Memoir Monday, October 19, 1968

I will have to wing it here, since my old journal had no more entries unil Ocrober 21, Then there were a couple, at least, for the next week. March in place until October 26? Kinda sorta. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, I slipped back into a state of depression. The anomie sign of lacking purpose had its claws in me to the bone.   

I suppose I was fortunate to have Mary. She was very juvenile in a lot of ways but basically good hearted and trying to make sense out of life as she was living it and seemed sympathetic but unable to help me with my complex and knotty problems. I know I did not complain about them or even mention them much because I was still somewhat ashamed and regretful about what had gone wrong with my family and prior life and whether or not I deserved any blame or should feel any guilt. And I was still angry and bitter, as well. I was thankful to have escaped and managed  as well as I had but the rosy glow was long gone --college was not paradise and the future was not clear or really promising.There were key aspects  I missed with a keen pain. I became fully aware I had given up or turned forever away from much that had mattered deeply to me. There was no going back and never would be. 

So I will fill the space this time with a couple more stories. The first one was written in 1957. At that time I had become a huge fan of Casey Tibbs, world chmpion of the RCA. I still did not know everythng about the sport but I had fun with this little story! 

Rough Going

by Gaye Morgan

 “The purse for the best saddle bronc rider will be presented by Marti  Stuart, our pretty rodeo queen.” Those words rang in Marti’s ears. The nickname still felt new at times but she liked it.  The past week had been a dream. She had come to town for the big rodeo a week ago and through the backing of the loyal  Bar Lazy S hands, been elected rodeo queen. Now dressed in a cream colored riders, a green, copper and white striped shirt, black boots and a cream colored Stetson, she was handing out prizes to the winning cowpokes.

The winner, a by twenty one points, was Jon Iverson. “Let’s give him a big hand, you all.” The announcer’s words brought her back to earth. She looked over the young cowboy who stepped Up to get the prize buckle and saddle. He was slim and not too tall, topping her by perhaps three inches. He wore a white straw hat, set back on his dark head. His brown eyes had a triumphant sparkle and his generous mouth curved in a wide grin. He dusted off his Levis, . smiled at her, took the prize buckle and stepped up to the mike to say “well, thank y’all for the nice applause but I reckon I earned the prize being a Jack In The Box on one rough old horse.” The crowd laughed at his wisecracks. He smiled at  again before he walked away. That was the beginning of a friendship and the making of a new performer.

Marti had always been a skillful rider and now decided to take up trick riding.  By the next summer she was following the circuit, her childhood dream come true. On this day, she happened to be in Pinedale, Wyoming for the annual Pinedale Rodeo. Her act was now over and she sat watching the saddle bron finals. Jon came out on a big black named “Rough Going.” And that name was not in fun. He lasted the eight seconds with no problem and without waiting for the pickup m, swung easily to the ground, but the arena was slick. He slipped and went down.

Rough Going plunged past him. Jon started to get up just at the wrong time. One flying stirrup caught him across the left side of his forehead. He slumped back to the ground, blood streaming from the huge gash above his left eye where the stirrup’s metal edge had hit . A few  minutes later he was carried off the arena, still apparently unconscious. Someone called for a doctor who showed up quickly.

 Marti followed the doctor in the hospital truck where the injured cowboy was cared for. “That cut will need stitching but except for that, he will be okay,” the doctor said. Jon was restless as  sat by him and held his hand while Dr Bailey sewed up the gash.  Jon had probably had a concussion but seemed to come out of it.

“Thanks for your help, honey,. Keep him quiet and he will be all right in a day or two,” the doctor said.  Marti was a bit embarrassed. The doctor must have taken her for Jon’s wife!

The next day at Sheridan, Jon insisted on riding. “You can’t Jon,  Marti protested. “You could break that cut right open. It hasn’t nearly healed yet.” “I can and I will,” Jon said. Leave me alone. You don’t own me.” He spoke very harshly. Hurt,  Marti snapped back. “All right, just go ahead. Kill yourself if you want to and see if I care.” An hour later, Jon came out on Superman. His cut broke open the first jump but he rode the regulation eight seconds with blood steaming down his face. He collapsed as soon as he was out of the arena. This time the doctor, a different one, told him plainly that he must not ride until the gash was healed.  saw this hurt Jon. Now unless he could make every other ride count, he’d lose out on the championship.

During the weary weeks that followed, Marti put all her spare time with Jon. When he rode he had to wear a special protective helmet and it interfered with his balance.  He ended up driving the truck for two friends to take them around, missing several rides. While they were adding up championship points, he watched. Yet he showed no bitterness. He accepted what had happened. Marti admired his courage and tried to be patient and supporting.  During that time, she really got to know him. They had many long talks and shared about their prior lives before rodeo took over. Their friendship grew stronger.

At last Jon was pronounced well and able to ride again without the helmet. Marti finished her act which she’d continued as much as she could and was in the stands to cheer him on. But luck was not with him. Look Out Below reared too high. He came over backwards and Jon barely managed to roll free.  Shaken and pale, he climbed up to where  Marti sat as they watched his buddy Curt Ebson win first place. Jon would get a reride the next day but there were no guarantees.  He made the ride but did not score too well.

A week later in Ellensburg, Jon drew the notorious Quick Trip and was put down in seven seconds. Three more rodeos, three more near-misses. He became discouraged. “I can’t do it,. I just can’t ride good no more.”  Marti did her best to to cheer him but with only five more rodeos in the season, he had a slim chance.  Cheyenne was next. Jon drew a good horse. “I think you’ll do it this time,”  Marti whispered as he walked to the chutes. He came out, spurs high. All was going well. Five seconds, six, seven. Eight! High points and a first prize at last.

“I knew you could, I just knew it,” Marti exclaimed as she gave him a hug. He soon added two more firsts and got in a few bareback rides, to boost his totals. He had to do at least second in the final one and he’d have it made.

Marti went to Denver to see the last rodeo, the big final. Jon was competing against nine other top cowboys. He was the ninth to go out. Out of the first eight only two qualified. The horss were hard. Now it was Jon’s turn in chute nine and he had drawn Rough Going. The old horse was feeling really lively but Jon was ready for him. The past near-tragedy had to nag him but he refused to think on it. He rode his best. A long eight seconds and this time he was picked up. No daring-do this time. The final rider qualified too. At last the judges added up their totals and the announcer said “The winner of the Saddle Bronc is…”  Marti edged up on her seat and the words echoed “it is Jon Iverson.” Thunderous applause burst forth. Most rodeo fans knew of Jon’s struggle and his sportsmanship as he worked through it.

Jon stepped up to get his prize. It was presented by Turk Greenbough, a well respected retired champion. “Congratulations, young feller. That was a fined bit of riding you did tonight. I’m proud to give you the first prize.” John accepted the trophy buckle with quiet thanks.

Then the president of the RCA stepped up. “I have the official final figures for the 1957 world championships. He recited the names with a pause between each of them. Bull Rider: Clay Kelly. Bareback Bronc: Curt Ebson. Saddle Bronc: Jon Iverson.  Bulldogging: Ernest Carlson. And the All Around Champion Cowboy and Good Sport: Jon Iverson. The cavernous stands rocked with the cheers, whistles and applause. “Step up, boys and get your trophies.  Turk presented Jon with two beautiful buckles, a saddle and a handsome trophy.  Jon smiled and thanked the crowd and the RCA president while fifty cameras took his picture.

At last he reached the truck with his prizes.  Marti met him there. He dropped the load and took her in his arms. “You did it, Jon, You won, you won.”   “I won with your help,” he said. “Here is your reward.” he held her close and gave her a real movie level kiss. If you will marry me and keep me in line I’ll try to do it again. What do you think of that?”

“I think that is an outstanding champion level idea,” Marti  said. He kissed her again and opened the truck door boosted her in. “Don’t forget your prizes,”  she reminded him. He stooped to pick them up and then said “What do I care about prizes and trophies when I now have the best and biggest prize of all?”

******   ******   ******

This one was written later, probably early spring 1970. It was decades before 9-11 and the fallout from that, almost a new idea or threat at the time. The characters were created as avatars of real people and the plot was very far fetched but again I had fun with the tale. At that time, I had never flown or been in a large passenger plane.So I really 'winged' it all!! The odd words are real and accurate as I was learning southeast Asian languages at the time. They are Malay.

The Hijacking

by Gaye Morgan

 It seemed like an ordinary afternoon at Oakland International. JAL flight 118 was warming up in the strong July sun. A Tuesday crowd, perhaps slightly smaller than usual, milled and talked or sat morosely silent. There were no celebrities, no newsmen. The crowd was mainly tourists bound for Expo 70 with a sprinkling of ‘orientated’ businessmen.

There was nothing memorable about the pair who sat near the gate through which 118 would load. A man and a child…the child a girl, slight and slender with long hair of almost Asian straight blackness. She sat with the careful dignity of an eleven-year-old almost young lady, one small tan hand resting on the man’s arm. He sat, legs stretched out, still and calm but for the slight tremor of the hand holding a cigarette. The smoke coiled up from it, contrasting with the tawny shade of his skin.

The loudspeaker crackled the awaited message, breaking into their silent private thoughts. The crowd surged, quiet now, yet somehow strangely ordered in their eagerness, seasoned travelers and neophytes alike. The plane loaded quickly. It roared to life and lifted gently off the sun-soaked cement, briefly into the northeast breeze and then veered westward across the vast Pacific.

The two were seated in the tourist cabin, the child by the window and the man beside her with a scuffed attaché case in his lap. The aisle seat was empty. The endless blue vista soon palled and the child fell asleep with her heard pillowed against the man’s shoulder. The man dozed too.

The afternoon slid by, dinner was served and again the passengers slept. It was roughly midnight California time when the man stirred and came suddenly awake, glancing at his watch in the dim light. He turned and whispered the child’s name, touched her arm when she failed to respond.  She opened her eyes and mumbled sleepily.

“It’s all right, Lisa. I’m going up now, like we planned. You’ll be safe here.” She nodded and slid down farther into the shelter of her seat. “Slamat malam,” she murmured. He slipped a bulky and oddly shaped envelope out of the attaché case and put the case back down on the seat as he rose. He walked quietly forward, as if heading for the latrine, stopping in the next cabin to speak to a kimona clad hostess who accompanied him forward.

The copilot responded promptly to the hostess’s urgent whisper, opening the cabin door. The man stepped quietly forward into the opening, the envelope held carefully in his hand. “I want to go to Kuala Lampur,” he said casually.

The pilot started violently. “Have you blown your mind? Nothing is going into Kuala Lampur since the coup.”

“I am expected.” The man’s voice was gentle but very firm. “I am sure the fuel will hold out; it isn’t actually much farther than Tokyo if we turn south right now. I’m sure you will be allowed to refuel and take off for Tokyo the minute we are safely off the plane.”

“We?” the hostess asked.

“My daughter and I. She is in seat C23. You will look after her for me until we land and see that she is ready to get off.

He did not turn his attention from the pilot and copilot as he spoke but knew without looking that the young woman would obey him.  He balanced the envelope gently. “You really don’t have another choice, you know.”

In the short silence that followed, no one moved. It was broken by the hostess’s slight sigh. The pilot and copilot did not try to argue. They glanced at the brown envelope with measuring care and an unanswered question and turned to draw up a new navigation chart. In the empty sky, the big jet shifted gently to the south.

The man then smiled briefly at the hostess. At his nod, she backed out past the door and shut it silently after her. Back in the tourist cabin, the child still slept in seat C23, crumpled in the upholster with her hand on her father’s attaché case as if to keep him close.

*** *** ***

Summer dawn came gently in Vermont. It crept into the Victorian bedroom and touched the woman who dozed in a chintz covered chair, anguish and anger blended with the weariness in her angular face, one hand outstretched toward the telephone on the corner of the nearby dresser. She stirred and moaned slightly in her sleep.  The sound woke her. She straightened painfully and glared malevolently at the silent phone. “They’ve got to be there by now,” she told herself. She lifted the receiver and dialed, her finger remembering the sequence as if by rote. The voice crossing the continent was still clear, the coolness distinct across the miles.

“No, Laura. There hasn’t been an accident. We’ve been in touch with the CHP since midnight.”

She felt rather than heard the shrillness of her own voice. “But where can they be? Jon may be unpredictable and impulsive but he has never been anything like this late before. He promised me he’d call as soon as they got there.” The distant voice became even chillier. “Then obviously he hasn’t arrived. Really, Laura, you’re being absurd. He probably stopped in Las Vegas or something. I can’t see why you are so concerned anyway. This really is a separation, isn’t it?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, hating the probing voice, hating her own lack of control. She was supposed to be the cool, reserved one. “It’s Lisa I am worried about,” she choked finally.

The other voice laughed, just a short cold chuckle. “And you know perfectly well that Jon won’t permit anything to happen to her. He certainly has as much concern for her as you do. Take something and go to sleep. I’ll call you myself as soon as we find out anything.”

She dropped the phone and turned on the radio, unthinking. The morning news was full of the Asian conflict. Her face tightened. She hated the very word. “Asian.” Coupled with conflict made it worse. The announcers next line caught her attention.

“And now, the closing story. JAL flight from Oakland to Tokyo has been hijacked. The take over occurred about midnight Pacific Daylight time. The pilot reports he has been forced by two men with hand grenades to fly to Kuala Lampur. The hijackers promise the plane will be allowed to continue on to Tokyo as soon as they disembark. At present there seems to be no cause for undue alarm.”

She swore under her breath and switched off the radio. Just the kind of fool stunt Jon might pull--dashing off to rescue his friend and that little girl who worked for the State Department from the reds and their coup.  Then suddenly: Oh my God--could he possibly? 

*** *** ***

The tropical sky and the calm waters echoed each other’s colors. The huge plane began to drift downward and the blue below changed to green, to the white and tan and black of a city, and then to the ivory expanse of a runway, rising swiftly to catch it. The child sat alone with her face pressed tight to the oval glass. The plane taxied to a halt in front of the seemingly deserted terminal. The girl turned from the window as the hostess bent over her. “Are we there?” The woman nodded and unfastened the seat belt as the voice of one of the others came over the loudspeaker.

“Please remain in your seats. We are making an unscheduled stop due to a minor emergency. There is no cause for alarm. I repeat, no cause for alarm. Please remain in your seats.”

The child followed the hostess down the aisle, her father’s attaché case clutched carefully. He was waiting at the door. Tucking the envelope under his arm, he took the case in one hand and her hand in the other. “We’re here, honey. We made it.” She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing.

People suddenly emerged from the empty looking buildings. The ramp was wheeled out and they descend together. A lone photographer snapped a few quick pictures as a gleaming black Cadillac careened up, skidded to a stop and a short, uniformed man leaped out. He almost sprinted over to greet them. A tall young woman with long auburn hair followed at a more decorous pace.

The man still held his mysterious little brown bag. He set the attaché case down. His hands were quite steady now. Deliberately, he ripped the brown paper, smiling up at the pilot who stood at the plane’s door. “Terima kasih, Tuan Pilot.” he called, mockingly, as the two empty Coors cans clattered to the cement. The torn paper followed. Taking the child’s hand, he reached with the other to meet the hand of the tall young woman. The uniformed man grabbed the attaché case and headed back to the car. The other three followed the Malay officer to the car where he opened the doors for them.

On the other side of the world, a phone finally rang. 

PHOTOS:  a hundred years later in about 1999, all those early efforts finally got my necessary  million words written and a few began to be published. I ended up with a dozen novels and quite a few shorter fiction works in ebook and in print. I really "played author" for a while. That was fun too. Now even that feels long ago!! I ended most of that in 2008 but still wrote and published some until about 2020. Here just to validate!!  Hastings in Sv Mall about 2004, Prescott at Sharlott Hall muserum in 2006 and local again,(at Cochise College or Library) in 2007. I always dressed 'southwestern' and that was my persona.

Monday Memoir, October 12, 1968

 For this week, only a single report, written on Friday.  The prior weekend I had gone down to the Verde Valley by bus and visited my friends Kit and Richie Lewis,. He had been the stable manager at the Verde Valley School before Al Nuanez took over.  I did get a few photos of Lyno.. They lived near Camp Verde. It was a nice place.

October 11, 1968 Friday

I'm writing now until it is time for my 2:00 dental appointment, Thank gosh it is Friday. I had a fun time in the valley last weekend. Lyno is fat and sassy and I rode her twice. The Lewises are really nice; they treated me just like a daughter--or maybe grandaughter. I saw Jean (blank on who she was) but not Nancy. Jean said Leo and Buzzie were still on pasture. 

The week has really gone rather fast, all considered. I had an exam in square dance yesterday and another test today. Time marches inexorably on. Four of the sixteen weeks of the semester are now over. 

I can't help envying the kids who are all excited about the rodeo. But for the breaks, I could be barrel racing Buzzie or Lyno or even Leo.but even if we  still owned them, we wouildn't have the money or I'd have been driven to practice until I hated the sight of a basrrel or something! It would no longer be fun. In short, you can't win for losing, 

I certainly am a victim of anomie. The sociological description fits me too a T. Butshouldn't I have outgrown it by now? Damn, I am getting old and I don't want to. I would like to have stayed twenty one for another twenty years. 

As a kind of footnote here: Definition of a word new to me when I was in the sociology class but it hit like a well plaed shot. 

 Variants or less commonly anomy

Anomie: Social instability resulting from a breakdown in standards and values. 

Also:  a personal unrest, alienation and uncertainty that comes from a lack of  purpose or ideals.   Wow, was this painfully close?

**************

Photos!! I did take some pictures while visiting the Lewis's so they will be featured here though part of the past week. Here is Lyno, far removed from her coltish self I had once trained. Not sure if she remembered me but she behaved very well. I am not sure if she had been ridden much lately or not but she was in foal, not real heavy yet. She showed the good Joe Reed bloodlines! 

 

Memoir Monday, October 5, 1968

 I am not sure why I was writing so little, often only a page a week. Life was not totally dull and pointless and I was often less depressed than I had been for awhile. Never no worries or  what ifs or even second thoughts of course, but I was at least positive about the change of academic focus and getting a bit closer to what was real and interesting to me although at that time, career plans were still dimmer than vague!

September 29, 1968 Sunday

The time goes by and by. Today was a bright open sunny day with a stiff wind. I went out for an afternoon walk and sat for awhile on the little bridge across from the bus depots. I hadn't been up there for a long time. I was reminded for fall 1966 when I was so restless and spent many  hours out and along the trrack. I'm so much older now, even so much older than I was a year ago.  I've been a bit blue today; it is the season of the year, and my season of the month, I guess. I am man hungry but I don't want to get messed up with Dale anymore. He is gone, probably mad at me and I really hope he stays. I have a potential number for Dusty with the mining company; just went to the phone company and looked it up but I am not sure how best to use it. Somehow. I would really like to get a phone here but $50 is an awful price to pay (deposit and installation)  If a great windfall comes up, perhaps I would. Anyway I will try soon on tht reaching out--leave a message or something. Just to talk to him might help some.

Mary and I went to see Captain Newman, MD tonight at the CU (campus union)  I saw part of it at Nancy Shellman's last year. I couldn't remember for a bit and it plagued me no end. It is good to have a  roommate although I feel a flash of irritation now and again. Otherwise, I'd probably commit suicide before the year was over. On the way back, coming through the parking lot, I saw a couple in a car--I think it was Betty Leinheiser and her Chuck. Anyway the girl was nestled into the fellow's side with her eyes shut. I've only been with one guy like that. I wish now I had only been with him at all. Bud was real a mistake and really Dale was too. 

Charlie-Dusty-Darlin', have I made you into a superhuman hero in my dreams and longing? Have I overbuilt you until no mortal could fit the image of my fantasy and would I be disappointed to see you now? Have you become old? If you aged at the rate I have--gods forbid. Would you even take me back now truly 'slightly used ' as I am? And would I be sorry in the end if you did? I'm scared to know, I guess, but I must know if I am to settle my mind.

Oct 5, 1968 Saturday

Have a few  minutes before I have to leave so I'll write a bit. Yesterday it rained. It's semi clear now but they predict it will rain more later. Well it is getting on toward high country winter so that's to be expected.

I hope it is nice tomorrow. it is unholy to get up about 5:00 to catch that silly bus, but I'll have to. I might find out some thing useful or I might even have fun. And it will be my only chance for awhile to go down. I am rather lonely and "man hungry" I guess. It's about time I ran into some lecherous macho, the mood I am in. Unless dear Dale returns. I reckon he has buzzed off for good and tanto mejor if so. I really should concentrate on my studies and other useful and virtuois activity until ...well, rather indefinitely really! 

It is almost time to blow--one O'clock will be here soon and then I have an assortment of chores to do afterwards. I am going to iron and Mary and I may hike out to SuperX. I've got to cash a check and get some stamps also. Always things to do--always. And honestly, thank God for that!  Vayase...

To explain or fill in a bit since I did not do that much even later.  I took the bus to the Verde Valley but apparently not to Cottonwood as I had months ago. Maybe to Camp Verde? Anyway I was going to visit Kit and Richie Lewis who had Lyno and Leo for awhile and then bought Lyno permanently. They were a really cool couiple and became good friends, older but not 'old'. 

******

Not My Pictures but memory-making: I did not experience 'being courted' and going home for the night alone  many times, really. It was always special and really at the root of my addiction to "romance" which was about the unqiue emotions but not 'sex' very much. Bench seat boogie,  a sweet interlude in an old fashioned swing,and a mystic reunion, as if on the other side?  Apologize that I cannot credit the artists; these were ripped off the internet some time ago as I just liked them.

Memoir Monday, September 28, 1968

 Fall comes early to Flagstaff. There would still be pleasant days but there could also be chill winds, freezing drizzle and even snow. I knew there would be days it was not fun or easy to walk the several blocks from my new home to campus. That was one of the few negative things about my new residence. I got used to it, though and mostly did not find it too onerous. That may come up in the next few weeks.

At least I did write once this week. So here was September 24, a Tuesday

Sep 24, 1968, 12:45 a.m.

A hell of an hour to be up and awake but I am absolutely  turned on and cannot sleep. It has been a sort of groovy wild day. I got up and dressed and went to my 9:00 to 1:00 classes and all that rot. Then I went to Dr. Holden's 'pulley parlour' and had my miserable molar extracted.It popped out like a greased pig, literally no sweat although it bled quite a bit and I can still taste the salt and feel the cobwebby clots in my throat.  Mary and I went to see The Thomas Crown Affair and sat through it twice! Steve McQueen is just too much. He is so much like Dusty that I just fall apart. Faye Dunaway is cool. With the proper makeup etc. I could almost look like her. She is tall and lean and catty. So'm I. Maybe I should study acting and take speech and diction courses. I'd learn a little bit of pressence perhaps.

I've got to to get to Dusty someway. I know he can't help advance my career or any of that crap but I just happen to still be in love with the guy. I wouild give anything I own to have  him here beside me right now. If I really let myself go, he'd have to reciprocate and I'm sure there is plenty of tiger in the tank of the kitty plays her part. I was awfully green, naive  and awfully scared at first but it was getting better every time. 

I think Dale is ticked at me for being gone. I would have sworn it was him coming in from Albuquerque last evening when Mary and I were fooling around up town  but I could be wrong. Anyway. I think I want him gone now.  I've got to get a driver's license so I can rent a car. I'm going to see about a driver training program tomorrow. If I can't do any better, I will for sure get a New Mexcio license when I go over for Thanksgiviing and then I could get an Arizona one from that without having to drive again. Still no car available. It would be so much better to drive over there than to go on the bus or the train because having mobility could be critical. I'd better turn off, tune out and go to sleep. It's after 1:00. Thank god I don't have to do anything until 10:30 tomorrow.

Pictures: I've mentioned and showed it before, but there really was a strong resemblance between Steve McQueen and Dusty. It was not just myimagination! If they were at all related it had to be far back in their ancestry but maybe some Irish there?? Odd blend of toughness and poet in those faces.  The last one, notice the hands, and maybe a better face angle too.

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

Undated probably  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) Dr. 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 cocky, stuck on himself and could be a pill!  I had                                                     him for  a variety of courses over time.. He'll reappear 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 Liberal Arts Building whre 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 ways 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!!