave us a print out, and we discussed through it. Much of this you have heard, so will skip to:

1990 - 1994: unification of Yemen, with two different systems, somewhat like east and west Germany trying to form a unified State. The war in the north in 1994 was an alarming point for Yemen, but it was necessary to save the union. This was a time of adopting a free market, redefining the role of the State, and being the butt of Cold War politics from outside countries.

1995 - 2000: the government reviewed - what should we do next? During these five years the IMF and the World Bank considered Yemen a success story as inflation declined 200% to a single digit while the riyal was linked to the dollar.

2006 to the present: terrorism came to Yemen - the bombing of the Cole, along with much corruption, and lack of accountability in government. Now the dollar has fallen, Yemen has $600 per capita, and is in the bottom rank in the Third World. The numbers I have here in my journal cannot be accurate; as I read here, they numb the soul. Here are some other numbers I know I recorded accurately:

In 22 years the population will double.

45% of the population are teenagers. Imagine! Building schools for this group.

Actually, Yemen is asking (someone, anyone) for 16 Billion $s to build schools and pay teachers. (It was fascinating to learn that the Japanese built and funded the faculty payroll for the University of Sana’a, for some years. After the Yemeni government did something (I cannot remember nor did I write down what the government did,) but the result is the funding has been withdrawn, and the university is languishing for want of funds.)

50% of the population is under 50 years old.

The challenge is creating jobs.

Unemployment of young men is 34%

Every sector is a challenge: water, electricity, cultural heritage, trade, changing climate, limited natural resources, health care, child care, education, security and terrorism.

They, as a government, are open to ideas.

Yemeni have immigrated to at least 150 countries.

This man was concise and intense and interesting.

After this meeting, we went to lunch - finally! It was late in the afternoon. We met with the Chamber of Commerce - more than 50 very prosperous, intelligent, and (as my dad would say, vociferous) businessmen. We were instructed not to sit by each other, but spread out and meet as many men as possible. This was the time of exchanging business cards, a custom that should not be underestimated. I did, under estimate this custom, until that moment. Without a business card, one has no identity in that culture. Should I ever be part of a trip like this again, I certainly will arrive armed with at least 300 cards. It is necessary to have a printed name, address, email, and a statement of “who you are” - I could invent something - Professional Grandmother?

I entered that banquet room with great trepidation, how could I talk to Yemeni businessmen? Need not have worried. They all spoke English, mostly, many were educated in the West, to a man they possessed impeccable social graces, and were wonderful conversationalists. They were intensely curious about who we are and what we thought about their beloved country, and anxious to tell us about themselves. and about their businesses. We were so busy talking there was hardly time to eat, and I was really hungry. The tables were loaded - how to impressed this upon you, dear reader? - those tables were piled with platters of hamur, shrimp, chicken, beef, salads, fruits, hummous and several culturally mysterious concoctions, and the huge rounds of hot bread piled in among the dishes of food. It was almost obscene, all this eating, in this parched and desperately poor land.

An example of men I met: a young man, educated in England, whose family is based in the Hadhramawt, runs a 150 year old family business - leather. They export to Europe, specifically Spain and Italy. Most of those “local” leather goods originate in Yemen! He gave me three sheets of leather paper. This is absolutely lovely, soft, pliable, goes through a standard printer, is used for vital documents and it is stable for more than 200 years. It will not tear, deteriorate, crumble, nor yellow. I should get a commission just for my enthusiasm. I was sold on this wonderful product.

A very young and most handsome man, his Ph.D from UCLA, the John Deere dealer for Yemen.

And Ahmed, the only man there in traditional Yemeni garb, which was elegant and obviously expensive. He was older than most of the young men recently returned from school in the West. He lives in a 400 year old house in Old Sana’a. He was most anxious for us to visit him and his family. Not getting there was the major failure of this trip - he put a time frame on the visit, we were scheduled with ministers every day during the times he said he would be receiving. I think we should have skipped a minister and visited Ahmed. He brought his twelve year old son with him, to mingle with prosperous businessmen and to met the Americans.

I was wearing down, after the three big meetings of the day and the lunch with the wonderful Yemeni businessmen. Still, one more stop, to the construction site for the YCMES buildings, the new classroom building and site for a library. Sabri has great dreams and wonderful plans for the College. This site is very close to the guesthouse where we were staying - his idea is an urban campus, the buildings scattered, but all within blocks of each other. What we toured was an old traditional house, over 100 years, that he is re-doing. It is the standard style - Google Yemen and see pictures of the houses (if you have not done that yet), There was activity on every floor, stone masons, plasters, hod carriers. They were setting in windows, building walls, putting in the beams across the ceilings. The workers were chewing qat as they worked, one side of their faces bulging out the six inches, at least. When they smiled at us as we tiptoed though and around all that mess of cement and gypsum and sloshy mud, their faces were so distended, they were comical, and sincerely friendly. I didn’t pay a lot of attention at first to the walls, just great irregular blocks of stone. But upon closer observation I realized the “plaster”, put on before the startling white gypsum layer, the plaster is a mixture of mud, straw and dung. Poop. Things are not much different from Old Testament times, I believe the Israelites used this same recipe when enslaved to the Egyptians. This compound dries hard as, and is better than, and costs less than, cement. Plus, these walls keep the building warm in the winter and cool in the summer, eliminating heating and air conditioning bills. Some of the old ways are still the best ways.

I thought it interesting that Sabri, at age about 50, is dedicating his working life to the college. He plans to have it “finished” in about five years, donate it to the government, and retire to the south of France, with his German wife who is an artist. Their three children were educated in Germany, and the older ones serving internships as political scientists - government positions - in Egypt I believe. Some families have a plan, and keep it all together. Good for them.

This is bye for now - and much love to the “hey I am still with you” folks. This account brings us only to the end of the second day - more to come! Bonnie and the Cook Family

In the middle of the night

Bonnie Cook — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 11:56:00 -0700

In the middle of the night of 23 June 2008 - Hey anybody out there still with me?

Thank you to those who write or call or email and say “hey, I am one out here,” as U-Drive Bob Erickson leaned over and said to me just last Friday, as the wedding was about to commence. I am in Orlando, visiting with Peter and Cindy and their beautiful and brilliant children. However, I came here basically to attend The Wedding. Jim and Jan Sizer - of the Sugar Story that appeared on this site in February - their oldest daughter was married here, a “destination wedding,“ at Disney’s Grand Floridian. This event was absolutely lovely in every respect, and I would write an account of it, I so enjoyed attending this wedding - Mickey Mouse was not a participant - except this is a Henry Cook site.

Aramcons Bob and Janet Erickson were not at our table during the fabulous lunch, but we, Cindy was persuaded to accompany me, had the pleasure of dining with a Sizer brother, Jeff, and his lovely wife, Brenda, and - Lynn and Gail Loncki, of Ras Tanura, and now of Dhahran. They came to know us as guests of the Sizers when the Sizers were house sitting for us in Ras Tanura. Gail commented on the wonderful dinner parties they attended at our house while we were on vacation! This is much like the people we used to meet some years later when we lived in Dhahran, people who would tell us about the wonderful parties they attended when Patsy Knox would house sit for us in Dhahran. I used to think, I sure wish I had been invited to some of those parties, they sounded so much more fun that anything we ever did. Once, I think, Patsy had a band, a combo, play for the evening. And, a few weeks before the Gulf War started - we came back from vacation just in time for the War - Patsy entertained a host of female pilots, she herself being a pilot. She gave us a picture of about thirty women in uniform, posing by our pool. This picture is quite a thrilling sight. On a somber note: one of those women was killed in combat over Iraq about a month after the picture was taken.

Back to the wedding - before I left for Florida it was decreed that my clothes are dowdy, so Allison devoted some hours after work to helping me find something suitable. However - the dress of choice had an attached piece of jewelry on an extended chain. I intended to replace this strange ornament that definitely was not me, with a little piece of Yemeni jewelry I happened to pick up on the trip. Intentions were good, got the chain off the dress, but the Yemeni jewelry never was attached to the chain; the original piece I dropped on the tile floor and it shattered. Time was short, just a couple of hours until flight time - doing my usual routine just before a trip, of “re-arranging the chairs on the deck of the Titanic” - I could hear Henry, yet again, saying that to me as I was trying to get ready to leave. So, what to do about the dress without the ornament? Relying on the classic, at the very last minute, I took my pearls.

That is where this is going: The Pearls. Henry and I visited Beirut in 1966. We had never been “anywhere”, well, except to Dallas and LA. We were coached by several people who tripped to Beirut on a regular basis, that we must do at least two things: take in a show at The Casino, and shop at a little jewelry store owned by George Mansour. “Everyone” bought jewelry from George Mansour. We knew nothing about shopping for jewelry - at that time our family jewels consisted of our gold wedding bands, and a piece of Navajo turquoise Henry bought me in New Mexico. Obediently, we spent part of a day at George Mansour’s: he recognized novices when he saw them, and gave us a quite an education about buying jewelry. We looked at diamonds, at rubies, at sapphires, at emeralds, at opals, and on and on. It was too much. We finally bought four gold bangles, and a harem ring.

About a year later, Suzanne Walston and Lo Jarvis (those two names are linked indelibly to the Tripoli years, and they will never read this - they’ve been lost to us for a very long time) went on a serious shopping trip to Beirut. Henry asked them to pick out a string of pearls for me. They took on this responsibility gladly, and with great enthusiasm. Those two are the Original Shoppers. They returned with the pearls. Gleefully and proudly they gave them to Henry to “present” them to me, for our wedding anniversary. He couldn’t wait. He came home the very day they arrived, and, grinning as only Henry could when he was pleased with himself, and excited about a surprise, he pulled those pearls out of his pocket, much as a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. They were wrapped in a wad of Kleenex. Not overly impressive! at first. George Mansour gave them The Speech, and Suzanne and Lo next educated Henry. Those pearls are “of the highest quality and value.” The clincher, couched in terms as only a Middle Eastern merchant could say sincerely and with a straight face - “these pearls are so beautiful, that men from far across the room will be drawn to the lady who wears them. Men will be mesmerized by their beauty and the beauty of the woman who wears them, and will not be able to stay away.”

That was never actually the case! Henry would tease me every time I put them on. Was I preparing to mesmerize men that night? However, they are “lovely and of highest quality.” Have had them re-strung twice - due to babies, my own babies, pulling on them. People in the shop usually comment on what an extraordinarily nice string of pearls they are.

So, I wore the pearls, and Henry’s presence was with me, there at the wedding.

And the gold bangles we bought on our trip to Beirut? Hadn’t thought of them for years, until the Yemen trip, traveling with Vicci, whose signature is an arm load of bangles, all different, each one beautifully exquisite. She wears an astounding collection of unique bangles.

My bangles were quite plain - elegance is simplicity? and they were 21 carat gold, so they were very soft. In just wearing them, they would pull out of a true round. Lay my arm down, as on a table, they would assume a rectangular shape. More of a trapezoid, actually. I loved wearing them, but they really were in the way while in the kitchen. Doing dishes they were always down in the soapy water. Could not roll out cinnamon rolls with them clinking down around my wrist. And, I became a fast learner about which metals conduct heat! Only took once to open the oven door while wearing those bangles, they heated up so quickly I was nearly branded for life. So, I would come into the kitchen wearing them, take them off and leave them on the window sill above the sink. Oh dear. Those villas were concrete block houses with big empty rooms. We had to buy everything: the closets as separate standing wardrobes, and, the kitchen sink as one unit. We had a huge white enamel sink with the drain board attached, and cabinet, all together. This very large unit was connected to the plumbing, leaving about a two inch space between the sink unit and the wall. You can see what is coming here. One day I accidentally knocked the bangles off the window sill. They fell, tinkling musically, between the wall and the sink unit. I can still hear them, falling all the way to the floor. Some days later, Henry came in from the rig, considered the situation, and decided there was no reasonable way to disconnect everything then and move that huge heavy unit away from the wall for gold bracelets. “We would think about it“. In a few years, while packing for the next move, we considered the bangles behind the sink, and decided to just leave them, a hidden treasure for someone to find sometime later in history. After all, the wide ones only cost twelve dollars apiece, the narrow ones, seven dollars!

Maybe someday our kids will wend their way back to the land of their childhood, (well, not Anne’s childhood) and locate a major part of their inheritance….

While on the subject of gold: Our first years in Abqaiq, George Mansour’s jewelry was still part of our lives. One of the teachers, D.J. Grothus, returned from Beirut wearing a “Wow!” necklace, the “wow” being what the husband said when he finds out how much the wife paid for it - this term originated with Gary Clark, a teacher in the school. Henry agreed that I definitely needed a wow necklace, so he arranged for someone to bring me one. It is 18 carat gol, a series of filigree balls separated by gold links, quite lovely. Over the course of only about two years, several women in Abqaiq were wearing their wow necklaces. I had not realized they were so prevalent until on one trip, while connecting through London's Heathrow, Peter, then in about the 7th grade, said, “look mom! That lady is wearing your necklace.” I looked, not anyone I knew, but indeed she was wearing “my” wow necklace. We oil field people traveled the same airline routes and shopped the same gold souks.

Upon retirement, I wore the necklace some, but when grandchild number one came along she was often into the jewelry box, her favorite thing to do was drape that necklace around herself. I took it away from her a few times, and then it disappeared. Through the next few years I have searched for it, finally faced the fact she must have dropped it into the wastebasket, as often when emptying the trash we found "treasures" she had squirreled away there. I thought, oh well, "but lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal..." or in this case grandchild loses. However - since 5 February of this year I’ve had occasion to search through Henry’s safe for various paperwork, and what did I find, but the wow necklace. He had carefully put it away from little girls. He had forgotten it was there.

I meant to write about the Yemen trip tonight - ended up in pearls and gold instead. Sometimes I don’t know where I’m going with this until it happens. Yemen on the morrow.

Bye for now - and much love from Bonnie and the Cook Family

Monday night – 16th of June, 2008

Bonnie Cook — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 10:50:00 -0700

Hey those of you out there still with me – it is good to hear from some of you. Thanks for staying with me. I wanted to write on Father’s Day – but was simply too tired. Saturday night I was up until the wee hours making cinnamon rolls, as this is tradition for Father’s Day at church. Then, last night I planned to write, and a Great Storm blew through – it lasted the night. The electricity was off for hours – so, thank goodness, had an excuse to simply go to bed. I slept through the entire storm, which downed many trees and power lines. Today, in some areas of town, things are a real mess.

I was thinking about Henry, how when I would wish him happy Father’s Day, he would always remind me that he is not my father! Then we would go into our standard routine, along the lines of he would not have been a father without a bit of assistance from me, his first wife…he loved saying that, and sometimes it would really confuse people who didn’t know him. You could see the double take. So? Is there a second wife?

I was thinking about each of the kids coming along – Henry was astounded at each one of them - what hath God wrought? I remember his looking down at Peter in amazement, and finally Henry managed to say,

“Just think. In ten years from today I will have mowed my last lawn.”

Peter was the only one for whom we sent out birth announcements. We just never got to it with the other two. I know, this is inexcusable, but that is the way it was. For the first child, Henry, on his own, went to a printer in Hobbs and had elegant cards made up in flowing script:

The Los Angles Dodgers

Wish to announce the signing of a $100,000,000.00 bonus baby

Mr. Peter Sherman Cook born to Henry and Bonnie Cook

August 21, 1962

Currently weighing in at 6 lbs 8ozs.

Will report for the 1982 season.

Three years later, Allison was born. Ah, a most beautiful girl. Henry was thrilled. With trepidation we took this lovely little bundle home, in a yellow dress that was, many years later, too small for Anne’s doll. Alllison was so very teeny tiny, there was some question about how she would do. She was fine. It did take some convincing three year old Peter that he was not in charge of cutting those tiny little fingernails. We sold the house in Hobbs, and gave our original child, Beauregard Frontenaque de Montmingle Bugleboy, (is there a Pogo fan still alive? If so, please check that spelling. A note here, Henry was an authority on the Pogo comic strip, much as he was an authority on the Dodgers. When the strip’s creator, Walt Kelly died, Henry took it hard and personally) – we tearfully gave Beau, a huge but gentle Doberman Pinscher, to the house buyers for a dollar, and Henry moved us to Cedar City, Utah, all in about a month’s time, where we waited at my folks’ place while he went on to Libya to start his new job and scout out housing. He sent for us in about two months.

Anne was born in Ras Tanura, some time later! This event descended into a Three Stooges routine: Henry was to play in a tennis tournament in Dhahran, and after some discussion that “the time is close but evidently nothing is going to happen today,” he drove away. Virtually immediately the situation changed. No one could contact Henry although Lloyd Elkins valiantly tried to get him on his car radio. Allison was at the horse stables – locally known as The Hobby Farm. Peter showed up from his job at the Scuba Club, and drove me to the RT clinic. The decision was to send me to Dhahran, an hour away. Ten minutes into the trip things were progressing to the point that Dhahran was no longer an option; back to the RT clinic where Dr. Philip Stokoe was waiting, baby Anne arrived within a very few minutes. Dr. Stokoe, he who played with the U Drives Baseball Team, and at the first office visit some months before, nearly fell out of his chair laughing when I told him I was pretty sure we were pregnant. Actually, Philip was very nice about Henry’s concern that we were “too old.” He said his mother was 42 when he was born, and there is nothing wrong with him! (Some guys on the team would teasingly question that!) I was informed in no uncertain terms by the head of nursing in RT that babies are NOT to be born in the Ras Tanura Clinic, that is what the hospital in Dhahran is for. However, since I broke the rules, they would take care of the baby and feed me breakfast anyway! Someone finally contacted Henry, who drove considerably over the speed limit back to RT, where he was again, for the third time, absolutely astounded at the miracle. Watching his face as he first looked at the baby was, well, indescribable tenderness. He could hardly comprehend what had happened. I was watching a new father at church yesterday, holding his two month old little girl, and watching him gaze at his baby, he could not take his loving eyes off that little thing, it was if watching Henry all over again. This thrill of awe and amazement is universal.

***

How to segue into a continuing account of the Yemen trip? This is an abrupt switch from Fathers Day. Jump in and take off, I guess. Have been thinking, how to describe the second day? The first day was so intense – meetings with the Foreign Minister, with the American Ambassador, with Dr. Al-Eryani ( The Brain of Yemen), the trip to the great souk, the fabulous food, the jet lag – and the dust. I no longer am accustomed to the dust and the all pervading smell of dirt hanging in the air.

The second day, it was again into heels and hose, suits and ties, notebooks in hand, back in the van, on the way to somewhere, I was confused. Sabri, president of the Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies, and our host and guide and interpreter and entertainer, stood in the front of the van, speaking into his cell phone. Suddenly he snapped that phone shut and triumphantly announced that Ali Abdullah Saleh, the President of Yemen, agreed to receive us - right now! The van served and backtracked, our Guys with the Guns in their RV caught up and lead the way with that forest of brown arms waving from the windows, motioning traffic away from us. At the presidential compound, we were a subdued group, just beginning to realize the enormity of our good fortune. We walked through great metal gates with the stylized eagle in black and bronze – harking back at least to the Romans; they too used the eagle as a symbol of might and power.

We walked across the grounds up to the steps of the president’s residence, and I noticed:

1. Secret service type men in dark suits, with earpieces and protruding wires standing “everywhere” – at the corners of the building, stationed in the gardens, along the compound walls, silently watching us, moving along as we moved along – just like in the movies.

2. The lawns. The lovely flowers. The shrubs. The sprinkler system was merrily chugging away. The sprinklers!!!! The lawns were a fertilized intense blue green - in this city of no water, this country gripped in a terrible drought. Hmmm. To the conqueror go the spoils. Or, we should say, the water.

In the course of this trip, I became intensely concerned about the Yemeni water situation – I could identify, as I grew up in Southern Utah where we prayed sincerely for rain at church services, and, to cover all bases, (God helps those who help themselves) the city fathers paid an airplane company to seed the clouds with – what was it? – some compound, a scientific idea of the early 1950s, that they hoped would produce rain, despite nature’s reluctance. I remember the planes in the sky. A few clouds. I don’t remember much success.

We were welcomed into the President’s reception hall – lovely but not opulent, tastefully decorated in bronze and beiges and browns, with a huge map of Yemen on the wall behind the president’s chair. Dr. Anthony presented us, one at a time, to President Saleh, who smiled and shook our hand. We were seated in chairs lining the room, again balancing notebooks, glasses of juice and little plates of cookies. President Saleh is of medium height, has maintained his military fitness, does assume a regal bearing, and is quite handsome. He was born in 1942 in a small village, attended a primary Koranic school, and joined the army in his extremely early teens. Through the years he rose through the ranks, fought in many battles, was involved in Yemen’s very turbulent military history, and through a series of events became president of North Yemen in 1978. In 1990 he was installed president of a unified Yemen and has been elected twice since then. He has ruled nearly thirty years and has survived through a combination of shrewdness, intelligence, luck, military might, and nepotism - putting his seven brothers in key government positions.

He sat easily in this large chair – not a throne – but it seemed like a throne as he held court. He did not attempt English; all conversation was through an interpreter. There was quite a lovely preamble by Dr. Anthony, outlining who we are and our reason for visiting Yemen – we come as teachers and advisors, seeking understanding. What message would the President like us to take back to America, concerning the issues of terrorism, the economy, social issues, political issues, what Yemen is doing to contribute to the solution.

First, the translator smiled and volunteered that our being there was a victory against the American travel advisory. Everywhere we went on this trip, the Yemeni were thrilled that we defied the travel advisory, and that we trusted them as gracious hosts who are not terrorists.

His Excellency, the President, responded at some length. My summary here, as I read my scrambled notes and remember the tone in that room:

1. Terrorism exists everywhere, and travel advisories should not be directed at just one country.

2. The economy suffers from high prices and unrest in Yemen. The people are making use of their democracy by using the privilege of protesting – democracy is their strength.

3. The Yemeni people are saying why? Why is the USA not aiding us?

4. The regional situation is not good – Palestine, Iraq, Somalia, Iran, Kenya, Sudan, Afghanistan. The USA has a failure in policy and is not able to put out any fire. We are friends with the USA, but the American advisors to the government do not take into account our advice.

Dr. Anthony asked what help from other countries have impressed the President, and how could we build on what others have done. The response was basically that the British are more clever and more experienced in the region, and although they are no more a superpower, the Yemeni government believe the British wield an influence on American policy. The Yemeni government thinks of the Americans as a big Russian Bear that wants to fight everywhere!

This was a short visit. The President did make time for us, but when he was finished it was very evident. He stood up. We stood up. We all posed for a group picture. Did I mention that throughout the meeting great bright lights were set up on tripods in the corners of the room, and men with huge cameras on their shoulders were walking about. I was so busy trying to listen, to write, not spill the juice and drop cookie crumbs into the carpet, I hardly realized what was going on. For days after this interview, everywhere we went, and I mean absolutely everywhere, people recognized us, stopped us, and would comment: “We saw you on television! You met with President Saleh!” We WERE the news of the week, and evidently there is precious little else on Yemeni televison, as our fame was universal – a group of American educators and advisors, defying the travel advisory and in conference with President Saleh. We had our 15 minutes of fame, it lasted for days.

A word about the political parties. When Yemen was ready for elections in 1990, the political parties were formed, and each given a symbol. Actually, the symbols were decided by (some committee), and a representative of each party drew one out of a hat. Much of the population is illiterate, so they voted for symbols rather than people. Dr. Anthony is the only American ever given a Fulbright scholarship to study in Yemen, and also was the only American serving as an observer for the two elections Yemen has had in “modern” times. I understood him to say that these symbols were arbitrarily decided. The parties who drew a cell phone symbol and (something else – what did he say? An umbrella I think) did not fare well, as who would vote for something with which they had no connection? Or never seen? The parties who do the best are the President’s party, which has the symbol of a rearing horse (it helps that the rearing horse is also a symbol of a popular sport drink) and the rising sun symbol (for the Islah party – the Islamic party) fare best at the polls. For the life of me, I cannot remember the symbol of the Marxist party, now they are known as Socialists, the third most popular party in Yemen. In our travels, we saw the horse and the rising sun symbols everywhere: stenciled on walls and buildings and into the sides of mountains and hills done in white rocks. They were not a few. These two symbols were so prevalent and “in your face” at every turn, they came to look like sloppy graffiti. Or, one could say, this intense campaigning where the symbols are painted and permanent, they will not disappear in our lifetime, is quaint, and very uniquely Yemeni.

Stopping here for now – thanks to you who stay the course!

Much love, Bonnie and the Cook Family

7 June 2008

Bonnie Cook — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 09:36:00 -0700

Hey anybody out there still with me – it seems a long time since I have been on this machine. My mind is constantly churning, thinking about writing, but Life is getting in the way here. Thank you to all those who have written, emailed, and called this last week, it is wonderful to have such good friends.

The 5th of June was another anniversary – now it’s been four months. I thought I was doing very well, but missing Henry so much, so I called our home phone and listened to his Ebbets Field message on the answering machine. It was startling to hear Henry’s voice again – I wasn’t doing as well as I thought. However, we just go on...

The night of the 5th was eight year old Hunter’s baseball game. Afterwards he was sad, as they lost by one run. I pointed out to him that Pop loved winning, but more than that, he simply loved playing. Hunter very seriously informed me that baseball is “all about fun”, and he has lots of fun “because Pop is always with me.” Really? I asked, how do you know that? He looked at me with those liquid hazel eyes the size of huge marbles, and said, “I just know. I can feel him here.”

With that, I can say I feel Henry’s relief that I returned from Yemen - without an incident. What a fabulous trip. I last wrote of visiting the American Ambassador, which led into my observations on qat.

Now, here is my perception of the next topic of discussion: terrorism in Yemen. The American government does not see the Yemeni government asserting itself in a good way to exercise authority with terrorists. This is political speak for the fact theYemeni government will not extradite the convicted nationals who bombed the Cole for trial in another country. While these convicted bombers were under house arrest being rehabilitated, they attacked the oil facilities in the south. The American Government was less than impressed with the Yemeni method of dealing with criminal terrorists. There is a major difference of opinion between Us and Them on how to wage the War on Terror.

There was some talk of an Al Qaeda presence attempting to destabilize the government. The newer generation adheres to a dogmatic “pure” ideology. This is a sobering moment in Yemen’s history, what with the South feeling like an occupied territory, tribal wars in the north, economic malaise, terrorism threats – there had been ten terrorist attacks in Yemen, March 18th until that day, April 20th . Add to this, great corruption in the government, dwindling oil supply, extreme poverty, and the information that Yemen has the highest guns per capita of any nation in the world. Well, I think this is due to the fact that Yemen is the market place for military weapons, the middleman, supplying guns for conflicts all over the world. This is not a cheerful subject.

The final idea I came away with, if I understood the gist of the discussion, is Yemen has no system of checks and balances – whether by two or three powerful families as in some Gulf States, or by government agencies.

As we left, the head of security whispered, “Be safe. Don’t go to the souk.” We had just that morning had our first walking tour of the souk.

Our first day finished with a sumptuous dinner on the third floor of a popular restaurant, where the fish and shrimp sizzled in their platters, and the thin flat bread, each round about three or four feet across, arrived steaming hot - the waiters piled it into the middle of the table, a communal bread trough.

The day was not quite over. There is no rest for the weary. Ignoring jet lag, after all, one can sleep at home! we attended yet one more meeting – this time our group was welcomed into the home of Dr. Abdul Karim Al-Eryani. You really should be impressed. This marvelous tiny little man is known as The Brain. He is the heart and soul of Yemen. He is the same age as Henry. He grew up “in the 13th century”, as he likes to say, in a tiny village in the Ibb region, never seeing cars or electricity until his late teens. He managed to get to Cairo and take night school, attained a 9th grade education; then was lucky to be one of the first forty Yemeni to be educated in the States. He studied from 1958 to 1968, graduating with a Ph.D. in biology from Yale. He returned to a Yemen “grown to the 17th century.” He held various government posts, was Prime Minister, and now, among other projects, serves as Head of the Shura Council, a group of men who no longer are in elected government positions, but who are advisors to President Ali Abdullah Saleh. Dr. Al-Eryani is pleasant and positive and will never give up until his dying day.

Dr. Anthony and he are dear friends since 1968, they were delighted to greet each other. The atmosphere was, well, easy. Vibrant. The conversation was relaxed. As our spokesman, Dr. Anthony posed the question: What do you want us to take back to the USA, for our understanding?

We are an old state, our civilization is documented to 2800 BC – he didn’t mention that he, just four year ago, was instrumental in having the excavation done at Sabean sites, where the incense trade began. A few days later we saw some of the excavated artifacts in a museum. So strange, it was as if being in a museum in Crete, or Greece. Had no idea there was a Mesopotamian civilization in the south of Yemen!

We need clever leadership to move our country without violence into the modern world.

And then, he expounded on the same subjects we heard daily on the rest of the trip, except this man was best at putting things into perspective for us – for me, at least. For those of you who skim read starting about now, here is a summary from my understanding:

Yemen has always been in conflict; today, war in the North, economic troubles in South.

Of the third world, Yemeni problems are most dire.

Corruption plays a role in the Middle East; Yemen has formed a Supreme Committee to combat this condition, so serious in their country.

Major problems are qat and lack of work.

Other major problems are lack of education, lack of resources, fast growing population.

No Gulf State needs, nor will hire, Yemeni workers except Saudi Arabia, but since Yemen’s pro-Iraqi stance in the Iraqi-Iran War, and the Gulf War, Saudi is not hiring Yemeni. Without those remittances sent back to Yemen, (a word heard time and time again throughout the trip) the Yemeni people cannot, are not, surviving.

There is a large Yemeni population in the States, but they are not active for Yemen.

Terrorism is now a problem. Terrorist are externally created - from Iraq.

Tourism and Terrorism do not live together.

The Iraq War has become American’s Vietnam. He thinks it will be over in five years.

Since JFK every American president has emphasized allegiance with Israel.

The Palestine issue is a series of injustices; as Arabs, they feel solving this is important.

He feels the thing to do is create two states: Israel and Palestine.

There is great pride in the Yemeni who immigrated throughout Indonesia and Malaysia, citing several high ranking officials of various Eastern countries who are Yemeni.

How did I do? With a summary? I find this vastly interesting, at least it was while there, since these subjects were the conversation, in the meetings, while riding in the van, at dinner. Yes, we did talk shopping. But mostly, we talked history and politics.

Or, I should say, some talked, I listened and listened, hanging onto edges of the vast knowledge incorporated in the education of this group, these Malone Fellows.

Our last event of the evening was admiring Peter Kenyon’s new by two weeks passport. As the NPR correspondent based in Cairo, he travels extensively, so where everyone else has a few pages, he has about an inch deep of pages. And such beauty on those pages! The art, the symbols, and then, the RFID chip, that would be radio-frequency identification, the “magic chip” on the cover. A citizen’s life is incorporated into that chip, actually, the passport information is on the chip, including the passport picture. Now, we are all waiting for our passports to expire so we too can possess that state of the art, work of art, difficult to forge, passport.

So, ends the day. Much love to those of you out there who skimmed to the bottom!

Bonnie and the Cook Family