Preston Cook

Wendy will be missed by all who knew her.  I did not get to know her until after she moved to San Francisco some decades ago.  I was also living in San Francisco.  John Fernstrom, a fellow graduate, introduced me to California summer of 1964, driving his late 1950s Corvette to that great state, ending up, seven years later, living there for 50 years.  John called me telling me that Wendy was living in San Francisco and would I look her up and check her out for him.  He had a enduring interest in her.  I had lunch with Wendy, later calling John telling him she retained her figure, beauty and intelligence, as if she never left high school.  Not long after the two reunited and married.  Vists to Tuscon and San Francisco kept us in touch until John's death.

Rex, as he was known at Willard Elementary School, was a good friend of mine.  My first memory of him was telling me to run the outdoor drinking faucet a bit before drinking to allow some settled bacteria to escape before drinking.  He was always smart.  His mother organized the Cub Scouts in the basement of their Hartzell Street house.  I was a regular with creative projects of building and art.  The best was lining up a box of wooden matches so the igniter ends were all on one side, taking them out doors and firing them up, with a great blast and huge puff of smoke.  These now darkened match sticks were used to create miniature frontier forts on a wooden platform.  Rex had an older brother who sold me the best in the neighborhood soap box racer, a heavyweight wooden frame with large narrow wheels.  I would push is up the small hills at the end of Central Street and coast for several blocks.  Later, I installed a sail on this contraption and wind power glided me through parts of North East Evanston. As Rex said, he lost his Rex name to Ray and 100 pounds, living in Northern California.  We talked occasionally, me attempting to convince him to attend a reunion.  He and his mother left a mark on my life.

Rex, as he was known at Willard Elementary School, was a good friend of mine.  My first memory of him was telling me to run the outdoor drinking faucet a bit before drinking to allow some settled bacteria to escape before drinking.  He was always smart.  His mother organized the Cub Scouts in the basement of their Hartzell Street house.  I was a regular with creative projects of building and art.  The best was lining up a box of wooden matches so the igniter ends were all on one side, taking them out doors and firing them up, with a great blast and huge puff of smoke.  These now darkened match sticks were used to create miniature frontier forts on a wooden platform.  Rex had an older brother who sold me the best in the neighborhood soap box racer, a heavyweight wooden frame with large narrow wheels.  I would push is up the small hills at the end of Central Street and coast for several blocks.  Later, I installed a sail on this contraption and wind power glided me through parts of North West Evanston. As Rex said, he lost his Rex name to Ray and 100 pounds, living in Northern California.  We talked occasionally, me attempting to convince him to attend a reunion.  He and his mother left a mark on my life.

Posted on: Aug 01, 2025 at 3:33 AM

I noticed Ed signed up for our 60th.  He will be missed.  While I did not know him in high school he was a significant contributor to our Rakove/Class of 1964 scholarship fund.  Last reunion he rode his Harley from the east coast.

Posted on: Aug 01, 2024 at 3:33 AM

Carl and I were friends in high school.  We had several adventures that I can remember and likely more that I now forget.

Carl was driving a 1954 creme colored Chevy wagon down South Boulevard toward the lake.  I was on my back on the floor under the dashboard to find an annoying squeak.  My legs up on the seat in plain view. We were pulled over by the police, they thinking Carl was delivery a corpse for deposit in the lake.  No charges were brought.

We both ended up in California the summer of 1964. John Fernstrom and I in his 1958 Corvette to northern California and Carl to the southern seaside town of Costa Mesa.  John dropped me off at Carl's apartment and he headed to Arizona State. We parted company a week or so later, with Carl enrolling in college and I off to a six month stint at the Winnetka Post Office, then off to a thirteen month round the world adventure.  Seven year later, I again landed in California living in San Francisco and decided to find Carl.  By this time, he was an architect living in Malibu.  We decided to meet for lunch at a local Santa Barbara restaurant.  Noon was the target time, and we had a long lunch discussing our lives as well as numerous other subjects.  We stayed for dinner, same table, same restaurant, continuing our conversation until the waitress asked us to leave the restaurant at 9pm. Carl, as usual, did most of the talking.

He joined us for a family vacation on Lake Charlevoix, Michigan one summer, where we took a job painting a house a brilliant red. Later, in our senior year we were told of any mischief at graduation would lead to not awarding a degree.  We took that as a challenge.  Our first thought was painting "Class of 1964" on the Evanston Water Tower.  We drove over to discover the enormity of the task, carrying galleons of paint, brushes, etc. up steep stairs.  We settled for a more down to earth project, painting "Class of 1964" on a tennis court in the dead of night. Black clothes and all.

For a short time after high school, Carl had a job in a factory, never intending to go to college, and nor did I.  After about a month he saw an older man with a bloody nose and asked him about it. The cause was chemicals used at the plant.  Carl quite that day.

We both ended up being drafted into the Army several years after graduation.  He was on orders to be shipped to Vietnam.  While waiting, sitting on a second-floor barracks window ledge, fell backwards to the ground, ending his ability to be on the front lines of that disastrous war.  Now with the GI Bill, at $175 per month, he was off to architecture school.

We connected some years later.  I drove to his ocean front Malibu vineyard and home.  He had designed a small two room house disconnected from each with a courtyard in between. He tended the vines and produced a fine red wine, just like his Sicilian grandfather, using no chemicals or additives.

Later in the day he said we were going to a party. Gates automatically opened to a small estate, also with a vineyard.  I was introduced to the homeowner, actor and film produce Emilio Estevez son of Martin Sheen and older brother to Charlie Sheen.  A large group joined in for a marvelous meal with a bunch of Hollywood folks. The next morning Carl and I drove a rental truck to the Southern wine growing region around Solvang.  We picked up a large harvest tub and spent a good part of the day filling it with plump red grapes.  Back to Emilio's for the crush and later, yet another dinner and party.  I was to receive a cut of the product, but never collected my share, I hope Carl enjoyed it.

Carl used nicknames for many, and my nickname for was "Architect to the (Hollywood) Stars".  For many of his clients were.

He was designing a 30,000 square foot house in Washington State and would on occasion stop by our Marin County home to share a bottle of red around our firepit.

Carl had a unique architectural method and style.  He would not use a drafting board nor a computer to design several oversized houses for his wealthy clients.  His method would be to spend some days at the site of the proposed house.  He would obverse the land, the trees, the views, wind direction, noises, neighboring houses, taking it all in. He took into consideration every detail of making a house livable, fitting into the land in such a way to take advantage of every possibility.  He would then hand draw the design of the house, sending these drawings to a colleague who would then put them in architectural detail and form.  Of course, redrafts were done, with a final product not only a one of a kind, but a masterpiece in style and livability.

While we connected by phone, I believe the last time we ran into each other at John Fernstrom's 2014 funeral service, in Tucson, Arizona joined by Steve Simmonds and Scott Wiscomb. We all arrived by car; Carl borrowed a client’s private jet for the trip.  A life well lived.  I will miss him.

Posted on: Aug 04, 2023 at 8:25 AM

Happy Birthday John, have a memorable day.

Posted on: Aug 01, 2023 at 3:33 AM