When I took the stage at the Paramount Theatre in Austin for the Moth’s Mainstage event, the Master of Ceremonies (MC) introduced each storyteller by sharing what our third greatest fear was:

“Our first storyteller for tonight said that her third greatest fear is that her old Jeep will break down, and she’ll have to listen to her friends complain about how she needs to buy a new Jeep.”

(The MC said she did not want to know our first or second greatest fears because she had her own trauma and didn’t need ours.)

I did not say “old Jeep” but “Hook Jeep,” except the MC was trying not to give too much away until she said my full name, “Ladies and Gentlemen, give it up for Rosemary Guzman Hook!” And of course, I told a Hook story, but . . .

What is a Hook Jeep?

Well, first you have to know who Hook was on this 12^th Hookversary, the day of Hook’s passing. Hook is, was, is my dead husband. That’s how I respond now when someone asks, “Will your husband be joining you?” 

“My dead husband? No.”

I say it flippantly because I do not want to dampen the lightness of a conversation; and I say it quickly to move past the inevitable questions that might come if I only respond “No” instead of dead husband-No.  

‘Will your husband be joining you/Is your husband here/Are you, have you been married?’

‘Dead husband, No’ or some version of this helps to avoid feeling as though I’m being interviewed with a litany of questions. The only thing about Hook that I want to share with strangers is funny stories about him, about us, like the Mystery of the Plaid Shirt story that I told on that Paramount stage. The plaid shirt story did include one heartbreaking scene and involved tears and snot when it actually happened, but when I tell it, I do so as a dramedy, a tv term for drama + comedy. Reliving the grief is not where I want to go with the Hook stories. I need to re-live the love of Hook and today, of the Hook Jeep.   

Hook’s Jeep was christened “the Hook Jeep” after he died. There are milestones and then there are miles of stones that the wheels of the Hook Jeep were driven over during her 24 years, first by Hook then by me. I refer to the Jeep in the feminine of “her” or “she” because I support the matriarchy even for inanimate objects. Hook bought her brand new in 2001 and of her 157,808 miles, he drove half of those carting around groups of biology students on insect collecting trips into the wild. I drove the other half of those miles, ten thousand around the circumference of the United States with Gatita the cat, RIP. The remaining miles, I used by zipping around south Austin or to the Texas coast. Both Hook and I drove her down to Port Aransas: first him, then us, then me.

I’m not embarrassed to admit that I curled up on the couch for the rest of the day after Kars4Kids towed her away. It felt like another part of Hook was being yanked away. That’s why I couldn’t give her up while she was still functional; I couldn’t let go, didn’t want to let go, hated letting go. And she had to be towed, because she was not working again and only a week after I’d spent $600 on a repair. So I finally called Aunt (remember, the matriarchy) and chose to go the donation route, because I did not want to sell her; I never wanted to sell her. I said over and over again, “I’ll never sell this Jeep,” and well, I didn’t. Kars4Kids, a non-profit that provides educational programs for kids, auctioned off the Hook Jeep then emailed a tax-deductible receipt for six thousand dollars.

For those who ever doubted her coolness, who did not appreciate being driven around in a vehicle that smelled of leaked gas, who could not see how the Jeep’s interior cloth ceiling hanging down and touching their heads was HILARIOUS; to those who asked, “Is that a … cassette player? or How do you plug in a phone? or Is this the original interior? or How old is this thing?” I said, “Cool, right? or Through the cigarette lighter or She’s a classic!” (Turns out she wasn’t technically a classic but vintage.)

But to all y’all, I say this: a $6,000 tax write off — HA!

When Hook was alive, I was allowed to drive his Jeep only once when he was away doing research. He was probably collecting insects in Trinidad for the summer. I’m sure I would have asked him before driving it, because my man was par-ti-cu-lar about his things. However it came to be, I drove that Jeep for several weeks and LOVED it. I loved how high up I felt without having to be an overbearing Texas truck; I loved how easy it was to park the Jeep because she was thinner than she appeared (see, told you she was female!) while simultaneously being roomy when I flattened the back seats so I could cart big, bulky items around as needed. I loved how cool I instantly became driving that boxy, burgundy thing; I loved how I was hooked — Bwahahaha!

Sometime after driving Hook’s Jeep for the first time and when I asked if I could drive it again, Hook said, “No, because last time you left all your stuff in there.” One of my nicknames for Hook was “Dr. No”; he was always saying “No” all the time.

“All my stuff?” I was legitimately confused.

Apparently, I left behind one bobby pin and one lipstick in the Jeep’s console and that was simply too much STUFF for Hook’s reptilian brain. Thus, I was banned from driving his Jeep until he died. It was not until the third year after he passed that I taunted his dead self by saying, “Look honey, I’m driving your Jeep and leaving ALL MY STUFF, ALL THE TIME!” (I was a very fun wife.)

But this is not the only touching memory that I want to share with you today. As I was cleaning up my condo several months ago, I found an external hard drive of Hook’s that I must have overlooked in the past twelve years of packing up and tearing down moving boxes. My eyes quickly scan through the hard drive like a woman looking for a lingerie sale on a credit card bill. I do not know any woman who wants to accidentally stumble upon her dead lover’s file folders that she did not even know existed. (It’s also possible that I simply had too much coffee that morning.)

Each of the twenty odd folders are labeled with different research names until my eyes stop at a folder marked, “Rosemary.”  I click and begin scrolling. Mostly it’s our wedding pictures except for one Word.doc file about me . . .    

END OF PART I | PART II: click here

Until then, here’s a touching article that St. Edward’s University’s marketing department wrote about the Hook Wild Basin Fellowship. There’s a lot more that I want to share about the latest Hook Fellows, too. Until then:

• https://www.stedwards.edu/news/ecological-research-and-fieldwork-through-hook-fellowship

For Allan William Hook, today and always, September 3rd 2013. RIP Hook Jeep, May 9th 2025.