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 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
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.
