A Couple of Questions

A couple of questions to contemplate:

From the Zen Buddhist tradition; "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
From the Grant Benjamin (my son) tradition; WHY DO YOU ALWAYS WAIT UNTIL THE END THE MOVIE CREDITS BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE THEATER?!!!

The first question is meant for contemplation and expansion of one's knowledge of the universe, the second question has always sounded rhetorical if not fervently accusatory to me rather than inquisitive.  I have not deeply meditated on the sound of one hand clapping, while I have consistently ignored the question that has so often come once I have purchase movie tickets for myself and my children.  I just did not think a question delivered in such a strident tone ever deserved a measured explanation.

Last weekend, Sue, Grant and I went to the late showing ($10 each) of True Grit (2010).  After the film credits began to roll across the screen, Sue and I continued steadfast in our seats while others filed out of the theater.  Grant excused himself and headed to the restroom while we remained.  Returning in a few minutes he found us physically unmoved.  Once the screen did go dark, we all left to find our car and drive home.  While walking through the parking lot, Grant says, "You know, I have always wondered why you stay to the end of the credits?"  Now comes an opportunity to provide a contemplative answer to a reasonable question.

From the Woody Allen tradition;
   Q: Why does a rabbi always answer a question with a question?
   A: Why shouldn't a rabbi answer a question with a question?

Why do I wait for the film credits to finish before I leave my seat?

• After investing myself emotionally in the realm of the story, characters and action, I like to just sit quietly for a few moments and unwind, is that OK?
• What is the rush to get up and jostle with everyone else to hurry up and exit?
• I am always curious as to where the film sets were located [Yes, it is a bit nerdy of me to try and guess the locations from the rock outcrops and geomophological features seen in the film.  To the point: True Grit script says the action took place in Ft. Smith, Arkansas and Oklahoma Territory, but it was filmed in New Mexico and Granger, Texas (no mountains like that in Oklahoma)]
• The closing sound tract is more continuous and can be one of the more powerful elements of a film
• Sometimes they place really funny out-takes at the end of the film, wouldn't want to miss that, would you?
• I just paid big bucks for this experience and so I figure the longer I stay, the better the deal, including occupying those fuzzy butt seats as long as possible
• Even if I wanted to leave, I find it hard to get moving while my shoes are stuck to the floor by the powerful concoction of spilled soda pop, buttery pop corn and Jujubes

While I am sitting in a now empty theater and credit is being given where credit is due, to all "the little people"; the Best Boy, Key Grips, Foley Artist and Greens, I am sure they (whatever they do) appreciate having me read their names as they race across the silver screen. And if I have been reward by a particularly rich cinematic experience, you can hear my approval in the sound of one hand clapping.

Celebration in the Temple

Sue's birthday celebration was one of the more eclectic days I can recall.

Friday morning, The Day, was coincidentally her day off.  I started whipping together the requested chocolate cheese cake, a "Mud Bottom Strawberry Patch".  The basal layer of Graham Crackers paved with "mud" (chunks of dark chocolate), then cream cheese filling with swirls of chocolate syrup and cognac and a touch of amaretto, baked and then covered with halved strawberries.  Add a few ignited candles and you've gotch yer standard fare for a birthday treat.

Since her in-laws were in town, they personally issued the annual birthday mad-money check to the birthday girl and off she went to buy some plants for the outdoor window boxes and a few veggies for the garden.

While the cheese cake cooled, I took her out for a bowl of Louisiana gumbo for lunch.

Friday was also a scheduled interfaith worship night, where Rabbi Stern of Temple Emmanuel (Reformed Judaism) had invited Rev. Blair Mooney (Senior Pastor, Sue's boss, at Preston Hollow Presbyterian) to preach, while the choral music was provided by the choir of our old church, First Presbyterian, Richardson.  The choir director is employed by both the congregation at First Presbyterian and Temple Emmanuel - he call himself the original Presbyjewian.  Sue had expressed interest in attending the service, so Grant and I, accompanied by my parents were all welcomed with a Shabbat Shalom as we entered the synagogue.  The service of religious songs, chants and instructions (directed toward the gentiles) alternating from English to Hebrew and proceeding from right to left in the prayer book had me working pretty hard until I just closed the book and let the rhythm and cadence envelop my soul without struggling to keep up with the literal translation of the psalms and prayers.  Afterwards there were plenty of Presbyterians around to meet and greet, which kept us from quickly moving toward the Promised Land. Sue's Birthday Dinner was to be, if not in a land of milk and honey, at least in a land of tequilla and salsa.

Once out of Temple Emmanuel, it was north up the Dallas Tollway (no wandering in the wilderness for this bunch) to the Blue Mesa in Addison.  Blue Mesa is not quite Mount Sinai, but it often serves as the chosen place to mark special Suneson events.  New Mexican cuisine is their speciality; signature blue margaritas, sweet potatoe chips for a variety of salsas and most plates are garnished with chimayo corn, black beans, avacado and sweet cornbread.  I had salmon, barbecoa pork and chicken tacos with a black bean adobe pie.  Others enjoyed savory enchilada dishes.  Grandpa pick up the tab once again.

We arrived home too late to cut into the "Muddy Bottom" cheese cake and sing to Sue.  So, after the in-laws left early in the morning headed back home to Montana, I cut a nice piece of cake, put a lit candle in the middle of the slice and served the birthday girl +1 a chocolate, strawberry cheesecake breakfast in bed.  Oh!  Such decadence! Our libertine ways may demand we return to the temple next year for atonement.  Better yet, enjoy God's grace and eat cheesecake first thing in the morning. Amen!

The Fix-It Crew - A Visit from Mom & Dad

The plan from several months back was for Mom & Dad to leave their Montana winter behind and come down to Texas to see some sun and son (+ family).  The trip launched as scheduled in early January, with their route taking them through Idaho and into California to visit my sisters before crossing the desert Southwest to Dallas.  Here in Dallas we had hardly any rain from mid-October to early January with above average readings on the thermometer, just the pleasant climate our visitors from the North were hoping for.  Nothing last forever, and since we here in North Texas have nothing between us and the North Pole but for a few barbed wire fences, the arctic cold fronts did push down to Texas at just about the wrong time.

On Sunday, six days before their arrival at our house, we had a 1-inch snow fall, which is always kind of exciting as an infrequent event around here.  The cold fronts kept coming and patches of snow hung around on the northern exposure of roof tops and in small shaded piles beneath the ligustrum shrubbery.  The last vestiges melted away early on Friday prior to their arrival on Saturday.  Alas, the Texas Sun, so strong of a force most of the year was hidden behind high, gray clouds for several days.

Dad will be 80 next month, but you wouldn't know it by the amount of stuff he gets done.  In fact hosting my parents is kind of like being adopted by a pack of Border Collies.  I felt I had better have something for them to do, otherwise no telling what kind of mischief my folks would get into.  We had a pile of clothes in the ironing basket stuffed in the laundry closet, teetering past the slope of repose.  Mom lit into that stack of shirts, blouses and trousers and had them all pressed and hung back in our closet in no time flat - said she liked doing it too.  Back in September I spent the better part of two days replacing all the parts in the upstairs toilet tank to staunch an insidious leak that defied my simple flapper valve replacement fix.  I labored to cut off the rusted tank bolts to deal with other possibly faulty seals - no dice, the dang thang still leaked water-meter $$ down the toilet.  Good ol' Dad, disassembled the toilet again, pointed at the suspect O-ring above bowl standpipe and scurried off to Home Despot, returning with a new kit.  Viola!  No more leak! [I thought I replaced that O-ring.  Why else would I spent a day wrapped around that porcelain fixture, sawing off those rusty bolts? I guess I was so delighted to finally get the tank removed that I forgot what my purpose was].  To celebrate the fix, Dad took us out to Gojo restaurant for Ethiopian food and we ate our fill of lamb and seasoned vegetables scooped up with fingers full of the flat spongy injera bread (no silverware). 

While this far south, Dad took the opportunity for a long-desired visit to see Vicksburg, Mississippi and tour the Civil War battlefield where General U.S. Grant laid siege to the city and forced the surrender of Confederate Gen. Pemberton on July 4th, 1863; thus splitting the Confederacy in two (divide and conquer) and giving the Union forces full control of the Mississippi River, allowing "the father of waters to flow unvexed to the sea" as Abraham Lincoln put it.  Mom & Dad spent two days on the road to see Natchez, MS and then Vicksburg before returning to our home.  While they were out of Dallas the sun came out and we had a pleasant day, unlike the rain that followed them across Louisiana to the Big Muddy.

A raw, bitter and windy cold front came to town about the same time as their triumphant return from MS.  With the Vicksburg itinerary check off, it was time to find the folks more projects.  I pointed out a couple of split branches on the backyard peach tree and an overgrown rose bush along the fence.  I handed Dad a saw, and say no more - I soon saw a sawed pile upon the sod.  Not only industrious, but resourceful, Dad then set upon the dead oak leaves that had blown over from the neighbor's with vengeance and a spring-tine rake.  I think my Dad is very vengeful toward rascally unwanted leaves. Once the rascally leaves were herded into piles, they were deposited in the side yard to be interred as compost for Sue's Grand Garden (still in the planning stages).  And of course Dad noticed that the side gate was out of kilter, so I set him up with a skil saw a set of socket wrenches and now the gate swings unvexed to the compost pile.  Abraham Lincoln "the ol' rail-splitter" would approve.

Their quest for the sun went mostly unfulfilled, but it was great to have them around for a little while and enjoy some familial warmth.  Our old dog was happy to get an extra set of fingers from Mom to scratch his haunches and our house is now noticeably improved from what is was before they arrived.  The sun was breaking over the horizon for a pleasant day last Saturday, so as fate would have it, they had already packed the night before and were back on the road at 7:15 AM headed back to Montana. Leaving behind a
quart jar of homemade rhubarb-raspberry jam [Beebop-A-Reebop, love that rhubarb jam! 7 days later it is already half gone :-( ].

May a warm front rise up to greet you in your northward travels and may all your gates swing effortlessly open and may the waters flow unvexed - but not until summoned by the toilet handle.  Good times and good results!  Thanks for everything, y'all.

Delta f508

An old friend of mine (now a doctor of pediatric oncology) once remarked after a biology/genetics class, "Just think about how complicated the process of gene replication is, the necessary correct alignment of every single one of the millions of molecular receptors, the timing for transfer-RNA and all that is needed to go right, yet with so many opportunities to mess up - it makes me scared to death to ever consider having kids."

Over Christmas break we had our son genetically tested, specifically to look at chromosome 7 and gene Delta f508 to see if he is a carrier for cystic fibrosis (CF).  The lab just called with the news that he does not have CF, but is a genetic carrier - as are both of his parents.  The odds that he would be a carrier were 3 out of 4.  Of course the impetus for the testing came from his sister's pulmonologist who has been treating her for CF since October, 2008 when she was finally correctly diagnosed.

Since the birth of our children, I would have to say the most significant event to seriously affect our family was Inga's diagnosis of CF at age 17.  After years of a constant, larynx-ejecting-heavy-coughing, intermittent fevers and sapped energy, where her symptoms were just shrugged off by lesser pediatricians or she was treated for non-existent allergies; a simple sweat-chloride test confirmed she had CF.  Neither of us, her parents, were aware of a family history of lung disorders or CF, but we now know that we each carry a the Delta f508 gene that inhibits proper sodium transport and which makes the odds at 1 out of 4 that a child of ours will be affected by CF.

Inga was admitted to the hospital for 6 days immediately after Christmas, 2008.  While hospitalized she was "cleaned out" of infections in her lungs by a serious regimen of antibiotics and other drugs and her lung function was restored to normal.  We are thankful that treatment for CF, even in her lifetime, has made great strides and there is legitimate hope that soon there will be a therapeutic genetic cure for cystic fibrosis.  In the mean time, Inga spends time with a regimen of treatments and faithful exercise that enables her to lead a very healthy and normal life, and is no doubt now the healthiest one among us.

One year after finally getting the proper diagnosis which enabled her to then greatly improve and maintain her health after years of mild suffering, Inga wrote the following observations:

Living with Cystic Fibrosis

Things I have Learned

• God’s love is awesome. When you consider what He’s done for us, nothing seems quite as hard as it did

• Attitude makes a difference. Always.
• Never underestimate the speed of news around a church congregation
• So many people in so many places have been working on my behalf long before I ever realized
• I have only begun to see the boundless generosity of others
• There is such a thing a happy coincidence (Divine Intervention?) – How else would you explain randomly drawing Cystic Fibrosis as a report assignment for a freshman biology project on genetic disease?
• Sometimes, some songs were written for you at that moment. Embrace it. Take comfort in a melody and the fact that someone at some point was in your position
• Knowing that I have the most ridiculously mild case of CF makes me angry and sad for all of those with even a marginally more serious case. That being said, I am incredibly blessed.
• Taking a day off for health is perfectly acceptable
• People take breathing for granted. Stop that!
• Smoking is personally offensive
• The phrase “I’ll sleep on it” is underrated. Sleep makes everything better
• Time is a precious commodity. Especially when you have two hours less per day because of treatments
• People don’t enjoy anything enough. One must be like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven, right? For starters, why not be full of joy like one?
• Doctors are people too. Forgive them of their mistakes, even when it’s your own health they mess up (Note: There are definite exceptions to this rule)
• Be nice to everyone in a hospital. They can make the experience comfortable and relaxing or stressful and painful
• Genetic testing is a miracle. Treat it as such.
• There are good days and bad days. Take them both in stride, it is impossible to have ups without downs
• True friends will laugh with you about your condition and cry with you about it in the same hour
• True friends are rare, but they understand the meaning of the word unconditional
• Contemplating one’s own mortality can be liberating
• Life is beautiful!

Inga

There is a story of a young girl who was diagnosed with CF, and when the doctors told her she had a sickness called cystic fibrosis, she heard it as she had a sickness call "sixty-five roses".  Inga has taken on the emblem of "65-Roses"; she has designed T-shirts with stenciled 65-Roses to wear as she and friends participate in fund-raising walks for the CF Foundation, and Inga is considering a career in Non-profit Management with an emphasis on those organizations which advocate for health such as the CF Foundation.

Jihad Bells!

Jihad Bells! Jihad Bells!
Jihad all the way!
Oh what fun is homicide when infidels we slay!

Inga had air fare to bring her home for 3 weeks on Christmas break from the University of Oregon, but the Eugene-Portland-Dallas trip is too expensive and time consuming to be considered for a trip home for the brief Thanksgiving holiday.  But while home for Christmas, Inga filled us in on spending Thanksgiving with her good school friend Alex and her family in Portland.  As part of her visit to Portland, Inga casually mentioned that she went with Alex's family to Pioneer Square, "Portland's Living Room", to attend the festive tradition of lighting the city's Christmas Tree.  "Oh yeah! We were actually walking across the Square at 5:40 PM - the very time when Mohamed Osman Mohamud pressed the switch to detonate what he believed to be a car bomb he had parked near the Square".  Only the FBI had the young jihadist under control and had duped him and loaded his car with inert explosives.  No boom -  just an FBI bust.  According to news reports, the FBI agents involved in the sting gave Mohamud many opportunities to change his heart, even informing him that there would be lots of small kids and their mothers at Pioneer Square, a target he himself selected.  He was undeterred by the visage of carnage and slaughter of innocents he was expecting to perpetrate, actually saying he wanted to make his attack a "big fireworks show".   

As a parent, I have a head and heart full of thoughts and emotions kindled by this plan to attack the festive Portland holiday throng of which my daughter was a part. These thoughts and emotions are not well organized by my mind nor easily categorized in my conscience; but there is in me an abiding residual chill in contemplating the loss and heartbreak, personal and communal, that was the intent of this 19 year old Muslim.  Whether he was close to actually accomplishing mass and random slaughter or not, carnage and dismemberment was his intent.  Sobering.

I noted news video the following day of Muslims in Oregon handing out propaganda to pedestrians in Pioneer Square proclaiming that Islam is a religion of peace to all who took their tracts.  Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.  Those proclaiming Islam a religion of peace need to focus their teaching on those in their own mosques rather than whitewashing the reality of the all-too-often headline.  Mohamed Mohamud is not alone; Hosam Smadi was also arrested by the FBI after pressing the detonator on a fake car bomb in Dallas in 2009; and of course there is the Pakistani Time Square car bomber who was arrested moments before his flight left the US.  A handful of thwarted subway bomb plots and planned attacks makes me skeptical that all those who interpret the Quoran do so as agent of peace.  Watching CNN as the Portland attempted bombing story unfolded, Mohamud's imam was shown weeping that the young jihadist had thrown his life away (now that he was under arrest).  Was he not moved that that the law had prevented him from actually sweeping the life away of many others, possibly my own daughter's?  Is it merely a question of who's ox is being gored?  Is evil relative?

Inga is none the worse for being at Pioneer Square and having been one of the possible victims.  But I do pause to wonder, do we ever really know how thin is this barrier that keeps us from harm or from evil overwhelming all things?  With the headlines of 2011 just 2 weeks old, sadly I see no hope that the world has moved closed to peace.  But I give thanks for what I have been granted in life and I thank those who make it their duty to stand for peace, for those who stand vigilant on the wall.  Most hours of most days I do not think of calamity, I do not dwell in fear. I am content, if not nearly oblivious to those elements of evil that seek to prevail, but for those who do stand, keeping watch so that the barrier holds and a peaceful and content civil society flourishes.  For these things, I am grateful.  Peace to All.

Festive Christmas Holiday begins in
Portland's Pioneer Square
With the Lighting of the Tree

Carnivore Tour 2010

Nothin' like home cooking!  Except, maybe the regional taste of home cooking.

Some years back a guest from India was visiting Dallas, and Sue had the opportunity to take him to lunch. She suggested that he might like an Indian restaurant, as opposed to Tex-Mex, barbecue and various other cuisines of note here in Texas.  Her Indian guest was exceptionally delighted to discover that not only was it Indian food, but specifically cuisine from his home region in southern India.  The meal satisfied more than his hunger for food, it allowed him to reconnect to his home with fragrances, textures and multi-sensual experience beyond a cell phone call back to his family.

In 2009 upon Inga's return from the University of Oregon, her request to reconnect to home was a trip to Cooper's BBQ in Llano, Texas.  Between Christmas and New Years, the family spend 2 days and 1 night on the road sampling smokehouses with high ratings across the heart of Texas; beginning with The Salt Lick in Dripping Springs (outside of Austin), a couple of joints in Elgin (Tex-German Country) and finishing at the pit at Cooper's.  This year, Inga had the need to replenish her bottles of Cooper's Sauce to take back to Eugene, as well as a hankering for some righteous smoked meats.  It was made clear that this time it was to be only her and brother Grant - no parents.

One Sunday morn before Christmas, the two of them lit out on the 240 mile drive (one-way) to Cooper's.  It was a Sister-Brother Road Trip, made possible by parental blessing and parental credit card.  I was pleased to see the two take a whimsical trip such as this, about 30 minutes of gastronomical enjoyment sandwiched between 4 and a half hours of driving.  Kinda makes me proud to be an American and to live in land of such pure pleasures of driving on long country roads with a cooked cow waiting at the end.  Of course in Eugene, I am told there is no barbecue, just tofu, fantastic waffles and a passel of proto-anorexic coeds.

Cooper's has their smoking pits out front, and one cues up next to the pit where the meats have been finished to perfection.  You are given a tray and a sheet of butcher paper, and as you mosey on past the offerings of brisket, sausage, chicken, ribs, ham and sirloin you point to the particular cut of meat that catches your stomach's fancy.  A man wielding a sharp knife cuts off a piece and places it on your tray.  Inside you select your sides, corn, potatoes, rolls, pickles, peach cobbler etc.  At the end of the line your selection is weighed and you are charged accordingly.  You find a place at a long table to slide into and have a seat while gathering plenty of paper towels.  This is the real thang. 

Tin Shed Dining Atmosphere *****  A Most Righteous Meal
Worth the 240 Mile Drive



Grant peels back the butcher paper for a bite on a rib




Grant living High on the Hog - Carnivore Tour II

Inga packed two suitcases for her return flight to Eugene, Oregon on January 2, 2011.  The first items to be carefully bubble-wrapped and sealed were two bottles of Cooper's Sauce.  Good on everything, except maybe Blue Bell ice cream.

An Epiphany - The Race to the Bottom of the Bottle

The Twelve Days of Christmas Tide.

Most know of the refrain "and a partridge in a pear tree", and most of us can name a few of the the other gifts that "my true love gave to me" in this medieval counting (or beer tavern) song; there are of course 5 Golden Rings, 7 Swans a swimming and something about 10 or 11 Lepers Leaping.  But other than existing in the oft parodied 12 Days of Christmas song, those 12 days have been truncated or flat out lost.  I think judging by the American retailer, the 12 Days of Christmas are now recognizable as beginning the day after Halloween, and by 12 Days, we use the number 12 only metaphorically to mean "54 shopping days left until Christmas".

Hearkening back to the liturgical calendar, those 12 Days of Christmas actually began with Christ's Mass on December 25 and lasted until the season of Epiphany on January 7.  So, Christmas in days of yore lasted until January 6.  But in these fast times, which of us attention deficit ridden consumers has time to loll about for 12 days AFTER Christmas?  I have heard more than one person reason that is so depressing to have Christmas decorations up as they tread the verge of the New Year.  Dismantle the tree post-haste!  Those stocking hung with care in hopes that St. Nick would soon be there? - Hey Lady! If you haven't noticed, St. Nick has already come and gone, put those socks in a cedar box, just get 'em out here.  Why, now there are 54 college football bowl games scheduled for our viewing pleasure.  What casual fan of sport would not rue missing the Delaware Blue Hens vs. The Eastern Washington Eagles at Pizza Hut Park - Pluck the Hens! Pluck the Eagles! The opposing partisan chants rise from within the stadium.  In Texas there are black-eyed peas to cook (for good luck - only if eaten on New Year's Day). With all of these events and obligations stuffed into the end-of-the year, can we really afford to keep Christmas around for 12 whole days?  Obviously not, Christmas trappings past impinge too much upon of the shiny and fascinating coming New Year, The Next Big Thing.  We are so done with Christmas by the 27th of December.  And have you noticed it is getting harder and harder to find Guy Lombardo and his Band of Royal Canadiens playing Auld Lang Syne on TV. 

Should old times be forgot? 

Should we not hurry up an move on to the next disposable calendar day, checking off each appointment and feeling the due satisfaction of attending another meeting as a measure of our worth?  I'll take up the mantle of iconoclast to this postmodern culture, in a small way I'll still mark the 12 Days of Christmas. I'll hold onto a slower world.  I'll continue to light the Christmas lights until January 6, while the rest of the neighborhood once so brightly lit in anticipation of Christmas has now quickly dimmed into ordinary winter darkness post 12/25.

And in this 2010-2011 season, a new effort on my part.  I syncritzed the 12 Days of Christmas with the spirit of the 8 days of Jewish Hanukkah in the effort to make "it" last.  This year it is a race to the bottom of the bottle, Eggnog vs. Hennessy Cognac.  Could I make the winter's evening eggnog supply last all the way to Epiphany or would I run out of cognac prematurely and have to take the eggnog straight?  Of course the cognac had a head start, being a partially drained bottle that was a legacy from my Grandfather who passed away in 1976.  The less-than-full cognac bottle sitting on my shelf for the past + 32 years was rediscovered in November when a tiramisu cake recipe called for cognac. 

Each evening, in a comfortable chair across the low-lit room from the strands of diminutive colored lights entwined on the boughs of our live Christmas Tree, I sip a tumbler of eggnog and cognac.  I reflect on blessing, friends and kindness.  I raise my glass and take this, a cup of kindness. 

There is a season for everything; a season for eggnog and a season for evergreen trees inside the home.  It is foolish to hold too tight to old times and yet reckless to deny a full measure to each season as it comes.  Sure enough, I am out of eggnog, and there remains not much more than a few tablespoons and vapors in the cognac bottle.  But to each in its own own season all will be drained, whether it is cognac or the hourglass holding the sands of time.  Sip and savor each cup of kindness offered and drink among your dears until it is at last drained dry.  As I embrace the New Year this is my Epiphany.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

A Hard Beginning

Brother Bob had called about a week before Christmas with the report that Dad was not doing well.  The doctor who had listened to his heart said it sounded like a old washing machine that had lost a bearing.  His appetite had all but disappeared and at times he just was not interested in getting up and participating in his daily routine.  Bob thought we should know, and he called Sue's other five brothers and sisters with the same status report.

While Sue's Dad was on all of our minds through the holiday, we put a wrap on Christmas and prepared for our annual New Year's get-together with old friends (3 families) at the McCord's "Blue House" atop an oak and pine covered hill in East Texas.  Inga and Sue had scheduled a slew of tests and appointments with doctors up through December 27th in order to keep tabs on her cystic fibrosis treatment while she was home from college, as Dallas offers access one of the best CF Clinics in the country.  Encountering more than her fair share of dunderheads and dopes amongst the medical staff extended our family's departure for the McCords until Thursday afternoon.  I had The Q loaded with overnight bags and our portion of the pantry to contribute to the communal meal preparations for 17 friends set to spend the New Years. 

Sue sensing that East Texas may not be the place she needed to be, delayed packing her bags and spent time checking air fares to Sea-Tac.  As I flogged the kids to double check their packing and get their stuff downstairs to be loaded into the car, Sue called a time out, being torn between good times with her family and friends in E. Texas or the option of flying out to be with her Dad and all of her siblings who had plans to begin gathering around her dad.  We discussed the options only briefly before it was apparent that the heart was speaking clearly in this situation and that she truly needed to be in Washington with all of the Cooks.  We hugged for a farewell and wished her godspeed in getting back to kin as we put the last bag in the car and drove east toward the Piney Woods without her.

Sue was en route New Year's Day when her Dad quietly and comfortably slipped away surround by several of his children and a parade of weeping Birch View staff members as they bid goodbye to one of their favorite long time residents.  Her dad was talking of building a new room as the kids sat near his bed and then he turned his attention and conversation to others not physically present in his chamber and then he let go and was gone from this earth.

Honoring his request, no services were to be held, yet all seven of his children opted for a viewing at the funeral home to add a bit of closure to the week's events.  A regathering of the Cook clan is tentatively scheduled for Spring or Summer at which time his ashes will be distributed over either land or sea at some meaningful place for a man that was born on the shores of Puget Sound, farming and fishing all of his long life where the sea meets Fidalgo Island.

After several good days spend with her brothers and sisters, sharing remembrances and swapping stories, Sue returned home around midnight Thursday (1/6) and awaits Alaska Airlines/American Airlines to let her luggage catch up to her back here in Garland.

Harry (Frank) Francis Cook: Jan. 4, 1922 - Jan. 1, 2011

It is with sadness that we note the death of Sue's father, Frank Cook. 




Cook Family Reunion 2009
Anacotes, Washington
Mike, Tom, Sue, Bill, Cathy
Bob, Dad, Sally



Cook Family Reunion 2009
Grandpa Cook and some of the 14 Grand kids
Lisa Cook, David Cook, Mathew Cook, Grant Suneson, Inga Suneson
Conner Nicholson, Zachary Nicholson, Grandpa Cook, Emma Nicholson

Frank grew up on Fidalgo Island where the Cook family farmed on the shores of Padilla Bay.  Frank attended school in Anacortes where he would not only bring his pencils and books to class, but on occasion he would bring his rifle to school, on the chance that after class he might be able to bring home some venison for the dinner table along with his geography homework.  After High School Frank enrolled in the College of Veterinary Medicine at Washington State, practicing large animal veterinary medicine in Miles City, Montana and Mt. Vernon, Washington and then served as a Captain in the Army Veterinary Corps during the Korean War.  Afterwards he joined the US Dept. of Agriculture's Plant and Animal Inspection Service where he kept tabs on the health of the then numerous dairy herds in northwestern Washington and worked to keep his region clear of brucellosis that would devastate the industry.

Frank was a man of the good earth, comfortable on the water as well as the woods.  He was a man intent on wrestling and coaxing goodness and from the land and I would say that he was mostly successful at his endeavors.  In the mid-1950's Frank and Helen moved into a small house on the banks of the Pilchuck Creek.  The place on the Pilchuck soon had cleared pasture land, several cows and a plentiful garden.  And as the Cook family expanded, Frank had a new house built higher up out of the flood plain.  The Pilchuck home was a picture of industry and fruitfulness.  Fruitful not only in the well cared for orchard with each tree bearing a unique fruit; a variety of pears and apples (after all this is Washington, "The Apple State"); also a fruitful and well-tended blue berry patch (several varieties that ripened at different point throughout the summer) and a tilled garden that supplied the family's vegetables and pasture maintained for the livestock.  But also fruitful in the fact that 7 Cook kids were raised on the land as well.  I am in awe at the industry and energy Frank devoted to life, not only his "day job" at the USDA, but to then come home and manage his own small herd, butchering on the premises for family meals.  Sue recalls the philosophy of her parents while feeding seven kids, that nothing they raised for food should go to waste; never-the-less when the dinner menu included pig's knuckles and braised liver, she attempted to hide these entrees behind the bottle of milk, hoping that her decision to "waste"what was placed in front of her would go unnoticed amongst the din and commotion created by the 9 mouths around the table.  Some Saturdays Frank would go to the hardware store in town to buy a box of dynamite to blow up tree stumps to clear additional land for pasture and farm - and no one had a problem with easy (and useful) access to high explosives in the hands of an honest, hard working man [What has changed?]. 

By the time I came into the picture Frank had "retired".  That is to say he no longer worked for the USDA, but he had moved to a place outside Mount Vernon and was busy cultivating, grafting and experimenting with an orchard full of apple trees.  He loved to take us out into the orchard and slice off a piece of apple from a variety of which he was particularly fond, and have us taste an apple the way God had intended it to taste.  His garden was robust with peppers, artichokes, berries, tomatoes, lettuce and a host of other herbaceous delights that were quickly picked and hand over to us during our tour.

Being born and raised in Skagit County, he had connections. Those connections were used to procure the crab that was served in the mini crab quiches at our wedding reception.   Being a local, he knew where the good beaches (or mud flats) were for a good ol' clam dig.  One great summer Frank set us all up with buckets, boots and shovels, and took us out clamming on Whidbey Island.  He told us how to tell a Butter Clam from a Littleneck Clam, how to dig to catch a Manilla Clam and how to look for the siphons of a Horse Clam.  That afternoon of clamming we almost lost Cathy to the sucking mud and the incoming tide, but we pulled her out sans boot to hobble back to the cars and clean our haul of mollusks and head home on the ferry to prepare a fresh clam dinner.  He used his connections to find a boat and a captain to take many of us Cooks and honorary Cooks out salmon fishing one summer morning, and everyone caught their limit that morning. I have since tried to repeat the experience several times, but those fish just don't bite for me.  Frank was generous to us when we would make it out to Washington to see him, taking us all to the Big Lake Tavern for all you can eat crab (the original Fabtabulous Crab Grab), or buying our admission tickets for the Seattle Aquarium.  Frank moved from Mt. Vernon to a 10 acre place in LaConner on Fir Island where he continued to chop and split his own firewood into his 80th year and there he set up another garden and few fruit trees (much to the delight of the local deer population).

Grandpa Cook gives Daughter Sue a tour of his LaConnor Garden
Grant takes a shine to a zucchini

 

Inga & Grant play on Grandpas Cook's tree stump
while Inga tries to manipulate his pet cat named "Cat"
LaConnor, Washington c. 1997

Bob and Ann moved out to LaConner to be with Frank a few years back.  With Ann's nursing background and specific geriatric expertise, she and Bob, Robert, Hannah and Katieann were a tremendous blessing in being an advocate for Dad and caring for him over the last several years and facilitating his move to Birch View in Sedro-Woolley.  We are indebted to Ann and Bob with love and gratitude beyond measure for all they have done over the years for Dad, through visits, doctor consultation and vociferously advocating for Dad's care in the face of many an institution.  On the off chance that I should ever get old, I would hope to have somebody half as good as Ann when it comes to my care.  Cathy with her education and background in accounting was also a great blessing in helping her Dad put his affairs in order over the past several years and seeing to a smooth transition in his living situation.

After four score and nine years Frank Cook has left this world a better place for having raised goodness from the ground, carving a home out of the wood, barehanded and stubborn, and all the more so in having raised greatness in the form of a fine family of seven children - good folks each and everyone of them to this day.  (Such good people those Cooks that if I had to do it over again I would still choose to marry one of them)  And I do believe that Dad is now joyfully tending a new garden and enjoying the fruits of his labors past.  Farewell Dad, may we remember you and your life of strength, industry and bounty with the blessing of every apple blossom we see and every cord of wood we have the pleasure to stack.