the unofficial, underground mayor of Mansfield,the gentle, ZZ-top-bearded purveyor of backyard volleyball games

from Dave Collins

To me, Bob Cook was the unofficial, underground mayor of Mansfield, the gentle, ZZ-top bearded purveyor of backyard volleyball games, barbecues and frighteningly dangerous fireworks. Bob, with his happy-go-lucky,glass-half-full attitude, had a great outlook on life, one to beadmired. I remember his sense of humor: nothing specific, just a general recollection of funny asides and quips. The image of Bob driving up to the house in the rusty white Chevy pickup, with his hat, beard and smile filling up the driver's side window, remains with me.
Looking back at the late '80s and early '90s, I realize how lucky I and others were to have the privilege of roaming in and out of the Cook house at all hours. Bob and Merrill were always warm and welcoming. I remember how exciting it was to watch the AVP on TV for the first time,and how we oooed and aaaaed at Karch and Kent, Randy and Sinjin, Dodd and The Hov. We all had the volleyball fever that few understand. I also remember how Bob would bring his white dress shirts into the living room while we were watching TV, and staring with disbelief at how lightningfast he was at ironing (it seemed like 2 seconds a shirt).
It's hard to believe it's been nearly two decades since those times:When Liebowitz and I would have one of our annoying arguments (actually,now that I remember, when any number of people would yell at Tom,including Bob), when cars would line the street while volleyballs flewin the air behind the trees, when crazy young people filled the house while strange guitar sounds emanated from the back room. It was a great day when the beach court was finished, with all the exotic sand that was trucked in.
It's sad the world has lost such a special person. Thinking about Bob rekindled warm memories of summer and Separtist Road; of the gyms atE.O. Smith, the Y and Kramer; the suffocating heat, humidity and goose droppings at Sherwood Island park; triples at Winsted; but more than anything, of one of the few true characters you encounter in life.