Jocko looked to me like a cross between Errol Flynn and Randolph Scott, two of the actors he “doubled” during his career as a stuntman through the 1940s and into the ’50s. At that time, stunt work was very different than it is in today’s world of digital possibilities. Stunt people just did the “gags” without the aid of special effects cables or hidden padding, and with little or no safety net. And what “gear” they did use was rudimentary, like falling into a bunch of cardboard boxes instead of the modern, specially designed airbags. In those days, they simply fought the choreographed sword fight, ending with a bouncing roll down twenty-five brutally hard stone steps. Or they leaped—without cables or airbags—from balcony to balcony, thirty feet in the air, or jumped from the buckboard of a runaway stagecoach onto the nearest galloping horse of the rig, then vaulted to a lead horse, grabbing the reins and saving the day.
Jocko preferred quarter horses, never Thoroughbreds. They were big working horses, with long necks held high over sleek muscular bodies, which pretty much describes Jocko. At six feet, four and a half inches, he moved like a horse, his long legs loping forward while his upper body stayed straight, the movement registering in the swing of his hips. He never strolled, but walked with a sense of purpose as if he were needed somewhere, which made people look at him if for no other reason than to see where he was going with such deliberateness. He demanded to be noticed. With a strong sculptured face and classic Roman nose, Jocko’s looks were striking. Everywhere he went he left behind the impression of a very handsome man, whether anyone in the room thought he was or not.
My mother met him in the early months of 1951 while doing a guest spot on his television series The Range Rider, a half-hour show with very little story and a whole lot of horse stunts performed by Jocko and his co-star, Dickie Jones. He and Dickie had a stunt show they performed all over the country, and according to Jocko, he’d broken every bone in his body at least once. One of the legendary tales about him was of the night when he shattered his collarbone halfway through the Madison Square Garden performance and just kept on going. Jocko was a stuntman turned actor who was only an average actor but a great stuntman. He was good with the sword, could throw a punch with the best of them, and his horsemanship was nothing short of astonishing.
I found four black-and-white snapshots taken in 1951, photographs that are like pieces of a map, leading to places where memories are buried. One of the pictures is a three-shot taken from behind as the group leans toward the edge of a cliff, looking down to the rushing, boulder-filled river below. The young boy is wearing a camp T-shirt neatly tucked into the elastic band of his shorts and his hands are hanging meekly at his side. Standing next to the boy is a towering shirtless man in white shorts and work boots with a little girl held securely to his bare torso. One of her hands is resting on the big man’s back; the other is out of sight. I suspect the thumb of that hand is in her mouth. He held me a lot. I don’t recall that trip to Yosemite we took as a newly formed family, but when I look at the photo of him holding me, I have to stop. I remember the feeling of that. I remember…
Our first family trip to Yosemite.
I’m looking down at my feet, tiny in his huge hands, the grip so tight it feels like they will fold in half. If I look past my toes, I can see him lying with his back pressed into the patchy grass, his knees bent toward the sky as he holds me high above him. Sometimes Baa will poke her head out of the back door, or glance at us through the window above the sink as she continues doing whatever she’s doing. Always, I wait for her to caution him, to tell him to be careful or say that it’s time to come in, that it’s getting dark or cold or dinner is ready—anything that will bring a halt to these acrobatics. To come and get me. Or at least watch me and be pleased—just watch me, Baa. But she rarely does.
“Eyes straight,” he coaches. “Arms at your side… tight. Don’t look down. I’ve got you. You won’t fall.” He moves his hands together, tightens his grasp, and carefully transfers one of my feet to join the other, until I stand—eyes straight, arms plastered to my side—with both feet in one of his hands. I want to do “good,” to please him, but in equal amounts I also want him to stop. I can’t speak for fear of revealing what a sniveling coward I really am, unworthy of his attention, or anyone’s. I’m in a pickle—a baseball term I’ve heard Dick use—but at least I’m not being ignored. The same choices in this emotional relish dish: to be safe and ignored or to be terrified and seen. So I stay. I look down at my feet and see his sculpted arm holding me securely where I don’t want to be.
My feet. I see them, so small as they cautiously walk on his sore back, his skin warm against my bare soles. At first it took many steps to cover the distance from the top of his shoulders to the curve of his waist, where I’d carefully turn to point my toes toward his shoulders again, never allowing a toe to slip under the sheet that draped over the bottom half of his body. I wanted to look up to the windows of his bedroom, out into the morning beyond, but I also wanted to do a good job. Caught in that pickle again. I longed to focus on the leaves of the big tree outside, to watch their rustling movement, but I kept my eyes down, wordlessly performing my task. When I was seven and eight my feet could almost dance across his back, if I’d wanted—but I didn’t. Later, as my feet got bigger, there was no room to dance and no dancing in my heart.