Deceased September 7, 1995

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In Memory

Ted Cook died Sept. 7, 1995—suddenly, but in consequence of a kidney transplant he’d had four years earlier.

Those who remember his enthusiasm for Russian history and culture in college will not be surprised that he became a scholar of Russian history or that he made teaching his career. Immediately after graduation, in fact, he taught for several years in private schools (including his own school, the Episcopal Academy in Philadelphia) and earned his master's degree in Russian history at Ohio State.

Staying in Ohio to teach, he met Sal in 1978, singing in the same church choir, and they married seven years later. She has proudly, bravely filled me in on his life.

As before, he always had a book in his hand: 19th century Russian intellectuals, Richard Hooker, Thomas Aquinas, paleontology, archeology, everything but novels (her love). He maintained his conservative politics, his love for a good argument, his willingness to hear the other side, his resounding laughter, his faith and moral certitude. He continued to say, “I am not amused.”

At his insistence, they went to the Met for Mussorgsky, and to Russia—the last time was just a few months before he died. But his illness forced him to give up work on his doctorate in Russian history at Ohio State. He grew a beard, which turned white when he was in the hospital. His last years were painful, and he stayed cheerful.

He was a natural teacher—had an easy way with kids and could show them what it was to have a passion for self-education. He was loved and respected within his schools, his church, his community, yet proofs of love or respect from outside his family always took him by surprise.

When I learned of Ted’s death, I thought of Oblomov. Back in the Cold War when we were in college, you’ll remember, if you got interested in Russia, it almost had to be through the 19th century novels and music; and that’s how Ted got interested. I can remember him going around singing the praises of Goncharov’s novel, whose hero is so incapable of action, so paralyzed by the world, that he can barely get out of bed. A peculiarly Russian literary subject but a universal type. Ted no doubt saw at least one side of himself in Oblomov, though, as Sal says, he could also move awfully fast. At the time, I resisted Ted’s endorsement. Now I’m in the middle of the book. I recommend it to anyone who treasures his memory.

Jim Parakilas ’70