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