(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