Saturday Night – 22 March 2008 - Hey, anybody still out there…I’ve fielded some calls about the heavy rains in Arkansas this past week – nothing that has affected this place. The river is running high and muddy, but not a danger here – and, I’ve been thinking about: Water.

In my early years in St. George, Utah, the water ran down the concrete gutters of Main Street, each family took their water turn. I remember Dad getting up in the night or early mornings, to put in the metal plate, in essence a dam, and turn the water onto our property. When Henry was in St. George in 1959, he thought the water running down Main Street was “quaint”. It was. Kids waded in it in summers – the water in the gutters and ditches is a lovely institution, ruined by closed water mains. Our drinking water came from springs, it didn’t run down Main Street but was housed in a concrete tank on the Red Hill (on the flat top of this tank we roller skated). The water was pure and clear and cold.

Not the case when we lived in Hobbs, New Mexico. Not pure, not clear, not cold. We drank it, but noticed that many locals did not. Most homes had large water coolers in their kitchens. (the Culligan Man?) That seemed an extravagant expense to us, we just drank the local water.

At this time in our history, we had three dollars left over every month, after paying the mortgage, the car payment, the stereo payment - an absolute necessity! – and ten dollars a week at the grocery store. This certainly did not include buying water, since it came out of the kitchen tap. Peter commented to me recently, “three dollars is all you had left each month? Why didn’t you get a job, mom?” Why would I? We always had money left over – could go to the movie once a month. We were fine. Besides, it never occurred to me to get a job, and want more. I was a 1950s housewife in the classic sense.

After a year or so living in Hobbs, I began to realize that some old timer locals had brown teeth, but thought little of it – they must not brush very well! We lived in Hobbs about four years, long enough to be pregnant with Peter in 1962 and Allison in 1965. Some years later, as teenagers, Peter and Allison would have their dental checkups in the States, and invariably the dentist would ask, “were these kids raised in West Texas?” They had mottled teeth, not brown, but chalky mottled. And, rock hard. A dentist here in Fort Smith looked into Allison’s mouth when she was about thirteen, and told me, basically: she has the most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen. The mottling is beautiful, as she will never have a cavity, and at the risk of my own ruined income, I would say she would never have to visit a dentist again. After quizzing me about where she grew up, and checking Peter’s teeth, he also will never have a cavity, the dentist decided it was the water in Hobbs that I drank while expecting them. Strong minerals and naturally occurring fluoride. We were, fortunately, there just long enough to set them up for life, but not turn their teeth brown, since we wouldn’t pay for bottled water!

Transfer to Tripoli. Peter was age three, Allison was three months. The water coming through our kitchen tap came from a locally owned well about two blocks away, in a yard with chickens and a screen over the opening, hopefully the screen stayed put. We were advised upon arrival, that boiling our water would be a very good idea. I acquired two teapots, holding about two gallons each, those, plus a couple of stew pots, gave me four containers that I filled every night with tap water and boiled about twenty minutes. In the morning I made milk with powdered milk and the tepid water. When we went to the States on vacation the kids found milk from the grocery store distasteful - too different. I boiled water religiously, with an occasional lapse – WHY am I chained here to this stove and these four pots of water?

Now, we discovered bottled water – the local Ben Gashir, Henry loved. As I type here, I am looking at a rusted bottle opener that has hung in our every kitchen since Tripoli – it is inscribed “Fonte ben Gascir”. This term cannot be found on the web now – except as a town the Italians bombed in about 1912. The Ben Gashir wells, where “moya Ben Gashir” is bottled, are a few miles from the Tripoli Airport.

The other water Henry loved was San Pellegrino, widely available in Tripoli, since there were so many Italian shops and restaurants. I just looked up San Pellegrino on Wikipedia – a most interesting history, I had no idea, we simply took it for granted – Italian bottled water that is really good stuff. I suggest, dear reader! You take a minute and Google San Pellegrino, then go out and buy a bottle of this water that as far back as 1509 impressed even Leonard da Vinci.

Actually, I never liked these bottled waters like Henry did; they are too bubbly for me. Eventually, Henry graduated to Perrier – and I thought, O Please. To this day, I still buy a case of Perrier about every two weeks. Allison acquired the Perrier habit as a little kid, so I keep it stocked here at the house, in Henry’s honor, and for any time Allison drops by, which can be about five days a week!

Back to the well in Tripoli: it ran dry in the summers, on a regular basis. This is when I discovered the value of water storage. Otherwise, I would load up our Fiat 600, basically a steering wheel and four tires, just slightly larger than your grandmother’s treadle Singer sewing machine, with WWII jerry cans, and drive around town, knocking on doors, asking if anybody had water. Not every well in the city ran dry, at least not at the same time. Remember, we had no telephones. This was a peaceful blessing, except in times of dried up water wells.

And, we bought a very large garbage can for bathing in the kitchen, so I didn’t have to haul hot water from the stove to the bathroom. It seems that somewhere we have a picture of Henry, standing in that garbage can and soaping up – he, grinning from ear to ear. We used this only when he was in from the rig, so that he could lift the can and pour the used bath water down the kitchen sink.

Five years later, in Marsa el Brega, a company town on the coast, where the tankers loaded, we had hot and cold water taps – they were quite salty brine – and a separate sweet water tap, for drinking and a dishwasher. Those folks smart enough to re-plumb their house and run sweet water to their bathroom sink, were summarily fired and repatriated to the States, if discovered. I never knew of anybody actually fired, but the urban legend was real. Our kitchen sink water drained through the wall into a 55 gallon drum, from which we ran a garden hose, and continuously watered our gravel, where I encouraged great patches of succulents to grow. They loved soapy water.

In this house here in Fort Smith, I hired a plumber to run a line from our washing machine to the yard, to water during summer drought. He informed me that nearly everyone living outside the city limits does this, but in Fort Smith he would lose his license if he by-passed the “grey water laws”. He left in haste. I asked another plumber - the same story - but, through the side of his mouth he explained how simple it would be and who would ever know? He told me to find a handyman without a license to lose. This will be my next project.

In Arabia we had the same three faucet situation as in Marsa el Brega – hot, cold, and sweet. Abqaiq water was okay, hard and left you itchy after a shower, but okay. Henry learned to drink the tonic water at the commissary – was it called Carlsberg? The water in Ras Tanura I never got accustomed to – turn on the tap and it smelled like the refinery to me. Especially after just returning from a repat, I would come back to RT and almost be physically sick smelling the water the first few weeks. Henry said I was over reacting, I should be grateful we lived in such a lovely place! This is the situation that drove me to apple juice! And nearly ruined my teeth with all that sweet.

Dhahran water, in contrast, was just fine. No refinery smell. Plus, by now I had learned to drink Saudi champagne – a great combination of apple juice and sparkling bottled water and orange slices and sprigs of mint. Elixir of the gods. Plus, by now I had perfected lemonade – into the blender went frozen lemonade concentrate, ice cubes, a bit of water, and then onto the heavy slush in the glass, a shot of cranberry juice, which hung in the crushed ice, forming a layer of color. This lemonade concoction (masking the taste of the water) became as associated with the Cook household as did cinnamon rolls.

So, here we are in the aftermath of the rain. I know of at least one Easter Egg Hunt that was cancelled today – the field was too marshy and muddy.

And now, it is Easter Morning - a little quote from The Good Book seems appropriate, since I got onto this Water subject -

Jesus at the Well with the Woman of Samaria:

…“Jesus answered and said unto her, If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou shouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water,

“the woman saith unto him…from whence then hast thou that living water? … Jesus answered and said unto her, Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again:

But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.”

Happy Easter to you all - and bye for now from Bonnie and Cook Family

Tuesday Night – 18 March. Hey anybody still out there…Had a call the other day from Robert Nesmith. Robert, the man who will eat anything prepared in our kitchen, and then volunteer to do the dishes. The question: “have I used the new ovens yet? the space age double ovens, convection on the top and regular on the bottom”. Well, no. However, today was dark and rainy, a good day to warm up the kitchen with fresh baked cinnamon rolls. Plus, was expecting a visit from David and Julie Glover, for whom I traditionally fix cinnamon rolls. So, I got out the directions to see if I could turn on these new ovens. After a false start or two, I did manage to get them fired up. However, the convection oven starts at 170 degrees, and I need one hundred. Shot in the foot again! and back to the dinosaur microwave oven in the garage.

The story of our microwave: I had never heard of a microwave oven, except perhaps through osmosis during party conversation, when Henry showed up one day with an Amana microwave oven. We lived in the rowhouse in Abqaiq then – that tells us the year must have been 1973. He was so thrilled with himself - to present me with this total surprise. I was so startled hardly knew what to say, except that I had heard somewhere that these things were “dangerous and one should not operate them if children were in the same room.” And certainly, one would not actually eat anything cooked in such a thing. He was quite disappointed that I did not share his joy over this new invention, he who always gloried in having the very newest electronic toy. We came to a “compromise’ … we would use it. And, we did – sort of - the real usefulness for me was heating milk for making cinnamon rolls.

Note Number One: I wrote this in the night last night, and went to bed trying to remember why I was so hesitant about having a microwave. I got up again, and researched Amana, and was reminded: Amana came out with the first Radarange small enough for domestic use in 1967. In 1968 they were tested and found that indeed the microwaves leaked from around the door and the units were not safe. The problem was corrected; by 1971 the Radarange was marketed nationwide, still trailing myths and legends about their danger. Ours was a 1973 model, and all I had heard were the myths and legends

Note Number Two: we seem to have come full circle here – the last time Henry went to Dodgertown, would have been November Camp of 2006, he attended as a visitor, hoping to at least be able to watch a game each day. He was very weak and quite ill. Barbara Labine, his wonderfully good friend, and cook extraordinaire, took me aside and talked to me about what food I was fixing for him and how I was preparing it. I remember her explicit instructions: “tape your microwave closed and never use it again.” A few weeks I later bought a book on preparing healthy food. In the first chapter the instructions are: never use a microwave, ignore it, tape it closed, or get rid of it – as microwaves destroy nutrients.

Well, back in Abqaiq, we lived with the Amana. I never was good at using it. I remember Linda Simms telling me once that since she taught school all day her time at home in the kitchen was very limited, and she depended on her microwave extensively. After this conversation I tried with renewed energy to use this thing, but it really made no difference in our lives.

We were transferred to Ras Tanura in 1978, and the Amana was damaged beyond repair during the move. Secretly relieved, I watched Henry finally throw it away, promising to get me another one. I assured him there was no hurry.

Then, a year or so later, at Pat Hundertmark’s house, I saw her proofing bread dough in her microwave! In a metal bowl. I couldn’t believe it. She explained about her new Sharp Microwave/Convection Carousel she had recently bought in Kobar. Nothing would do now until I had a Sharp Microwave/Convection Carousel oven too.

I remember the shop in Kobar as being named the Pakistani Exhibition – could that be it? Or a variation on that name. Maybe it was the National Exhibition. A very nice Saudi man ran the shop. I told him I wanted to look at his microwave ovens. There was nothing on display, just boxes stacked throughout the store, four or five high.

He said, you Aramco?

Yes.

All Aramco buy this.

Well, would you open the box so I can see it?

No. You Aramco. You buy this.

But may I see it first?

No. Open box, you no buy, I no can sell box.

You Aramco. All Aramaco buy this. You buy this.

Well…

He would NOT budge – “Aramco buy this.” On the box was printed the words Sharp Microwave/Convection Carousel. So, I bought “this” - and wrestled it home on the interarea bus

He was right. “Aramco” was VERY happy with “this.”

That Sharp Carousel was as necessary to my reputation as the Kitchen Aid mixer. Every batch of cinnamon rolls and/or bread for these next 27 years had the first rising in the Sharp Carousel, exactly at 100 degrees for exactly one hour. It was wonderful to be able to control the proofing. Always this part of the process was done in the Yugoslav metal bowl. This wonderful bowl, in nearly daily use even today as we speak, was purchased at the “Dhahran Shopping Center” – a glorious name for a small shop, which also sold Avon products plus an amazing variety of other commodities. Another feature of this store was that occasionally one could spot rats peering at you from eye-level shelves as you shopped. No matter, just be careful, if a box looked chewed in any way, refrain from purchasing. Canned items were safe.

In 1994, when we were “a fixing” (as I’ve learned to say since moving to Arkansas) to retire from Aramco, I had planned to put the Sharp Carousel in the garage sale, as our new house in the States had a built in microwave oven.

Anne would not hear of it. She was as nostalgic about that microwave oven she had grown up with – we bought it about a year after she was born - as she was about the kitchen table (“you always said the kitchen table is the Heart of the Home, WHY would you even THINK of giving it away?”)

So, both the kitchen table and the microwave came back with us. That microwave was a dinosaur in this new kitchen. It is so boxy-big, plus redundant, with the nice neat microwave built in over the cook top. Anne still held on to the Sharp – “I’ll take it with me when I go to college – just keep it in garage for the next three years.” So, we did. And, before I realized it, but I was tripping out to the garage a couple of times a week to use it, as the built in microwave is not convection, therefore could not be used to proof dough. I have baked zillions of batches of cinnamon rolls these years in Arkansas, right up until these last few months when attending to Henry took so much time.

When Anne went off to college, if she had had a place for the Sharp Carousel, I wouldn’t have let her have it, as I used it on a weekly basis.

When she and Bobby married, I wouldn’t let her have it. She had to put a microwave on her wedding gift register.

So. Here we are in this kitchen with these gleaming ovens – and the convection function will not come on at 100 degrees. It starts at 170, too hot for proofing dough, as far as I know. Today I walked past the new ovens and on out to the garage to use the circa 1980 Sharp Convection /Microwave Carousel.

Other than the nostalgia of the story, is there some moral here?

How about, “Be content with what you have” – a major theme in church a few weeks ago.

What am I going to do when this thing finally dies? Stop making cinnamon rolls?

Perhaps we, the Sharp and I, will finish our lives the same year, and there will be no problem!

Bye for now –

Much love from Bonnie and the Cook Family

14 March 2008

Hey anybody out there and still with me? - I’ve had a hard time getting to the computer this week. Today, I have been thinking about the library. Henry loved the library; all our life together we were either at a baseball field, or in the library.

This is a literal statement. On driving trips, when coming into a town, he would be looking, and spot baseball field lights from a mile away. We always had to detour, check out the field, and if there was a game in progress, we would watch for a bit.

He had fond memories of his time doing homework in the Carnegie Library here in Fort Smith. The New York Public Library was a destination when we had a day there.

The Aramco libraries in Abqaiq, Ras Tanura, and Dhahran were outstanding, considering where they were – in oil company towns. Aramco spent some money on those libraries, and nobody appreciated that fact more than Henry, who was there very often.

Here is a short story, a brief insight to one facet of Henry’s life.

In our later years in Abqaiq he became a drilling superintendent, and so was out of the field and worked in the drilling office, and therefore available for community service. Henry was asked to run for the school board. I remember someone calling me from the Dhahran school administration office, asking me to encourage him serve in this capacity. He agreed. However, it was necessary to run for election. He said he would let them put his name on the ballot, but he was not about to campaign. Are we surprised? So, the day of the election, I called a few people, reminding them to exercise their right to vote and therefore he won, as whoever was also running evidently didn’t make many calls.

Most of the school board meetings were held in Dhahran, occasionally in Abqaiq. I remember attending only one meeting. But Henry did his duty, driving off to Dhahran to these meetings.

The issue that sealed his fate to only one term, was the Gifted and Talented Program. The Aramco schools had finally gotten the program started, and after a few years, this subject was “re-visited” while Henry was on the board. There must have been some intense discussion – wish now I had been there. When it came to a vote whether or not to continue the program, Henry voted no.

He was not run out of town on a rail, exactly, but he became a pariah to many in the education field, and certainly he was not expected to ever run for the school board again.

He returned from Dhahran, after that intense meeting, and then having to drive home on the Abqaiq Highway, the world’s great death trap, the sides of the road littered with burned out hulks of Haji busses, and wrecked Mercedes trucks, and parts of charred oil tankers, and what was left from head on crashes with taxis, (remember when we all wore shirts: “I survived the Abqaiq Highway”) and told me about the discussion that evening, and his no vote. I was – well, surprised. Honey! Why would you vote against it? Peter was in that program. Allsion was in it, and just loved it.

He sighed, very disappointed that he had to explain, yet again, and to someone should have understood. He said, and this is pretty much verbatim: “Aramco only allocates a limited amount of money for education. The gifted and talented students KNOW where the library is. We should be spending what education funds there are on helping the other students find it.”

Bye for now, got to go to the library!

Much love from Bonnie and the Cook Family