Could not go to sleep last night – thinking of isolated stories about Henry – nothing in chronological order:

Berlin - held such fascination for us, that Berlin was our first stop on our first repat out of Tripoli. It was the fall of 1966. Henry had become an authority on WWII history, having read all that Winston Churchill wrote about the War. At that time most of the books we owned concerned some aspect of WWII. I had to read frantically to even become somewhat conversant in this subject. We flew into Tempelhof Airport which is in the city – onto the same runways used for the Berlin Airlift in 1948. Our plane descended between blocks of apartment houses, so close that looking out the plane windows we were looking into the apartment windows and could watch people eating at their kitchen tables. I have never seen Henry so excited as he was landing in Berlin.

The first thing he wanted to do was buy a Leica camera. This guy has exquisite taste. There was a Leica shop right on the Unter der Linden – he had researched it and knew exactly where it was and how to get there. This type of camera was used by well-known Life magazine photographers since the dawn of photography. Henry was getting into this hobby, and after this purchase he turned one of our closets into a darkroom – with all those messy chemicals and lines with dripping prints pegged up with wooden clothes pins. I tolerated this mess, was not very encouraging – now, I course, I’m sorry I wasn’t nicer about it.

We purchased the camera, and the several lenses, the light meter, the carrying case. It was a lot of equipment. We (that would be me) carried this stuff around the world for many years. I juggled the two little kids, the diaper bag, the blankeys, and all that Leica equipment in it’s very bulky case while The Great Photographer, with real glee, diddled with the light meter and switched out lenses, and composed photographs – most of which we don’t have now because in those days, after making some photos, most of our pictures went onto slides. Henry spent hours filing away those slides into their little holders in trays, and labeling everything, seldom to be viewed again. They were an issue about 1998 – the first grandchild, then age two – toddled over to the cabinet in the Fort Smith house, pulled out the stored slide trays, and enthusiastically dumped them all into a huge pile. From this episode, we have never recovered. She is old enough now to spend her summers getting them back in order!

A most memorable day was the trip through Checkpoint Charley into East Berlin. We had seen spy movies where Checkpoint Charley figured prominently in the plot. This was no movie. The guards were unsmiling, nastily serious, ran mirrors on wheels under the bus coming and going, searched us and the kid’s things, and would just have soon shot you as not. At least, they portrayed that impression. It was sobering to see that wall with the terrible wire on top. Going into East Berlin was like going from sunshine to shadow. So dreary. So solemn. So eerily quiet. No traffic. No people out eating and talking at sidewalk cafes. No color – the few people I did see wore drab bulky clothing. Just large grey government buildings and huge monuments to Mother Russia and the German Democratic Republic. Even the linden trees dripped gloom. Flowers looked sick. It was fascinating and scary. I clutched one year old Allison to me, Henry carried Peter, age four. We did not want to let go of them while there. I don’t remember that we were allowed to take in the Leica camera. It was a relief at the end of the day to return to West Berlin – to the bustle of commerce on the street, to Philharmonic Hall, to the zoo. Henry was most anxious to hear the Philharmonic and see Herbert van Karajan conduct. He had timed our trip to coincide with a series of concerts, but all concerts were sold out, we had no chance, and were extremely disappointed. The zoo property was cleared of rubble. The final days of the battle for Berlin centered right in the zoo. The buildings were heavily pock marked with the scars of war, the trees, even 21years later, had not recovered, they were blasted and struggling crazily. I don’t remember that the zoo was functional yet. We simply wanted to walk through there and realize the magnitude of what had happened in that place.

We had been advised that we should visit a wonderful clock shop in Berlin. We found it fairly easily. The shop was actually a residence. The front door opened to West Berlin, the back door was brick and concrete, as The Wall virtually straddled the house, and, because of residences there, was higher through this section of Berlin. The ground floor rooms were filled with wonderful antique German clocks, at least a hundred of them, every one ticking. The clocks were very ornate and beautiful, and cost $150 and up. We had just spent our vacation money the day before at the Leica shop, so were looking for something for nothing. The very nice clockmaker was quite desperate to sell something. He led me downstairs where he had clocks not yet ready for display. Anything in the basement he would sell for $100. I picked out a clock – with a large brass pendulum, which had a dent in it. The dent seemed to give it a greater sense of history – he asked me to come back that night and he would have it running. I did. He did. Henry stayed with the kids in the hotel, I went to the clock shop, in a taxi, in the dark. That wall loomed high and menacing not 50 feet away, with the concertina wire glinting in the moonlight – it occurred to me I was extremely grateful to be born in America. That clock, of all our clocks, is my favorite, just because of that night.

Not Henry’s favorite. We were making this trip on the cheap -flying halfway around the world with four of us in three seats – that was allowed then, a child under two did not require a seat. I held Allison, Henry held the clock – couldn’t check it, since it was not crated, it had become a carry on. Peter was squeezed in the middle. By the time this trip was over, with our miserable seating arrangement, Henry was quietly and furiously upset that I “had” to have a German clock.

The precedent was set. The next summer, the kids and I were evacuated from Tripoli during the 1967 June War, aka the Six Day War. The men stayed – cannot wage a war without the oil fields operating. While we were gone, Henry met some American pilots who arrived from Germany to Wheelus Air Base just outside Tripoli for eight weeks of bombing training in the Sahara. They flew to Libya with just the crew, the planes otherwise were empty; there was a large expatriate population living in Tripoli. The crews in training arrived on a regular schedule, about every two months. It didn’t take long for the black market to develop. The airmen filled up those planes with German antiques. What sold fastest to the American expats were those beautiful German clocks. Henry met with the pilots, saw their clocks, and made his purchase. The kids and I returned in late summer to a house with the dining room filled with clocks. “Honey! NINE?” Henry shrugged. “I couldn’t decide which one you would like, so I just bought all of them.” They became our “signature” – we were the Cooks with the clocks.

We only have seven of them now. Other families returned. There was marital disharmony among some couples whose husbands did not buy THEM clocks. Presently a friend appeared at the door and asked, "What on earth are you going to do with nine clocks?” The reply, “Hang them on the wall, and wind them once a week.” By the end of the day, I was informed that I really needed to share, and she eventually carried away two of them, one for herself and one for a friend. I still think of my friend fondly, and, I still miss those two clocks. If you were asked to give over two of your nine children, just which two would YOU chose?

Not a fair question to those of you who feel that two children is enough.

My perspective is different - I am the oldest of nine children, the world could not get along without any of us!

Bye for now – much love to all – Bonnie and the Cook Family