 a theme from the Sears Radio Theater. Tonight, a program of love and hate with Cicely Tyson as your hostess. Here's a preview. How many times a week? Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Three times a week? Fame has its misfortunes. I couldn't imagine doing anything worse than having a writer's workshop full of gabby middle-aged women. The Sears Radio Theater will begin after this message from your local station. This is Cicely Tyson. Our story is about a man returning from a public relations tour. His right hand soar from being squeezed through a thousand handshakes. The corners of his mouth stiff from holding onto a thousand smiles. He is one of the rarest of a rare species, a successful black writer with two best-selling novels as testimonials to the fact. Aside from all that, he is a tired man who has returned to his parents' home for rest, Mama's chicken and dumplings, and afternoons of checker playing and beer sipping with his father. Nothing more. On the strength of his talent, he has seen more of the world than either of his parents and his travels have given him a lot to talk about. We join him as he chats with his mother and father over after dinner coffee and sweet potato pie about the romanticism of Spain. Chilly afternoon in Madrid. Chamaco, Diego Puerta, Manolo Vasquez, Paco Samino, and a weirdo who called himself El Voluntario were fighting bulls from one of the greatest bull ranches in Spain, the ones they called Miuras, a fight to honor the memory of Antonio Benvenida. Go on, talk islands. Yeah, go ahead. I want to hear about this bullfight stuff. Just between you and me, Dad, and while Mama is out of the room, I picked up a fantastic lady at the bar in my hotel, Spanish. Hard to say what she was, except for the fact that she had people driving up on the sidewalk to take a better look. Anyway, it was five o'clock in the afternoon, as the poem says. Well, who is it, honey? Daphne Brewington. Daphne Brewington? From the old workshop? Yes. And she called to ask a favor. Oh, no. No, no, a thousand times no. Remember, I'm supposed to be on vacation. Remember last time? It'll only be for a couple of weeks. I told them that you were on vacation. But you wouldn't mind leading the group, you know, like in the old days. Now, the main reason why they need you is because the instructor just got married and went on a honeymoon. And not only that, Alex, you know that there was no way that the group could find out that you went home and not asked for you to come to a meeting if not the equal one. But Mama, I know. Now, Alex, you just got to remember. A lot of these people remember you when you were just plain little old smart Alec Alex. They think you've gotten on your high horse if you turned them down. Not only that, Alex, they are all devout Alex Farley fans. How many times a week? Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Three times a week? Fame has its misfortunes. I couldn't imagine doing anything worse than having a writer's workshop full of Gabby Middle-Aid swimming. And men. Oh, OK. Have it your way. Go on, Alex. We were at the bullfight. Right. We were at the bullfight at five o'clock on a watery gray afternoon. And so we begin our story. Radio Listening. Five nights of exceptional entertainment every week brought to you an Elliott Lewis production of the Sears Radio Theater. Our story, Writers Block by Odie Hawkins. Our stars, David Downing and Linda Kay Henning. The Sears Radio Theater is brought to you by Sears Roboc and Company. That only the artistically inclined can ever fully understand the artist. That leads us with a nebulous question. Who fully understands the artistically inclined? Usual places. Paris, London, Madrid, Amsterdam, Rome, beloved Rome. But that's not why I called. Oh, it sounds serious. Oh, it is, Bird. It is. It is my pleasure to inform you that our writing workshop will continue on its glorious way this coming Monday at 6.30. Well, I thought the workshop had been postponed till Attishenko's return. It was going to be until Alex Farley agreed to give us the benefit of his expertise. Alex Farley? Well, I thought he was in Europe. He was until four days ago. My international connections informed me that he had returned and was hiding out away from the crush and rush of fame at his parents' home. Alex, oh, that's great. We'll have a two-week feeding three evenings a week. I just didn't feel I could request more after all the man is on vacation. And in answer to your last question, I've contacted Phil Snortchart and Madame Osee Slythers. Fran T. Necker, Maria Tamayo, and Sergei Ozar are indisposed. Oh, our usual folks, huh? Great, isn't it? We'll have him all to ourselves. The evenings a week for two weeks. Oh, it'll be like a masterclass. One could say that. Well, I'd better make a note here. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 6.30 PM. Oh, yes, Bird. If Margo isn't coming to the meeting as usual, please ask her to whip up a little something for you to bring. We'd like to open our first session with a little welcome home, Alex Farley party. The Philippine Adobe Rolls? Those would be marvy. See you Monday evening, Bird. Ciao. Monday it is. Ciao. My most undivided attention, she had it. No, as you all can obviously see with your own eyes. Yes, woman, as though we had some other person's eyes to see with. Next thing you know, we'll be descending down the stairs next round, two feet. Alex Farley, author of Stolen Souls and Bristling, has returned to his literary roots. Let's welcome Alex with a tremendous round of applause. Applause. Great to have you back, Alex. Just great. You can quote me. Thank you. It's really good to be back. Nothing like returning to your old stomping grounds. And now then, who has something to read? Oh, Alex, we weren't prepared to read anything. This is our welcome. Let's get reacquainted with Alex evening. I'm sure no one. Always. Just pulling your legs, gang. But I'm serving notice tonight. When we meet on Wednesday, it'll be to get down to business. Same old Alex, the guy who always knew the value of pain and the price of causing it. Meanwhile, I'll have another glass of vino. I don't want to buy you a glass of wine. Thank you so much. That's a nitty. That's a painter the world should know something about. I'm glad I do. I've started a piece on him. I call it A Real Italian Encounter on the Spanish Steps in Rome. Daphne, don't you think the title is a bit longish? How about On the Spanish Steps, A Real Italian? How about in Rome, Italians? How much credit can you give any so-called civilization for having decided to live in skyscrapers? Well, let's not forget Band-Aids, Bert. Machine guns, daily newspapers. I read your book, read it thrice. I mean, twice. No, I was right the first time. I read it thrice, and each time I read it was like the second time. Was that why you're taking so long to return my book, Bill? Oh. Oh, group before we call it a night. Yeah, why not? Well, how did it go? How did it go? Well, what can I say? There we are once again in Daphne Brewington's stark, ravingly rich Bohemian pad. Who's there? Daphne and her poor, rich boutique getup, cigarette holders, sunglasses glued onto her artistic forehead, going on and on about her salad days and the beat movement to her latest artistic discovery on the Spanish Steps in Rome last month. Bert Bourbon. The dude with the pat you sewed onto the elbows of all his other clothes. With the pipe to bat, it smells like burning dolls. The Phil Snort shot, and Madame O.C. Slyther. So three people used to call the Scotch trio. Right. Now, why should you be feeling so depressed about this group? Who said I was depressed? Bert, you're so depressed. I guess I do, don't I? I'm pretty hard not to, in a way. Why? I don't know really. I guess it has something to do with the fact that they haven't changed. It's like returning to a place where people have been pacing themselves on a treadmill. They're not going anywhere. You mean they're not writing? Right. They talk about writing, but they're not doing it. Well, maybe they're doing what they know how to do best. But how do you call yourself a writer if you don't write? Well, I think you've been a little hard on them, Alex. Now, let's face it. Well, there really ain't a whole lot of people doing what they say they are. Now, you've got to at least give them credit for making their effort to pretend to be something they ain't doing, which is more than can be said for a lot of folks these days. That you sound like O.C. No, that's good. Why have we gotten this writer's thing out of the way? Who are you starting to tell me the other day about this Spanish woman you picked up in the bar? You know, don't wonder what you went to the bullfight with. Oh, you mean Sarafina Sanchez Bogomez? She had four names. Four names and four sisters. And she wasn't all Spanish. Her grandfather on her mother's side was Indonesian. The well-known Afro-American writer returns to the scene of some of his earliest artistic triumphs determined in the course of a couple of weeks to bully the members of his group into writing. They are just as determined to do more storytelling than writing to remain basically literary. Alex offers us character sketches of them as they reveal their personality to us. Can we please have it quiet? I love that. Thank you. I've already expressed my utter and complete joy at being back with all you characters. So let's have another moment's delay. Leave us into this business at hand. Daphne? Yes? Would you like to inaugurate this workshop series with one of your pieces? I'd like to read something if that's what you mean. Yes, Daphne. That is exactly what I mean. Good. Well, here goes. I call this Encounters, Romans, and Dawn on the Spanish Steps, page one. It was Dawn on the Spanish Steps when the princess saw Gianni. The princess was none other than Pierre-Angeli Petrocelli del Bolognignini, heiress to countless acres of land, a few palaces, her father's industrial empire, and all the other goodies that her family owned. Dear Daphne, never changing, Daphne. 10 years ago, it was Jose on the Romplice in Barcelona. You were a simple shop girl in your story, and he was a member of the royal family in disguise, wandering around with amnesia. Nine years ago, it was the Champs Elysees, and you were a scarlet or a harrow on vacation from the rigors of the corporate life. Five years ago, when you suddenly seemed to realize that you were 30 and unpublished, your story suddenly began to reflect the kind of hysteria, the free, unliberated female who wished for one of the charming princes that the women in your stories rejected on principle. Now we're in Italy. They held each other and vowed that they would never allow anything or anyone to force them apart. After secret meetings at the bottom of the steps for three weeks, they felt that they were destined for each other. That's as far as I've gotten. I know it isn't perfect, but you'll have to agree it does capture a certain kind of feeling. Now, now, Daphne, don't try to influence the critics for the sake of those who aren't familiar with workshop procedure. Each of you has offered a chance to make a constructive comment before I spill my gems of wisdom. But first, I want you to give it some thought. Daphne's story encounters Romans and dawn on the Spanish steps. What did you think of what you heard? Encounters. Oh, that was great, Daphne. Just great. Need a little more atmosphere, but otherwise great. Phil? Well, what can I say? I've been both the victim and the beneficiary of Daphne's caricatures for years. Somehow I could see myself in her story. Borsalino hat, cock, just so. Swank shades propped up on my arrogant nostrils. Striped barber shirt collar open to the belly button. Six gold chains in the strand of tiny black pearls around my aristocratic throat. Cardinally suit jacket, draped over my shoulders. Disco belt around my girlish waist. Phil? Yeah, Alex? What did you think of Daphne's story? Daphne's story? Encounters, Romans and dawn on the Spanish steps. Well, I'd give it a D minus as a favor. Well, you've got a lot of nerve. Let's move along, shall we? Remember the rules? The author has a chance at the conclusion of the critiques to offer a rebuttal, but no debates. OK, gang? Thank you so much. I don't want to see you really want to see Daphne. Daphne, I'd say that your story needs considerable editing, a fresh title, and a very objective look at the story in terms of how it would have some impact on anyone who had never fallen in love on the Spanish steps in Rome. And now then, who else has something to read? I do. New blood? Who is she? She looks more like a dancer than a writer. How can you tell? It isn't easy, my dear. Believe me, it isn't easy. Would you please give us your name and a capsule bio of yourself before you go into the piece you have to read? Welcome to the workshop. Thank you. My name is Patience Weathersby. I'm from Crabsclaw, Massachusetts. I imagine that all the way from Crabsclaw, Mass. And I've been writing seriously for two and a half years. This is my first writing workshop. Well, let's hope it's not your last. Don't mind the cabbages. It's the workshop tradition. What do you have to read, and what's it called? I have a short story, and the title is The Little Pigeon Who Was Afraid of Tall Places. Cha, cha, cha. It's a children's story. Yes, of course. Gang, your complete attention, OK? Once upon a time. Oh, really? Once upon a time, there was a little pigeon who was afraid of tall places. When she was hatched, her parents looked at her, nestled and squawking with her brother and sister, and, oh, with joy, because she was an excellent example of what a baby pigeon should look like. Let's take a short break before we continue. Oh, Rummy, good idea, Rummy. Remember now, authors can make a rebuttal after the critiques. Ossie? Well, I know I'm supposed to offer a very diplomatic tidbit, one that will spare the embryonic writer's heart, and I shall edit, my dear, edit. Thank you, Ossie. Bert? Oh, I don't know. Somehow, I kind of relate it to this little bird. You know what I mean? She sort of found a place in my heart. I'd like to think that there's a little bird in all of us. I like the story just as is. Wouldn't change words. Oh, thank you. Phil, well, there is a good deal to be said for the symbolism of the work, the suggestion of relative values. I think in this, the year of the child, it's entirely appropriate that we should be exposed to the little pigeon who is afraid of tall places. You believe this guy? But you don't seem to be holding any grudges against good-looking blondes from crab claw. OK, people, hold down the crossfire. Daphne, you're the last one. Well, I don't know. I kind of like the feeling of alienation that it conveyed. Needs refocusing. But the alienation thing, that's stuck in my gut. Oh, but there's no alienation. Remember, no debates. Do you want to add anything else, Daphne? I've said it all. Mrs. Wethersby? Please, call me Patience, and it's Ms. Well, Patience, it's a charming story that has great potential. However, I feel it needs a bit of pruning. Pruning? As OC puts it, editing. Clipping a word or two, turning a sentence around here, or using a more appropriate phrase in certain places. A sharper focus on the pigeon. I understand. Why don't you work on it and bring it back on Friday for another reading? Don't take them seriously. They razz each other and anybody else who happens along. It doesn't bother me. Good. How long do you think it'll take for you to make your mark in the kitty-lip field? Well, I've given myself a year to struggle. And after that, I'll return to Krabsclaw if I haven't made my mark. Hm. Oh, Patience? Do you like Italian food? Have you had dinner? To be honest, no. I haven't had dinner because, well, the struggling writer has to live frugally, right? Absolutely. And I do love Italian food. If you'll join me, we can title this evening the struggling writer had a good Italian meal. Sounds like something Daphne would write. I guarantee you, Luigi's will be better than anything Daphne will ever write. That sounds great to me. I'm parked around the corner. I've had view Milanese a few times before, but never like that. I told you it would be good. More wine? Just a drop, thank you. Would you care for a dessert, now, Mr. Farley? Patience? Well, I... We'll have two Zabalionis and coffee, please. And now then, what were you saying about your dad? Oh, about him dragging my mom and me to Crab's Claw? Yeah. Well, it's a rather simple story of a career army man deciding to retire to the most unlikely place one could imagine. Well, what's it like? Crab's Claw, well, just a small New England town, mostly beach, a tiny commercial area, a town hall, reserved but friendly people after they get to know you. Strangely, it reminds me of a small city that we lived in, in Spain for a couple of years while dad was attached to the consulate. Sounds like Alicante. Oh, yes, it was Alicante. How did you know? Just a guess. Could have been a hundred other places. Oh, I know it could have been, but it wasn't. You said Alicante, and that's uncanny. When were you there? Two Zabalionis and coffee, sir. Well, thank you. When was I there? Last month. Is it the same? I mean, what does it look like now? I only spent a week there. This is super delicious. What's it called? The Zabalionis. I love it. Oh, um, so on. Alicante. OK, the Moor's Head. The outcropping of rock on the cliff beside the castle that overlooks the beach. It's still there, looking more mysterious every day. No pun intended. Oh, I didn't think of it as being mysterious. It was rather like a familiar stranger to me. It was the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing at night. Did you go to El Canario? I certainly did, purely by accident. I was wandering around one evening, trying to get away from the hotel scene. And the next thing I knew, my nose was being pulled by a quartet of fantastic aromas to El Canario. Oh, you know, I don't think that I've ever eaten paella as good as Senor Manareza. And the flat, oh, calories. Would you care for another cognac, Mr. Farley? Yes. Two more. Alex, we're the last customers. Well, don't think of it that way. Be imaginative. Think of us as the first customers. You know something. I think I'm going to like being a successful writer of children's stories in a big city. Your cognacs, will there be anything else? No, thank you. Just a check. Sorry to hold your table for so long. No problem. It has been of my pleasure to serve you and the lovely lady. Now that's what my mom would call great dip dog. You'd better believe it. Well, here's to the success of patience, whether it be newest and most confident of today's new writers. Alex, do you think I'm being too cocky? Not really. Well, let's face it. When you first start out, you have to start out believing that you're a winner or else. May I quote you, Mr. Farley? By all means. Sure it was a shooting star? Remember, this is the big city. It might have been the mad cannonballer. Oh, it's such a beautiful night. I feel as though I'm in a dream. Red wine helps. Oh, there's more to it than that. I feel as though something extremely important, something really nice has happened in my life tonight. I feel that way too. Do you? Really? Yes. Yes, I do. Alex, do you believe in signs? Red light, stop. Green light, go. That sort of thing? No, no, not those kinds of signs. I'm talking about something else. When I was in Spain, in Alacante, a gypsy woman prophesied that certain signs would tell me certain things. Naturally, I didn't believe a word she said at the time, but since then, well, like the shooting star. What's that sign supposed to mean? You really want to know? Of course. Well, she said that a tall, dark man would come into my life. And when this happened, the sky would just. What was the gypsy woman's name? I don't remember. How many teeth did she have? Oh, no, you know her. Maybe. Go on, tell me, how many? Two at the top on the left side, and four at the bottom on the right side. That was Seraphina Sanchez-Bogomez. She always makes that prophecy for American women. I don't want to get into what she prophesies for men. How much did she take you for? How much? I'll be honest. My 10-minute reading cost me $10. How much did yours cost? She gave me the speed reader's rate, $10 for five minutes. And her good name to use, and a piece about Spain someday. Seraphina Sanchez-Bogomez. Oh, I enjoyed the meal more than I can say. If there's one thing we Wethersby people enjoy, it's good food. And the, um, uh, the. Zaballoni. Yes, that. Oh, but more than all of that, I've enjoyed being with you. I don't know quite what to say. Don't say anything. Good night, patients. Night, Alex. Shooting act of writers. Lord, I'd peek in on you. You don't seem to be doing your usual thousand words a minute. Something else on your mind, huh? I guess she could say that. What's her name? You get right to the point, don't you? Well, why not? Her name is Patience Wethersby. Patience? Wethersby? Yep. That's her real name. She popped up in the workshop last week and read a story about a pigeon. That's right. A little pigeon who was afraid of tall places. Was it her story? Well, to the extent that any writer's story reflects it. Alex, was it her story? Do you mean? Exactly. I guess you could say it was her story, except for the fact that she's so lovely and the story is so lousy. Well, did you tell her that? Uh, we had dinner at Luigi's. Did you tell her she had written a lousy story? Everyone else in the workshop thought it was good. It's not like you to follow the herd, Alex. You're absolutely right, Mama. Absolutely right. You know something? I've been trying to do a piece on a gypsy woman, Patience, and I both knew in Spain. And I haven't been able to get beyond page 10. Writers' block. Just about the purest case of it I've ever had. Alex, are you saying, because you were dishonest about somebody else's work, that you were going to allow that to cause you problems? Doesn't make much sense, does it? Well, not to me, but then I'm not a writer. Don't worry about it. All you have to do is keep me honest. I'll do all the writing necessary. Thank you. I'm sure I don't have to tell you all how reluctant I am to announce that this will be my last session with you as workshop leader. It's been fun. Now on with the show. OC, you've been chosen as the final sacrifice. What do you have for us? Well, I call this work, Super Rabbit Needs His Match. You get it. Go on, OC. Come on, group, listen up. It was in the year 2090, and the earth had been taken over by rats and rabbits. OC, that comes close to being almost as good as my piece. Never, never ending day. I completely failed to see the possibility of any comparison. However, ladies, please. Patience, let's start with you. What do you think of the story? It was frightening to me. I mean, maybe it's because I've always had pets of one kind or another. For a time, I had rabbits and pet mice. And the idea of a notion that these two innocent creatures would suddenly grow to the dinosaur level and go to war is ugly. I mean, the story is lovely, but ugly. Bert, well, as you all know, OC and I have been known to leave the workshop and stumble over to silly willies for a libation or two or three. And, well, I remember when she first wrote the idea. Bert, she said, are you aware that there will be only two types of animals around the way things are going in 2090 or thereabouts? Rats and rabbits. You did it, OC. He's right on the money. If I were you, I'd start thumbing through the digest for a suitable market. You mean, you mean? It's really not bad, OC. Daphne. And on that note, I hereby declare the end of the workshop for this evening. As you all know, Lattishinco will be back on the job come Monday. Well, since my opinion wasn't asked about OC's story. Phil, I'm sorry. You were so unusually quiet that I overlooked you. Oh, no, no. It's quite all right, Alex. I was just so profoundly moved by the slither's epic that I found myself becoming invisible. Wiped out, I feel. No, rather. And there you have it. One of the most unusual moments that has ever happened in the workshop. A unanimous decision. And a tremendous round of applause for Alex. Yes, Alex. Oh, my god. Why such a long face, Alex? You look as though there were rocks in your spimone. No, nothing quite that simple. Well, what is it? Well, I don't quite know how to talk about it. Maybe a cappuccino would help. Waiter? Yes. Two cappuccinos, please. Oh, immediately. Now then, slowly circle the words you need and release them one at a time, like little pigeons. Patience, you don't understand. Maybe I would understand if he gave me something to understand. Patience, I'm sure you've been writing long enough by now to know how hard it is to find the words to say certain things. Alex, how long have we known each other? Well, let me see. If we include all of yesterday at 10, 15 PM, it'll be three whole weeks. Joke about it if you like. No, it hasn't been a lifetime. But I'm sure you've discovered by this point in time that I, well, that I can cope. OK, I'll take your word. What would you say if I told you that I haven't been able to nail two coherent paragraphs together for the last week? That's the reason you're looking so down? Don't you think that's a good enough reason? I can't see how writer's block could hang on to you for long, being the old pro that you are. Patience, Alex. Oh, I know what it is. You can't fool me. I know what your problem is. Oh, your nervousness is natural. I mean, let's face it. Most guys are kind of shaky when they're about to first meet their perspective in law. Oh, did I tell you? Dad is running all over Crab Squad trying to find your book so that he'll be able to ask you questions. And mom thinks it's great that I'll be married to a fellow writer. Sounds kind of funny, doesn't it? Fellow writer. Patience. That's what I wanted to talk about, writing. See what patience has wrought? He speaks of speaking about writing. Well, there's a bit more to it than that. I don't want to simply talk about writing. I want to tell you something about your writing, about your story. The Little Pigeon? Yes, the Little Pigeon who was afraid to. What about it? Well, I think we both have to agree that it isn't at the world class level. Well, what I mean is. John, say it. I can cope. The Little Pigeon who was afraid of tall places is a badly written story. But I mean. You're saying that my story is lousy. That's what you're saying, isn't it? The story that I spent weeks on. I don't care how long you worked on it. It needs more work. Well, why would you let me go around thinking that I had a great story when I'm. I'm correcting that oversight right now because it's been the cause of my block. Oh, so now you blame me for not being able to write? Well, maybe. Maybe we're making a big mistake. I can foresee a time when you'll blame me for poor reviews, for, for, oh, no. The lady does not wish her cappuccino. The lady forgot about the cappuccino. The lady was unhappy with my critique. Let me have a cognac. Double, please. How about yourself? I'm feeling about 100 times better than I felt two days ago. Patience. And I've been missing you, Alex. I've missed you too, patience. Are you very busy right now? Aside from this full hit of steam hanging over my typewriter, I'm not too busy. So telling me the truth about my lousy story I'm blocked to. Well, I wouldn't say it. It is a lousy story. After I ran out of the restaurant the other day, I came home and made a cold-blooded objective reading of the story. You were right. It needs work, a lot of work. Well, I'm glad we agree. It ain't always easy to tell the truth to someone that you care for. I'm glad you care enough for me to tell the truth. I love you, patience. I love you too, Alex. Um, what about you first? Well, I was just about to suggest after you finish up for the day that maybe we could get together for dinner. Great idea. Luigi was very disappointed that you didn't wait for your cappuccino. Sorry about that. I wasn't thinking about Luigi, though. I was thinking that maybe, well, I could throw something together. It won't be Luigi's, but it'll be done with feeling. About six? Six is fine. See you then. Bye-bye. That was close. Dad, your keys are stuck. Thanks to you, mama. Thanks to you. Satisfaction guaranteed. Or your money back. America Shops for value. Writer's Block was written by Odie Hawkins, produced and directed by Elliot Lewis. Your hostess was Cicely Tyson. Our stars were David Downing and Linda K. Henning. Featured in the cast were Jim Mapp, Helen Martin, Mary Jane Croft, Shepard Menken, Barney Phillips, and Shirley Mitchell. The music for Sears Radio Theater was composed and conducted by Nelson Riddle. This is Art Gilmore speaking. The Elliot Lewis production of Sears Radio Theater is a presentation of CBI. Story of Adventure with Richard Whitmark as your host. Let's listen. Quick to the facts. Yeah, yeah, yes, sir. Anyway, they wasted a team of buffalo. You mean this whole mess is over a team of wasted buffalo? They belong to Jean, the chief elder of the village. So be sure and tune in tomorrow to the Sears Radio Theater. 24 hours a day of great music and more news, features, sports from FM 103, KMOX FM, St. Louis. KMOX FM. An ill-fated jetliner followed emergency procedures, but that may have contributed to the disaster. This is Doug Polling reporting on the CBS Radio Network. Testimony was given in a hearing of the National Transportation Safety Board on the May 25th crash of an American Airlines DC-10 in which 273 people were killed. During the period, just after one of the plane's engines fell off, the pilot followed the book. But apparently, the book gave the wrong instructions. Betty Ann Bowser has a report. The chief of American's DC-10 training program testified the pilot of Flight 191 did what he had been trained to do when an engine fails. He reduced his airspeed. But in doing that, the pilot of 191 may have lost the edge he needed to stay in the air. The pilot was following FAA-approved procedures and slowing down, and what American Airlines teaches its DC-10 pilots in training programs. Since the crash, American has revised its training procedures, now telling pilots to increase airspeed when an engine fails. In simulation tests conducted by the Transportation Safety Board and 17 of 34 test flights, identical to Flight 191, pilots who did not follow the book were able to keep the simulated flights in the air. Those who did what the flight book recommended crashed. Betty Ann Bowser, CBS News, Rosemont, Illinois. Near the Akron Catan Airport this afternoon, New York Yankees catcher Thurmond Monson was killed in the crash of a small jet plane. Monson was at the controls of his twin engine Cessna Citation, which went down about 1,000 feet short of the runway. Two other men aboard the aircraft managed to get out just before it exploded. They are hospitalized in fair condition. President Carter is going to have to wait at least a month to get the gasoline rationing bill he wants. The Senate today rejected the House passed version of the rationing plan. The House is adjourned for the August recess and won't start working again until after Labor Day. In the meantime, a House Senate Conference Committee will try to work out a compromise so the bill can be ready for action in September. The Senate Armed Services Committee today continued hearings into the SALT II treaty with the Soviet Union. The afternoon star witness was former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. Three committee members have signed a letter to President Carter, which was read to Kissinger. The letter by Democrat Sam Nunn of Georgia, Henry Jackson of Washington, and Republican John Tower of Texas asked for details on how the Carter administration would increase defense spending to beef up US military power. Kissinger voiced agreement with the letter. This is the sort of information which I believe is necessary for the Senate to be able to determine whether we have a national program in the security field, which would make ratification in the national interest. The rest of your letter, the rest of your questions, would, in my judgment, supply the sort of answers that are needed to make a judgment on the issues before us. The State Department said today it's temporarily suspending the sale of arms to Northern Ireland, pending a review of the human rights situation there. He's only been in the US Senate for six months, but apparently some people are impressed with him. Senator Larry Pressler, Republican of South Dakota, has some backers who'd like to see him run for president next year. They formed a committee to push a Pressler candidacy.