Memoir Monday, September 21, 1968

 September 21 was a Saturday of course, and a week of classes had gone by in a flash.   Yes, it was different but not all that much. I still had a few 'general \eduacation'  tyoe required classes to take care of so it was not all history right away. 

I think that I wrote the followoing.about the 18th or 19th  The page was undated so I am not sure. Anyway, here goes: 

Undateed probablby  Wednesday? 

Guess what. I've got red hair. I jsut did it this afternoon and I'm mighty curious how it is going to look. I think the color will be pretty and not too loud. Tomorrow I am sending some boxes to the folks by express. I am sending Charlie Mike's stuff and some odds and ends to Mom--like an iron I got at Goodwill, some extra clothes hangers and such. Tomorrow will be housecleaning day. I ought to be back from class by 1:30 which wiil give me quite a bit of time to work. I think I've really got a pretty good schedule and as soon as I see how it is all going to go, I'll try to get back to writing regularly.  Right now I'm tired to the bone and have a good case of the cramps to boot so I guess I'd better get myself ready to hit the sack PDQ. Mary has gone to do her laundry so perhps I should take my shower now and then iron my dress and a few other chores before I turn in. I'm sleeping on the couch as I am still restless and fidgety and I suspect I am going to make a habit of of it. I wish they had twin or bunk beds here!   I really do not want to share with Mary; it just does not feel comfortable,   

So  I will talk about  my new classes, as well as the profs and a bit about some of them. Few of the business classes were memorable--I barely recall any of the profs except Mr Knox (he was a character and 'real') which I think tells or shows me something.. That was really not what I was supposed to go into or make my life career. Although an introvert, I am in odd ways a "people person" and find srudying human creatures and their past, their efforts, their habits, errors and successes intrigues me more than dollars and deals. MBA are not me!!. 

"Peoples of the World" (Anthropology)  Emerson or Erickson.? He was blond and good                                                                     looking but not my type.  I did really like the class!

Western Civilization to 1660 (World History) Davis, again not real memorable;;nice                                                                                                        enough but a tad pompous?

English History to 1699  Dr Voegler--I cannot recall his first name but he was excellent,                                                   & became a favorite  I was kind of a pet there; got 100% A's

Latin Amwrica to 1810  Dr Guy Bensusan  He ws a fun guy and I had a brief crush on him                                                                               though he was short, chubby and bald! You                                                                               will meet him again!

Social Problems (Sociology)  Dr Clyde Smallwood  I called him the little Bantum Rooster                                                    as he was stuck on himself and could be a pill!   I had                                                            for  a variety of courses over time.. He'll reappear often too. 

Square Dance (PE finally caught up with me.) I squeeked by with the least painful activities I could find!  This was co-ed and fun,  I actually made a younger male friend here who was a frquent partner

 I will add that there was lots of overlap and intersecting bwtween the History and Humanities Departments. They both came under Liberal Arts, of course, and then next year, through a new connection, I got much more involved with the Humanities Department to the point I had a work-study clerical  job there my final year. This helped cover the costs of getting my Masters,for which I did not have a scholarship. Getting ahead of the tale a bit.

Pictures;; The old Liberaal Arts Building wheer I was almost a 'resident'! 1 is about 1968. while 2  is closer to late 90s, And good old 17 South Agassiz..It was a dump in many wyas but a pretty good dump!

Fiction Extra, September 15, 1968

 Here are a couple more stories. different genre and theme from the western ones of last week. My 1956-7 work was all western in a way but some were far from the shoot 'em up and ride 'em cowboy style. The 1968 tale was not literary, but sliding into that a little more than any other theme. I have to admit that after The Fighter, all of my stories were built from my ongoing exeriences in one way or another The old 'write what you know' notion seemed to take root.  In fact, life was the starting to spark for most of them. I cannot envision anyone plagarising any of them but they are in actuallity copyrighted as of the final date they were digitized and saved in a file. They are my 'intellectual property' FWIW!    I have tried to fix all typos but no promises!

        

           Fire on the Friscos  by Gaye Morgan (c: 1957)

Margaret “Meg” Scott walked quickly down the long pen-bordered drive. Turning, she looked back up at the big stone ranch house that was the headquarters of the Arrow S horse farm. She was a pretty girl with brown hair and eyes.

She entered a big pasture full of horses and caught ayoung mare  that was black as night. “Come on, Black Magic.” She put a lead on the mare's neck and tugged it gently. They went back to the tack room. As she was saddling up, a young boy of about fourteen came up leading a prancing bay colt with four white feet.

“Boots and I are going riding too, Sis,” he said.

“Okay, Jack,” Meg replied.

They started off toward the towering peaks above the ranch, following a narrow road that wound up the lower hills. “It surely looks clear this morning, doesn’t it Blackie. You could almost touch the old Friscos up there.”

A few minutes more, they came to a gate. Just as she jumped off to open it, a young man in a green Forest Ranger uniform stepped forward. “I’m sorry but the forest is closed now because of the fire danger, miss.”

“Thank you, sir. I guess that means we have to turn around. I’m Meg Scott from the Arrow S down the hill and this is my brother Jack.  We ride up here a lot. Who are you?”

“I’m Ron Bradley, one of the district rangers. Thank you for cooperating with the closure.”

After that they turned and rode back toward the ranch.

Later that afternoon, two rough looking cowboys came down off the hills past the ranch. Meg stopped them.

“Don’t you know the forest is closed? You didn’t go past the fence, did you?”

“We don’t pay no attention to that kind of stuff. We can ride wherever we want to,” one said. He tossed the butt of his cigarette close to her feet as they spurred their horses and galloped off.

By late that evening, the smell of smoke was heavy at the ranch. By the next morning, they could see the fire, burning fast and hot.

About eight thirty, Ron Bradley came down the road. He was galloping his big bay horse. He reined in at the yard gate.  Jack dashed out to see what he wanted.

“Get down and come in,” Jack offered. Ron shook his head.

“I don’t have time. I just needed to see if we can get water here for the fire fighters.”

Mr. Scott had come out to hear what was going on. “You sure can,” he said. “We’ll leave the gate open to the big tank. Help yourselves. The kids told me about the guys who came by yesterday. We wonder if they might have started the fire, dropping a cigarette or even on purpose.”

 Right then it was more urgent to contain and put out the fire than to worry about who had started it but Ron said they’d check back later on that.

For a week and a half, the fire raged but they got it contained and finally put out. It never threatened the Scotts but they worried for a few days. They all helped as much as they could. Mrs. Scott cooked extra food for the fire fighters, Mr. Scott loaned tools and horses and Meg and Jack rode back and forth to carry messages since the phone at the ranch was the main communication for the crews. They soon became good friends with Ron and some of the others.

In the end almost 10,000 acres of beautiful forest was destroyed, timber, brush and grass all burned to ash. The evening after the fire was declared safely out, four men came to the ranch. They were Carl Markham, the chief forester and Joe Anderson, chief of the firefighters, Ted Lovell, the local sheriff and Ron Bradley. After they praised and thanked the Scotts for their generous help. They announced the fire was definitely man-caused and asked the family if they had any clues as to who might have done it.

Meg and Jack remembered the scruffy cowboys and their rude attitude. They gave the rangers and officers the best description they could remember. One had ridden a buckskin horse and the other had called him Sam as they started off. That one had ridden a gray with a brand from down the valley. Jack added that both men had been smoking and Meg told how they were scoffing at the “forest closed” signs.

“We’ll be on the lookout for those guys,” the sheriff assured before they left.

A week later the newspaper told how Jed Crowley and Sam White had been arrested and would soon go on trial for arson, having either accidentally or deliberately caused the fire. The Scott family went to witness the trial but were soon more involved in it.

Much to her surprise, Meg was called as a witness. The courtroom was silent as she took the oath and sat down. She told her story in a clear voice and answered the lawyers’ questions calmly. Nothing could shake her statement.

The jury did not take long to decide the two men were guilty and both received harsh sentences.

That evening Ron came out to the ranch again. He and Meg went for a walk. They reached a hilltop overlooking the valley and stopped to enjoy the sunset.

“We need a smart girl like you in the Forest Service,” Ron said.

“How do I go about getting hired?”

He laughed. “Just take this ring and I’ll get an application and help you fill it out.” He sounded half serious and half in fun, but when Meg held her hand out, he slipped a small gold band over her finger.

She drew a deep breath as she looked at the ring. “Isn’t twenty-one too young to think about serious choices like a career and getting engaged or married?”

“Twenty-one is a very good age to do that,” Ron replied, a twinkle in his eye. “Especially if a person is very wise and mature for her age.”

 “What the Forest Service really needs is more good men like Carl Markham and you,” Meg returned.

“But we went to get women involved too,” Ron said. Then he kissed her.

Hand in hand, they turned and went back down to the ranch. The Scott family was a little surprised but soon agreed that this was a good step for everyone. Jack ran around delighted, yelling, “Wow, I’m going to be the brother of a forest ranger. Wahoo!”   

 Homecoming by Gaye Morgan (c: 1968) 

            She swung down the three steps from the big bus, answering the cocky grin of the driver. He handed her the trim little blue suitcase when she was on the ground. “Still think you ought to give me that neat jacket,” he said, with a wink. She tossed back her long hair. “A fine gentleman you are,” she pouted. “You’re going south where it’s warm. I’ll need it Sunday night when I head back up to the high country.”

            He could not deny her logic but insisted on having the last word. “I’ll trade you even,” he said, indicating his uniform jacket, neatly folded on the dash. She shook her head, “No dice.” He climbed back up and the bus roared impatiently to life and away; leaving her standing alone. The ugliness of the dirty little town crouched there along the highway hit her with a sold thud. It was as if she had never seen it before. Three months away at college had changed her.

            Squaring her shoulders, against the weight of her suit case and the armload of books, more to impress the family than to study, she turned to the dust-deep trail worn into the hillside above Main Street. Dust powdered her new black boots, dulling their shine. It clung to the bottom of her snug black bell-bottoms, even settled on the new jacket, her pride and joy. At the top, she paused, breathing a little raggedly from the now-unaccustomed exercise.

            Her eyes swept the straggle of shacks strewn on the hilltop and her face contorted as a wave of sickness welled up inside her. “Oh, my God.” she whispered. A wild urge to run back down the hill and wait for the next bus swept over her, even walking back in the direction from which she’d come, up the long, lonely highway. Anywhere but home. Home?

            Could she really have lived here for years, climbed this hill, wallowed in the dust, the mud when it rained, and lived in this squalor and never minded it? A swarm of children in ragged Levi’s and faded shirts played there among the houses, much as she had once played. At first they did not see her, but suddenly some did. At first they stared, wondering, not recognizing. Then one boy, a little taller than the rest, broke from the group and came racing toward her. A girl and a smaller boy soon followed. Now it was too late to run.

The three children flung themselves at her. Sticky, dirty hands and faces pressed, leaving their m arks on clean clothes. For an instant, she shrank, but the love and pride in their eyes was too powerful to be ignored. With a younger child on each hand, she turned to follow her brother who had taken the suitcase and the books and carried them like a sacred burden. They led her to one of the shacks, a building of varied construction, tarpaper and shingles and cheap, warped salvage lumber and rusty corrugated roofing. Every wind seemed to threaten its very existence. Then the front door with the torn screen was flung wide and she was enfolded in her mother’s embrace. They all crowded in after her and jammed together.  She walked across the uneven floor and knelt beside her father in his battered wheelchair. For a long time he studied her without speaking.

“We were wondering if you would come,” he said finally. “Thought maybe you would rather spend a holiday with one of your new friends.” She shook her head, blinking against the sudden tears. His words were too close to the truth.

“No,” she answered, slowly. “My roommate invited me, but I thought it would be better to come home. I haven’t been home since September 6. That’s a long time.”

And it had been a long time--for a girl who had never spent a night away from home before that day. It was so long she might as well have died and been born again. For the moments of greeting, the shock had faded, but as she stepped into the cramped room she had shared with her two sisters, it came again.

Her eyes absorbed the room, familiar details somehow alien and strange. The old metal bedstead with its pain peeling, the two wooden chairs held together with wire twisted around the rungs, The tipsy dresser with its misty mirror and the book shelves of apple boxes. She heard again the sarcastic comments of the girls on the “inconveniences” of the dorm, in which she had sometimes joined, just to belong. Remembered now, it seemed the epitome of luxury.

Johnny sat her suitcase carefully on the floor and spilled the books onto the faded patchwork cover of the bed. “Gee, Sis, it’s so great to have you home.” The other children nodded agreement. “We all missed you.”

She suddenly felt very tired. When she sat down on one of the chairs, it creaked alarmingly, even under her slight weight. A sudden worry crossed her mind. “Where are Tom and Margie? Still working?”

“Yeah, Margie is,” Johnny said, as his gaze shifted from hers for a moment. “Tommy is in jail. Rick too.”

“You’re kidding!” She cried, voice going sharp. Her oldest brother in jail? And with his best friend, the boy who had been her steady boyfriend for almost three years? It was impossible! Tom and Rick were a year older than she was but Tom had graduated with her and Rick had quit, just weeks away from finishing.  They had never taken school seriously until that last year. Then it was too late to bring their grades up to anything near scholarship level. She was not sure how or why she had been different. She had not realized until she was leaving for college how disappointed and depressed they both were. There was really nothing for them to do now. There were only a few odd jobs in the neglected area, no businesses, factories or even a working mine.

“It was when we got your letter, about getting invited to California for the vacation and that guy with the red Mustang. Rick got upset and went out and got drunk. Tommy couldn’t let him go alone. He wasn’t really drunk but just try to tell old fuzz Buckingham that.  Both underage and doing wrong to him. The boy’s voice was bitter, contemptuous. Judge Norton gave them fourteen days. They’ll be getting out this evening. He said they needed to learn a lesson, even if they were still barely juveniles.

It took a few minutes for the words to soak in. When their significance crystallized, a slow building rage began to mount inside her. It was a rage as many armed as an octopus that reached out to slash at all the injustices in the world, a rage as many faceted as a diamond that flashed blinding bright into all the dark corners of misery. Now school seemed a vague dream again, and reality was here. It was ugly, but it needed her, needed her like red Mustangs and apartments in Los Angeles never would. She could resent and resist that need but it would not release her.

She walked down town with Johnny at 5:00. The deputy brought Tom and Rick home from the county seat across the hills. They crawled out of the patrol car, muttered goodbye to the deputy chastened yet still defiant. Tom grabbed her in a fierce hug.

“Boy am I glad to see you, Sis, I figured you had gotten too good for us.”

Rick hung back, a mixture of pain and anger in his dark eyes. She untangled her brother’s arms and turned toward him, a jumble of memories crowding her mind, spilling over into her eyes. She held out both hands to him, replying to her brother’s words but speaking to the other youth. “I’ll never be too good for family…or friends. Just don’t get too bad for me.”

Rick hesitated, not speaking but finally embraced her, more gently and less enthusiastic than Tom had.  When h e released her, she linked arms with each of them. Following Johnny they started up the old path.

For the next three days, she tried to go back to the old times. It wasn’t quite right, but she pretended. She could fool Tom, but she knew Rick realized she’d never be her old self. It was hard to ignore the inevitable comparison between Jack and his red Mustang and Rick and his old   fourth or fifth hand Chevy pickup, between the limp hamburgers or Dairy Delights and steak dinners and cocktails. They went to all the old hangouts in their village and the closest town and saw the old crowd, some of them. Many had married, moved or simply disappeared. She was shocked to find Rick and Tom were almost heroes to some of the younger boys because of having been in jail. All the girls wanted to know what college was like, curious, envious. Some envisioned a fairyland fantasy while others scoffed, downgrading what was forever beyond their reach.

She did not know what to tell them now. It would have been different the first morning when she could have painted them a glowing picture. But now, the first shock of her homecoming and her discontent had started to rearrange itself.  She couldn’t understand it yet but she sensed something important was happening in her heart, her spirit.

The round of parties she had enjoyed the last three months were losing their sparkle, even in memory. The endless procession of activities no longer looked so exciting, and the series of threes on her first quarter’s grade report loomed ugly when compared to her high school record. Not that the shacks, the dirt, the ugliness had become more appealing, but there must be some middle ground. Wasn’t there a place or a life with a semblance of balance, of justice and reason? Searching for place suddenly became a goal, a purpose for her existence. Rick seemed to sense it even before she was fully aware herself of this shift. His anxious manner of trying too hard to please her faded. He was changing also, beside her if not with her.

Suddenly, too suddenly it was Sunday evening and time for her to go. Rick drove her to town, wedged between him and Tom while the younger kids giggled in the pickup bed, huddled against the dusk chill. They parked across from the bus stop to wait. There was no pretending now. They talked seriously after avoiding those subjects for the week,

“What are you guys going to do?” she asked. “Lay around here, mess around and get drunk and land in jail again?” She let her words fall heavy, a little roughly, on them.  She wanted to jar them, sensing that was all they needed to push them past the stage of just thinking to the stage of acting.

“Nooo.” Rick said, slowly. “I was figuring I might join the Marines or at least the Army. I could finish high school quickly and I think I’d make a decent soldier. Just go on in before they draft me.”

 “It’s about the only way out of here if you haven’t got any skills or training.” Tom put in. Maybe we could learn a trade or something. Maybe we could, when we come back maybe even go to college.” A note of wistfulness came through, like a small boy’s, odd in his deeper voice.

“We? Since when?” Rick exclaimed.

“You don’t think I’d let you go without me, do you?” Tom sounded indignant, Then, suddenly restless, he got out. “I’ll go see if the bus is on time and if Margie can get off work and ride back with us.”

Rick looked at her then, a question in his somber, level gaze. She looked back, slid closer to him. “I’ve been thinking…too. I don’t believe I want to be an office girl, like a trainee for management somewhere. That isn’t going to help anybody but me. I don’t quite know, maybe sociology or something about working with people, helping.  I’ll have to go talk to someone. My academic counselor may help me sort this out.”

Rick nodded. “I know. It hit me while I was over there in jail. At first Ii was just mad as hell but then I started thinking. There are lots of guys like Tom and me, kids who get in trouble,   and lots of people like my mom and your dad who have a lot more owed to them after getting hurt then they will ever get. I thought I would like to become a lawyer to help them through those times. Crazy notion for a dumb Chicano, no?”

“Three years is not too long,” she said. And by then maybe I’ll be almost through if I go to summer school and take more than just the standard twelve or fifteen hours each semester.”

He laughed, a faint chuckle. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, in three years you could finish an enlistment and could prob’ly go to school. And I’d be graduated and I could goo to work….”

“What about the boy with the red Mustang and the Tri Delta sisters?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll have time for all that. They say eighteen hours a semester keeps you really busy. I might even just do sixteen or a bit more and get a part-time job, try to save up some money. I’m sure that would be better, in the long run, for me and everyone. Worth a lot more, too. Don’t you?”

He drew her over against him and his reply was a warm whisper against her ear. “Yeah, I do. I think its way better. And in the service it would be real nice to have a girl waiting for me at home to tell the other guys about. Especially one who is too busy for uptown guys with red Mustangs.”

NOTE: The  jailing is iffy unless the boys were of age under state law and regional custom.  At 19--assuming the narrator is 18 as a recent graudate,  they could be no longer considered juveniles. Call it artisitic licesne! Never giving her a name was intentional. It is all intended to be from her POV.

 

    

       

Memoir Monday,, September 14, 1968

 I think I was out of practice in writing every day or even more than once a week at this point. Somehow the week from September 8 to 14 never got even a line but I can cover most of that from the next week's post. Unfortunately much of the next several months were that way--very sporadic as I adjusted to a new set of classes with new classmates and professors and a somewhat new life style living off campus in my own home! I wish I had done better but I'll get as much as I can to share and portray this adjustment period, a rather critical one for my growth and maturity, I think. Come spring, a new north star fell into my world, an experience that almost set me off on a vastly different course than I had ever even considered. That too was a learning experience and probably necessary. You have to come to find what you do not want to develop appreciation for and recognize what you do want. !969 through 1971 were when that fully t happened to me. After that, I was basically a finished product, fired and finished. for life. At 28 I was finally who I was going to be, a complex mixture of the child,, the teenager, the cowboy girl, the rebel, the  sometimes intellectual and the practical  blue collar worker. I am that today at 83 years of age. 

Sept 8, 1968, Sunday

Dad and Alex drove me to Holbrook leaving about mid-omorning. By the more remote roads it was really not that far. I caught a bus from there and got to Flagstaff by laet afternoon. My homely little place looked pretty good but I was in for a small shock. Carolyn was gone and Mary Rapson  had moved in, at least temporarily. I knew her but not real well. She earnestly begged me to be allowed to stay. I hemmed and hawed and said I had to think about it. I was really tired and after a short supper, crashed on the small sofa in the living room, letting her use the bed. Carolyn had rtaken the folding bed loaned by her boyfriend leaving only the double bed that was part of the furnishings.

I was sure she was not what I expected or wanted but I needed a roommate so I finally consented. There was also a note from Dale. He had been here on Labor Day and was perhaps a bit surprised or dismayed to find me gone. Well, too bad. We are not 'going steady' much less anything more! I had almost hoped he would have shagged and saved me the trouble of some kind of breakup. After not seeing him for quite awhile I was not keen on us becoming permanent. 

It was a busy week, I got a lot done but most of it not terribly exciting. I saw Dr Downum on Wednesday and re-preregistered with a new focus. Thursday I registered and got my checks.Quite a bit of it was gone quickly but it was also  nice not to have to pay dorm fee or meal ticket.. That would all come piecemeal. 

I decded Mary was not a bad roommate. I'll keep my petty little gripes to myself and be cool. I need to have someone to share the expense and I realized I could do a lot worse. She loves movies. One night we went to see Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. It was a good movie dealing delicately with race issues and Sidney Poitier is a really cool character. 

I even got some sewing done, making a two piece dress--simple dirndle skirt and shirtwaist type blouse of some fabric I had awhile, black background with pink, red, brown and white paisley which I planned to wear for the first day of classes--September 16.

It is a bit different to have house work to do. I expect I will be the main cook but Mary is good about cleaning up, doing dishes etc. She is a big husky gal,dark hair and eyes and a nice enough smile. but not especially attractive. Still she has a fairly good personality although very immature in some ways. I will definitely be the 'big sister'. She is majoring in education and intends to teach. This will be her last year of college. 

It was very good to be "home" again and I am really glad I decided and made the move in May to get out of the dorm and be able to have a 'normal life' without the artificial rules. I can have a guest if I want and be out as late as I wish, both of which may come in handy. I don't think Mary is a prude. I guess she met Dale and spoke to him but I am not sure. I said he was a fairly casual boyfriend, which is essentially true.I think I am ready to turn a page and start a new chapter. I know a lot of things will be different with this focus or semi-major change. I'm still officially pre-law but --well, that is not set in cement either.

No pictures. I will try to get one of Mary in the FB announcement. Whoa--it worked!! Yowza!! Big surprise!!

Memoir Monday, Septermber 7, 1968 Saturday

 I actually returned to Flagstaff the next day, a Sunday. Dad and Alex drove me to Holbrook and I took the bus from there. I was glad to be back.

As for the last week in Grant County, NM, more of the same as prior. I stayed home when the rest were off at school and got most stuff unpacked and put away, cooked meals and when they were there, talked some--mostly fairly easy stuff because for the moment everything seemed to be going well. "Business as usual" was enough for each day as it was lived. 

Given that I have no more good photos to share and really not much to discuss,  here is an alternative for this week.  I've mentioned writing stories in some fairly recent  past posts. I had backed off from my YA book efforts for a time but still had ambiitons to find something commericial that I might be able to publish. I wrote several  stories, late that second year of college. Each one was different. I was trying to find a voice, a style and maybe a genre that would work for me. I was still a very rank amateur but my skills and abilty had developed a lot with maturity. Just for fun, I will share here one of my 'steno notebook ranch romances' from 1956-58 and an effort at at a western tale that I might have slanted toward the actual Ranch Romances magazin in 1968.  Warning!!, between them it is about 3500 words. so longish.

The Guns that Won The West by Gaye Morgan (c: 1957)

On the sprawling porch of the old adobe ranch house, Janet sat. The dying glow of twilight filled the western sky with a rainbow of color. Janet’s raven black hair gleamed in the soft light and her blue eyes looked eagerly down the long road. It was plain she was waiting for something. Finally that something came into view. It was a tall young cowboy on a big bay horse.

“Hi, Mike,” Janet called, gladness clear in her voice.

“Hi Janet,” he replied. There was a tender light in his dark blue eyes as he rode past on his way to the barn and looked down at the young woman.

After he had unsaddled and fed his horse, he walked back to the house and climbed up to the porch to sit by Janet. “Jan, dear,” he said slowly, “I have something to talk over with you.”

“Get busy,” she said lightly.

“I have a duty to do for our country with the war starting. The cavalry commander is asking for volunteers. I want to join but I hope you’ll promise to wait for me no matter how long I’m gone.”

“I promise,” Janet whispered. “I’ll wait. I’ll be proud to wait.” The look in her eyes promised too as she gazed up at him. The next morning Mike disappeared down the road for the last time.

After that, the days dragged for Janet. Weeks slipped past. Then a dashing dark haired, brown eyed young cowboy rode in one stormy night. Janet’s father hired him at once since cowboys were getting scarce with so many off fighting. Janet soon found that Martin was fun and gradually he began to take Mike’s place in her life as well as the ranch work.

Martin had been there several months before he got the wandering urge and decided join the cavalry also. That night they sat together on the porch as Mike and Janet had sat almost a year before.

She noticed that he was wearing a fancy double holster. He took one of the pistols out and showed it to her. “Janet,’ he said, “Look at these guns. I put them up while I was working but I could be a gunfighter. Maybe it’s time to put them to work again. They were given to me by a Texas Ranger. I wasn’t able to save him but I got him to help, hoping he’d make it. He gave them to me when he knew he wasn’t going to survive. Someday they’ll be called the guns that won the west.”

Janet touched one with the tip of one finger and then drew back. She knew guns were needed but she did not really like them very much.

Martin went on. “Will you wait for me until I complete an enlistment and come back again?”

“Just a minute,” Janet said. “I already promised one guy that I would wait for him. How can I wait for two?”

“Well, if he doesn’t come back I will get you, anyway,” Martin said, a little hotly. He gave her a hard, fast kiss before he leaped on his horse and galloped off into the night.

After that, Janet often looked down the road and wondered if someone would ever come riding back and if so, who it would be. Time passed more slowly than ever and it seemed nothing ever happened.

But the same was not true far away on the battlefield.  Both Mike and Martin  were busy indeed.  It happened that they both ended up in the same company and became friends. Together they fought many successful battles and only oncc did they have to retreat.  Someday, they both hoped, the war would be over and they could return to the girl who had promised to wait for them. They never talked much about her, not even her name, so they never guessed it was the same girl.

Finally nearly three years had passed. One summer evening Janet sat, as she always did, on the porch as evening fell. She could hardly believe her eyes when she saw a rider approaching. Could she be dreaming? The big bay horse with two white stockings looked very familiar.  Yes, it was really him!

“Mike, Mike,” she cried as she leaped up and ran to meet him. She met them at the big log gate. As Mike rode through, he swung her up to ride in front of him.

“Oh Janet.” “ Oh Mike.” They both spoke at once. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been so long.”

Together they unsaddled the bay and fed him. Then they walked slowly back to the house and sat down side by side. Suddenly Janet noticed the guns and holsters that Mike wore.

“Mike, where did you get those guns? “

“It’s a long story,” Mike said. He took a deep breath and then he began. “Over a year ago a new man joined our company. His name was Martin and we became friends and fought together. One day he told me how he’d gotten this special gun outfit from a Texas Ranger. He said after the war, he was going to move on and win the west with them. Then in our last big battle, Martin was shot.

“I got him back behind the lines but he knew he was dying. He told me to take the guns and use them for good and always to remember him and how he got them. I cleaned them before I put them away until I mustered out. In the barrel of one I found a gold button. It reminded me of the ones on a dress you often wore, the blue one I liked so well.”

“It may have been,” Janet admitted. “Not long after you left, Dad hired a cowboy who rode in one stormy night. We got to be friends. The night he left he showed me his guns and told me the story. It must be true because he told you the same one. I’m not sure how he got the button but I did find I had lost one off that dress. He wanted me to wait for him but I told him I was already promised. He said then that if you did not come back he would return to me, but it was him who never returned.”

She heard Mike sigh and felt a little worried. “I didn’t really forget you but I was lonely and he was nice. Can you forgive me?”

“Why would you think I wouldn’t? “

“I don’t know. I never stopped loving you but I did get lonesome.”

“Maybe this will convince you that you’re forgiven.” Mike took her in his arms and kissed her eagerly. He didn’t stop with just one, either.

When he lifted his head, they were both breathless. “I guess it does,” Janet said with a small laugh.

“Most gals get a certain reward for waiting for their guy,” Mike said. “Could you wait about a week for that reward?”

Janet looked at him, confused. “A reward?”

“I mean getting married if you’ll have me.”

“Oh! That’s the best reward I could hope for. But please, don’t go out with those guns on looking for any trouble. The west is about won already.”

“I won’t go anywhere without you and I wouldn’t put you in any danger,” Mike promised. “I love you too much for that.”

Just an aside--this is almost a very condensed novel. I did not develip the characters much or really give it a strong plot but a whole tale is there, for what it's worth--an effort, an experiment!!

The Fighter by A.A.Ransom (c: 1968)

            He walked rather slowly, with a firm, deliberate step. He was a tall man, rather stooped and thin, slow spoken and easy going, calm and slightly withdrawn. Somehow the western clothes he wore sat a little strangely on him and under his sunburn was still a hint of indoor pallor.

He stepped put of Bryan’s General Mercantile and shouldered the box of supplies. At the end of the block, his team waited, fidgeting from the sun and the flies. He carefully  placed the last of his month’s purchases in the buckboard, bracing the crates together against the roughness of the road out to his little homestead in the foothills.

Unwinding the lines from the hitching rack, he vaulted up to his seat and clucked to the bays. A slight shake of the reins started them down the road at a brisk single-foot.  They were good horses, about the only good thing he had now. But his health was improving and his little band of cattle was growing. If the rustlers and the big ranchers would just leave him alone, he might get somewhere. So far, he was beneath their notice.

He drove as he walked, not forcing the horses, but with a purpose and decisiveness. He savored the growing coolness that heralded the coming of evening and absorbed the vivid pattern of the sunset, touched for a moment by a pang of loneliness that he had no one there to share the beauty with him. It reached a hidden sensitivity, buried beneath his placid and matter-of-fact exterior.

It was nearly dark when he got home. Unharnessing the team, he turned them into the little pasture along the creek and began to carry his purchases into the adobe hut that was home. He sensed an unfamiliar presence in the room but it was not until he lit the lamp that he saw her. She seemed to be asleep, huddled in his rawhide laced chair, bent over a tightly clasped bundle with her bright hair spilling down over her face. She seemed slight and small, her dress torn and dirty and her moccasins were shredded as only miles of walking could do.

As he looked at her wonderingly, she stirred and awoke, coming suddenly to her feet, her eyes wide and fearful. Looking into the light he knew she could only see his bulk and could not read the gentleness of his face

“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “You’ve no cause to spook and shy. Just sit down now, and tell me who you are and how you got here.”

She dropped obediently back into the chair but did not speak. He set the lamp down on the table and pulled up another chair for himself.  “Did you run away from home? Won’t your folks be worried about you?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got no folks, not anymore. I sneaked a rid on the stage from Socorro after my money ran out, but the driver caught me and put me off.” Her voice was soft and low-pitched. “So I just starred walkin’. I got off the road ‘cause I didn’t want nobody seein’ me, and I finally got h ere…kinda late. I was tired and thirsty and figured maybe I could rest a bit, but I didn’t see nobody around. I came in to make sure and then I just sat down a minute. Reckon I fell asleep.”

He still doubted her, so strange just appearing there. “Where were you going and where did you come from?”

I cam from El Paso just now and I ain’t going anywhere particular except as far from there as I can get. Oh, I was raised up down by San ‘tonio but I left home last year ‘cause I couldn’t stand my new Ma. I ran away with this man then, but that didn’t turn out too good, so I’m running from him now.”

It was an almost incredible story, told quickly and a little jumbled, but some inner sense told him she was not lying. Under the dirt she was pretty in a wild sort of way, like a stray filly he saw once. Her face was sharp and finely boned, and bore the shadows of half-healed bruises. That someone had used her roughly seemed unquestionable and she appeared scarcely more than a child.

“How old are you?” He asked it suddenly, like he’d question a horse trader to surprise out the truth.

“Going on eighteen,” she answered. She studied his face, openly now instead of from beneath the fringe of black lashes as she had at first. “”Let me stay awhile,” she said, suddenly. “I can cook and tend a garden and do a lot of useful-type chores. This place is kind of off the trail and I don’t reckon you get much company. It’s unchancy he’d look for me here.”

“It wouldn’t be right,” he protested, though half-heartedly.

“Oh\, foot! What I’ve done ain’t been right in a long time. It’s righter here than with him. ‘Cause I’ll lay a bet you won’t beat me up if I do somethin’ that doesn’t suit you.” She was defiantly persistent yet humbly imploring at the same time. She came top him and knelt on the rough plank floor, clasping her hands over his. “Please.” she begged. “I promise I won’t be no trouble, and if I am, you can send me off anytime.”

He drew a slow breath, weakening, remembering those lonely hours with no one to talk to but the horses, remembering the dismal feeling of coming home at night to the silent darkness of the adobe. “What’s your name?” he asked, stalling.

“Sarah Jane,” she replied. “The last name…I don’t think the folks would want me using theirs no more and I sure don’t want to use his.” She said “him” and “his” like they were cuss words.

He stood and pulled her to her feet. “All right, Sarah Jane, you can say for awhile, until those blisters under your moccasins heal and you mend that dress. After that, we’ll see.”

“You won’t be sorry, Mister. I promise that. I’ll earn my keep. I really will.”

“My name’s Wesley.” he said, a bit gruffly. My friends back home used to call me Wes. Mister sounds pretty strange to my ears.”

 

The blisters healed and he bought her a new pair of moccasins. The dress was almost beyond repair. He bought a length of calico and she made a new one and then made curtains for the window with the leftovers. Days became weeks and weeks became became months. He knew he could never send her away. She earned her keep and more. She filled the empty spot that had long haunted his life, and pity turned to liking and liking deepened into love.

On the long evenings she told him of her childhood, of her mother’s death and her father’s new wife, of the gambler with whom she had run away, still only ‘him’--never a name. Her tale reflected her fear, her hate, and she painted him in shades of villainous black on every  story. But even her new security did not lessen her eagerness to please, her efforts to prove to him he worth.

What her words did not say was said by shining eyes and a thousand little chares and favors and finally a warm and willing body that he could no longer resist claiming. She refused just one thing, to wear a ring or share his name. No amount of coaxing or even mild threats could change her adamant refusal. Finally he gave in, satisfied she no longer watched the road or hid when hoof beats sounded or a spiral of dust proclaimed someone was coming, At last she would even go to town with him.

It was spring then, and the cows were calving. He was busy, granding each new arrival as soon as he found it, stretching new fence, and finally trading a cow and her calf for an old mare, a trained cowpony, heavy in foal. She tended the garden she had created and a afew chickens and alwayshad a hot meal for him when he got done and came in. For awhile he had not really looked at her but finally she could hide her secret no longer. When she confessed he was proud and humble and as awed as most fathers-to-be. He wanted to shelter her, but she insisted on maintaining her routine.

One summer evening when he got home, she did not come running to meet him and no tempting scent of dinner waiting floated on the still air. He left the mare saddled and ran too the cabin. As when he had first seen her, she was huddled in that old chair, a piece of paper crumpled in her hand, her face frozen as in fear. She looked up at him with eyes drowned in anguish.

 His voice came, rough edged in fright. “Sarah, what’s wrong?” He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. “Tell me, Sweet, tell me so I can help you.”

She unfolded the paper, a letter, and let him read it. Then she told him of the stranger who had brought it. “I’ll go,” she murmured. “If I don’t, he’ll come get me. There is nothing else to do.”

“No! You will not go.” His words rang defiantly in ears. Her heart ached with pride at his love but froze with the terror of the consequences inevitable at his defiant defense.

“I must,” she said desperately. “I can’t see you killed over me. If I don’t go, he’ll come for me, for revenge or spite or --whatever. You can’t stop him, stand against him. He’s a gunfighter, a killer, You don’t even have a Colt.”

“I’ve got the carbine and the old shotgun.  I won’t let him take you. Somehow I’ll manage it. Trust me, Sarah. You’re mine now and he can’t take you away.

She stayed. She thought of trying to run away again, but he kept close all the time, almost always in sight of the cabin and the carbine was always at his side.  She couldn’t leave him, especially now that she carried his child. It would be a horrible theft to take that unborn baby. She did not have much longer to go, she knew, and she prayed “he” would wait until it was born. But her luck ran out.

No one could say which of them saw the dust first, a slow spiral far down the road. He reached the cabin before the sound of hoof beats broke the stillness and fond Sarah standing, white and tensed, in the doorway. She ran to him and reached for the rifle but he caught her in the other arm and held her.

“Don’t fight, Wes, she begged. “Please, just let me go. I promise I’ll send the baby back to you as soon as it is big enough. He won’t want it. Maybe he’ll even let me stay until it comes.”

“I want you, Sarah, you and the baby, but you first and most. Get back in the house now. He’s coming fast.”

The huge black horse was foam flecked, tossing his head, open mouthed at the bite of the cruel Spanish spade bit. He almost sat on his tail at the rider’s signal. Wes stood with his feet apart and the rifle loose across his arm to look for the first time upon the man, the villain Sarah so feared. He saw that her stories had not been exaggerations. No human should have eyes that cold and dead. They bored into him while they swiftly skimmed the area,  searching around.  The voice matched the eyes, chill and flat. “Where is she?”

“She’s safe and she’d where she is going to stay,” Wes answered, thankful his tone stayed calm.

He felt her close behind him, peeing through the door. Without a word, he sensed she had never loved him more than in this moment which she clearly felt would be his last.

The deadly stranger looked through and past Wes as if he had not hard. “Sarah Jane, he called, his voice louder but still flat and cold. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get out here.” He shifted slightly in the saddle while his right arm flexed, hand dropping slowly. Wes heard a muffled sound behind him and swung the rifle up. The roar and she smoke and the sharp tearing pain were all one. He knew his shot had been wild, too late after the other man’s bullet found him and yet in the last instant before blackness closed in, he saw the mounted man suddenly spill out of the saddle inn an explosion of scarlet.

Sarah shut her eyes for an instant and bit hard on her lower lip to fight the wave of dizziness. The double barreled shotgun slipped from her numb hands and clattered to the rocky earth outside the doorway. Her eyes sprang on]pen at the sound and she moved, dashing to where Wed lay. She ripped off a handful of her petticoat and crushed it into the wound to stop the blood.

The black horse sidled, emitting a nervous snort as it shifted away from the crumpled bloody mass that had been his master. The mare whickered temptingly, edging back with her reins still trailing. The horse answered and started toward her.

Wes opened his eyes, felt the throbbing hollow in his shoulder and tasted the salt of Sarah’s tears as she bent over him. He smiled past the pain and slowly tried to struggle up. He sensed the shot was safely high; he could recover. Sarah moved to help him and then tucked her shoulder under his good arm. Halting yet together, they stumbled into the cabin. It was going to be hard but they would manage, together. The fight was over.

Again, dancing around the idea of building 'real' people and putting them in 'good trouble' where they can grow and develop and earn their happy-ever-after.  I was not there yet but finally made it, My first novel was published in 2001, 25 years ago in August. That was Powerful Medicine. I suppose I could improve it today but I am not unhappy with that story, I did learn to be a good story-teller if not a great writer..

 

 

Memoir Monday, August 31, 1968

August 31, 1968, Saturday

I had one more week left before my planned return to Flagstaff.  Almost surprisingly, I found I really liked this part of the state, enough to build different ties to Grant County over many subsequent years, made several nd lost a few friends, and even lived there for a short year decades later. Even with school, the family did a bit of sight-seeing and I dimly recall going up to Emory Pass, visiting Gila and Cliff, traveling along the edge of the first nationally designated Wilderness Area, the one that honors naturalist Aldo Leopold, and around the Mimbres and the Santa Rita mine and Tyrone, the mine's town. 

The family actually lived in the county two different times, separated by a few years when they were up at Farmington for a while. I can recall visiting San Lorenzo at least three times during the academic year. Each was a bus trip; no passenger trains came close! At that time, the main Southern Pacific transcon passed through Lordsburg and Deming but I never rode one of their trains. There was no connection to Flagstaff or even the Verde.

At this early stage, no livestock had been acquired but it did not take long. Dad would never abandon that interest and effort. At either my visit for Thanksgiving or surely by Christmas there were two mules, two older 'mollies' who came to be called Blackie and Brownie, based on their colors, I assume.  They actually came into my life for a while and lived in Bisbee a couple of years with us after Jim Walton and I were married. Of course a number of other mules and horses were bought or traded for right up until Dad's accident and death in 1988. I just shake my head. It was what it was.

I was happy for Charlie Mike. He finally had a pretty good year of school as a senior at Cobre. He rode to Bayard with mom, who was teaching at the nearby middle school, but was not burdened by the family issues and political mess as at Mingus his first two years or in Sacramento as a junior with the kerfuffle of Morganism. I know that was a bad year for him, almost equal to the two at Mingus. Of course the second one there was the worst. 

Pictures? A few of some of the places in Silver City, adjacent communities and the scenic spots in the area. First is the dumps for the mine and the distant Burro Mountains. Next is the plaque about the 1st designated Wilderness area. Next is the Gila Wilderness and the vast range of mountains encompassed in it. It is 'big country'. Then the chapel of the Miners Shrine at Fierro. There are many more sites but too many to feature!

 

Memoir Monday, August 24, 1968

 I-and the family-ended this week on New Mexico.  For the next several decades the state  figured frequently in my life to some degree, often powerfully. I actually lived there at one point, many years later. I love the scenery and generally the climate which is so similar to Arizona but there are some things I never quite cared for, mostly an element of the people....not the long term native ones, though.  I have called it the Land of Disenchantment at times and meant it. I remember back in my young days--like up to age 10 or so--, many kids were very disparaging about New Mexico and considered it an enemy or an wicked sibling sort of place. Now I laugh. The two states are irrevokably linked.

The last few days in Sacramento passed very fast. Somehow everything that had to be done got done and on August 20, which was a Tuesday, we hit the road. At about 11:00 AM,  our caravan pulled out of Aunt Roxie's drive. Dad drove the Chevy, towing the U-Haiul trailer and Charlie Mike road with him, I suspect not by choice or too happily but that was how it went. Mom drove the Volvo and Alex and I rode with her. We had the immediate things in the back--it had a fairly commodious trunk space--so changes of clothes, needed medications, toiletries etc were secured there. I know Mom was never a real happy driver although she was the main one who taught me but I think she took a Driver's Ed class in Sacramento and got her California license. Charlie Mike was now over sixteen and should have been driving legally too, at least with a training permit, but I do not think that ever happened. I still did not have a license but was a reasonably capable driver. We both had to manage that on our own

The first night we reached Barstow, CA. I know we stayed in a motel but I have little memory of that. By the next night, we were in Flagstaff.  Mom and Alex came to the apartment with me, which apparently miffed Carolyn, maybe to have a 'strange male' in her space for all Alex was a very quiet and innocent nine year old! Mom and he used the double bed and Carolyn had her folding single that her boyfriend had provided so it was no big deal. I took the couch. Dad and Charlie Mike got a room at the Monte Vista, what number I never knew! 

From there we doubled back slightly to go to Prescott where we got some of the stuff that had been in the old green Ford. The folks had some trepidations but there were no problems at all. That night we got into Silver City after taking some back roads and a roundabout route. (Not sure why the keeping off the Interstates.)That was a very long day. We stayed at The Drifter, then a fairly new motel on the far east end of town. It is still there today but more in the middle of town now. It  seems different from what I noted that first time but memory can be flawed. I've even gone back and stayed one night in the early 2000s.

We woke there on Friday morning and had to get on with business promptly. By Sunday, August 25, the folks had rented a house in San Lorenzo, where Dad would be rteaching in their small two room school. It was a decent house although I called it a  "Bryant house" as it was similar to some Charley Bryant and his wife had lived in. However it had electricity, running water--including hot--and a roof that definitelydid not leak. Propane appliances it seems. I cannot remember whether there were two or three bedrooms. It sat on a little semi-farm with some out builiings and a small orchard. It was really not a bad place at all. Too bad they did not stay there too long.

I stayed until September 8 and did my best to help set up the household and took care of all I could since both parents went to work almost at once. It seems like school started August 26, or at least their preparations did. Alex would go to the San Lorenzo School while Mom was teaching at the middle school in Bayard (forget the name) and Charlie Mike enrolled in Cobre High as a senior.

Pictures: The first is the place at San Lorenzo viewed from the hill above, some time during later 1968 or early 1969. The next is as it appeared when I detoured past on a trip down to NM and AZ from Colorado about 2014. Last two are The Drifter as it appears fairly recently, about 2015. It is larger and much spruced up from what it was in 1968 though it was not bad then.  I last saw it about 2020; thought I kept a photo but can't seem to locate it!

Memoir Monday August 17, 1968

 The third week of my time away was a jumble. The date of our departure from Sacramento was coming close and there was still a lot to be done, especially by Mom and Dad.  I know Charlie Mike was eager to see that period end. He probably had no real trust that life would be better than it had been before the family's departure from the Verde Valley but since his arrival the prior fall  he had been jerked three ways from peace almost all the time. Aunt Roxie demanded many things and forbade others;  Uncle Dan demanded those and more and had a new plan or advice daily; and when The Boss or The Old Man arrived in January, he was his usual self, especially when he did not think he was witnessed. He had treated his older son like crap for literally years and never backed away from that. Why he seemed almost from the first to resent and dislike his namesake eldest son mystifies me. I never understood.  Alex was still just a "little kid", nine years old and in about fourth grade. For the most part,  he was always a very innocuous and cooperative child,  bright and a bit odd but no trouble... not like Charlie Mike and me!!The faamily had two dark sheep. 

I mentioned earlier the folks had the Volvo sedan or coupe. I am not sure if Alex coined the name or Cousin Steve, who had a droll and sly sense of humor,but it was know as "Funny Car." There was also the green Chevy pickup, which was probably a late 1950s model or early 60s at the newest but mechanicaly sound and road worthy. It soon was obvious that those two vehicles would not handle the entire load that needed to go so an arrangment was made to rent a mid-sized U-Haul trailer.  A standard half-ton pickup, I am not sure what size engine the Chevy had but  the load did seem to  tax it a bit. I remember that trailer being pretty well filled. and  a lot of household stuff is heavy as well as often bulky. It was maybe a 12 or 16 foot trailer. Forget the normal sizes. Not huge but not small. Same cube as the smaller standard rental truck, I think.

In planning, the folks did not leave a lot of slack in their schedule. I believe school started in Grant County, New Mexico no later than the day after Labor Day. I am guessing around September 3 but [ossibly earlier.  The trip would take about three days and once there, they had to find a place to rent,  get utilities and other business taken care of. and still manage to be ready to go to work. Thankfully they had adequate finances, the source of which I really do not know.  I suspect the California family were generous there as well. Pay checks did not begin until there was work being done. The generosity and charity of dad's siblings was no small thing but I did not feel dad was nearly as grateful and even humble about it as he should have been. I felt  more than a little guilty  at times and tried to be grateful and courteous to them.  Narcisists with a large ego and arrogance seldom are! (Yes, that is a meow!) Charles McCormack Morgan was not a 'nice' guy although he could fake it very well  when he chose to. 

What was I doing or thinking? I wrote next to nothing so just have to recall myself and how I might have been feeling. I was not in a serious time crunch because the NAU fall smester began on September 15 and I would need only a few days to handle the academic and pesonal details. I already knew most of  that drill pretty well. I had  an estabished home to go back to and was almost guaranteed my funds from the scholarship and grant would be available in a timely manner. Even my small emergency cushion was not seriosuly depleted. Therefor, I planned and expected to spend a week or so in New Mexico to help the rest of the family get organized. I actually returned to Flagstaff on September 8. That little aparment at 17 South Agassiz looked prettyfine! It was to be home to me for a year and ten plus months more.I cherished having it to call 'mine'. 

Pictures of the vehicles. FIrst is at the Port of Sacramento--the Volvo coupe. Then later that fall, me with the green Chevy and still later, the next May, Charlie Mike dressed for High Shcool graduation with the same Chevy. Another picture he wore a white shirt and a tie, not a western shirt, but same jacket. And that was not the hat I gave him but a recently bought Stetson,  New Mexcio style. The last two were very old film developed by Alex in a photography class in the late 90s. so very inferior qualtiy. Imight use AI or somethingn to improve them but--not now.