There he came, on this date in 1908. Alistair Cooke. Yes, it is his birthday. He is the British-American TV host, so well known for his work on Masterpiece Theatre. He was born in Manchester, England.
When I first heard his name, I thought it was Alice the Cook. I believed they were talking about the maid on the TV show, The Brady Bunch, Alice. The cook.
Of course, that would be Ann B. Davis, the American actress. The B stood for Bradford.
She was born in Schenectady, New York, on May 3, 1926. She stayed here until June 1, 2014, when she stirred her final pot. She had an identical twin, by the way. A woman named Harriet. She also had an older brother and sister. The whole family moved to Erie, Pennsylvania, when she was only three years old, so I bet that made her a Steelers fan. Anyway, she went to the University of Michigan and studied pre-med, as she was going to be a doctor. But. She changed her mind because she saw her brother’s stage performance in Oklahoma. Where the wind goes sweeping down the plains. She decided acting was for her too. So, Alice the Cook. The Brady Bunch.
But birthday boy, Alistair Cooke, worked as a journalist, television personality, and radio broadcaster. Even though he was born in England, the bulk of his work was done primarily in the United States. He did a show called Letter from America for a great number of years, and of course, he was well known as the host of PBS Masterpiece Theatre. This, from 1971 to 1992.
He was born Alfred. In a town called Salford, in Lancashire, England. Cooke changed his name to Alistair when he was 22 years old. And I am not sure why. Maybe he foresaw the fact that young minds would confuse his name, as I did. Perhaps he did it for fun.
But his death is a bit sketchy. He followed the advice of his doctors, and on March 2, 2004 — at the ripe old age of 95 — Cooke announced his retirement from Letter from America. He had worked on that show for 58 years, the longest-running radio show in the world.
Then, less than a month later, Cooke died at midnight on March 30, 2004, at his home in New York City. He died of lung cancer, which had spread to his bones. After he was cremated, his ashes were scattered by his family in Central Park — on the sly. You’re not allowed to just go flinging ashes anywhere, by law.
But there were some dark edges around his death. On December 22, 2005, the New York Daily News reported that the bones of Cooke (and many other people) had been surgically removed before cremation. This was done by employees of Biomedical Tissue Services of Fort Lee, New Jersey. They were a tissue-recovery firm.
The thieves sold the bones for use as medical-grade bone grafts. As mentioned, the cancer had spread to his bones, making them unsuitable for grafts. The story is pretty involved, but the long and short of it comes to Michael Mastromarino, a former New Jersey-based oral surgeon. He was sentenced for the crime and ended up dying in prison. But. The entire story of the theft was featured in a documentary that hoped to educate the public about modern-day grave robbery.
This is the first I’ve heard of Alice the Cook’s stolen bones.
The other Alice the Cook, Ann B. Davis, slipped and fell in her bathroom and died that same day. She bonked her head pretty dang hard and sustained a subdural hematoma. All of this in San Antonio residence. She had been in excellent health, and her death was a complete shock to everyone who knew her.
I have no idea why I wrote about Alistair Cook and Alice the Cook. But there they are. Two more lives with stories, in this unending world of lives and stories.
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“There’s always room for a story that can transport people to another place.”
― J.K. Rowling
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“We’re all stories, in the end.”
― Steven Moffat
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“Stories are a different kind of true.”
― Emma Donoghue, Room
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The Cook or the Cook. Either way, Alice.
