Hey, anybody still out there? I am in Orlando with Peter and Cindy’s family. They would not fly away and leave me home alone - they insisted I come with them for a couple of weeks.

I scooped up all the mail that arrived since Saturday last and brought it with me – re-read through the wonderful cards and letters tonight. My goodness, such terrific people we know. Such wonderful notes, and letters with serious words of wisdom. Thanks to all who took time for snail mail.

In this sack of mail was a handwritten note from Bob Speirer, one of Henry’s friends at the U. of Arkansas in the geology department. Got to thinking – Henry did wonderfully at college, and he often spoke of his years at the university as the happiest time of his life. He was, basically, disappointed that our kids never experienced “college years” as he did. Our three children had such different college lives than he had. The basic difference there was, not only did they attend as a more affluent generation, they were not fortunate enough to attend college in the 1950s - a Golden Time at cozy little U. of A.. Henry did really well academically, extremely well, actually. He was very modest about his accomplishments in college. Are we surprised? He, who later in life, “knew everything”. He did. He read, and remembered what he read. He loved the study, the learning, the friends, the atmosphere of a small school, about 4000 students.

He lived in Hurst House, a boarding house run by Miss Hurst, a legend in her own time. I’ve forgotten all her accomplishments now – think she was in the first graduating class at the U. of Arkansas, and had been in politics. He loved her. She drove a tiny car, but was not adept – in her years at the university, she attended school by horseback, and never made a full transition to the machine age. The little car was a challenge for Miss Hurst. She would simply stop the car somewhere by the curb, get out and just leave it. Henry and the guys in the House would watch out for her, go out and surround the car and physically pick it up and place it properly in the parking place. Think she grew to depend on this.

After our first child, Peter, was born (we lived in New Mexico) Henry could not get us back to Arkansas soon enough to drive to Fayetteville and show her what he had produced! He was so very proud of this baby, and he needed Miss Hurst’s approval. What could she say? All little babies are cute. Of course, Peter was wonderfully cute.

When Allison was born, we were basically on our way to Libya, so she missed Miss Hurst’s benediction. And, Miss Hurst had gone on by the time Anne was born.

Henry attended school on an extremely slim budget - that would be not enough money to budget. He served dinner and washed dishes at the Chi Omega House. He had fond memories of working there with Badir (his picture on this website, Badir one of the first Kuwatis to attend school in the USA) and Bob Speirer, who started this train of thought tonight. Two great perks of this job were 1.,Henry ate very well once a day, the only time he ate each day, and 2., he had forty instant girlfriends. If one of the girls needed a date, they knew they could prevail upon him. No obligation, just lots of fun.

In way, we owe our meeting to a Chi Omega. After graduation, Henry worked for Humble Oil, based out of Midland, Texas, field mapping the Arizona Strip – from the Utah line to the rim of the Grand Canyon. He was living in my home town of St. George, Utah. I was living in Vegas that summer, with two school teacher cousins, and had a summer job at Uncle John’s Pancake House on Fremont Street. On a weekend off, Henry drove to Vegas in his new by three months 1959 Corvette, and looked up his Chi Omega connection. She worked at one of the clubs as a singer, he took her out one night. However, the next night, the Dodgers were playing in the Coliseum in Los Angles. He couldn’t drive to the game in LA and back to St. George to work in time, so the plan was to just listen on the radio. However, the girl “talked too much”, he said, and he would never be able to concentrate on the game. So, instead of taking her out the second night, he came to Uncle John’s alone, to eat and then go back to his hotel to listen to the game. I was working that afternoon, and standing at the cash register in the big corner window. He had the Corvette in convertible mode, with the top down. He drove up to the stop sign, he looked in, I looked out, and the rest is history. We were struck by a bolt of lightening! Well… you know….

He didn’t say a word, just ate his pancakes in silence, and read the paper, folding it as I would watch him fold for the next 48 years. He would carefully crease the page down the middle, then vertically in fourths, then rework it like the road maps you get at the service station. He could fold so neatly and precisely, as he worked his way back from the sports page – always read first - to the comics, to the front page.

So, that was that. He came for pancakes again the next day – there was no ballgame, I think. It was my day off. He asked the waitress about “the girl at the cash register yesterday.” The waitress I remember – Alice. A professional as only the women of that age were – dyed red hair piled high in curls. The crisp uniform and white organdy apron and the lace edged handkerchief in the breast pocket. Alice was much older and had been through the mill a bit. Alarmed that he was asking about the personnel, she sized him up, and sat down by him while he ate! And carefully questioned him: just who was he? Where did he go to school? Where did he work? Why was he in Vegas? ( SHE could spot an innocent small town Arkansas boy – that accent!) How much did he owe on his car? Who is his family? What were his intentions?

Then, when Henry came to the register to pay his bill, Alice called me! She said something like, “this nice boy is here asking about you. We are not allowed to give out phone numbers, but I’ve talked with him and I think YOU should talk to him” – and, she handed Henry the phone! somewhat to his great surprise.

The conversation was a bit awkward. For starters, his name was Henry Cook. Henry is okay, my grandfather’s name. But Cook? The only Cook I had ever heard of was the town drunk, and the only way I knew about him was while working at the Rexall Drug store in St. George, which was directly in line with a bar across the street. I would see that man named Mr. Cook go in there every day, and later in the day come out and stumble and stagger down the sidewalk in an inebriated state.

We were not off to a good start.

Next, he worked for Humble Oil. That didn’t go over well either. I knew oil companies are named Texaco or Conoco – but are they humble? Never getting out of the St. George Valley much, except on school band trips and family trips to the Rose Bowl Parade in Pasadena, I was totally ignorant of the fabulous history of the Humble Oil Company in Texas.

Henry managed to maintain some conversation, and the upshot was, he picked me up and we went to a movie! Can we believe this? Well – it was the 1950s. He was innocent. I was innocent. Four weekends later, he was talking marriage. He called Auntie and Nana in Arkansas, and WE met on the phone! Next, he faced my Dad, who was far from pleased with this turn of events. After a man to man meeting, about which neither one would ever discuss, Dad said to me: “this is a summer romance, and cannot last. If you must go through with it, you come on home in a few months when you realize your mistake.” Dad was sick about this state of affair. But he, himself, took me to ZCMI in Salt Lake to pick out my wedding dress. Eventually Dad came to appreciate Henry and depend on him in some matters.

We married in October – during the World Series - and yes, he would not agree to the Friday date as that was a game day, we had to marry on Saturday – a travel day.

This is long enough – who managed to read to the bottom? My sister Trieste said once “I love your letters, but never read them, they are too long!”

Much love to all - Bonnie and the Cook Family