OHIO, Sept. 21 – Charles Manson, described as the satanic chief of a hippie tribe, was married briefly when he was 21. He has one legitimate son. The former Mrs. Manson, now living in Ohio, has remained aloof to news media interest in her marriage to Manson. Although she allowed News reporter Sherrie Moran to interview her, she refused to have her comments released for publication. Wishing to maintain this confidence, Miss Moran has written her impressions of the visit, including previously published information.

Charles Manson’s ex-wife would like to forget the past.

It’s been 12 years since she’s seen the immaculate, clean shaven young man she married in 1955. At 21, he’d only recently been released from the federal reformatory in Chillicothe, Ohio.

Another sentence, this time to San Pedro, Calif., Terminal Island Prison for interstate transportation of stolen cars, brought a quick end to the marriage.

Seven months of marriage was hardly long enough for the couple to get to know each other. But it produced a son. Rosie moved to Los Angeles to be near her imprisoned husband, but soon filed for divorce. She married again.

Twelve years was long enough for the early marriage to fade into memory and for the son to accept his stepfather as his father. Two more sons were born, there was a second divorce, and Rosie found work as a waitress.

One haunting, horrible day last December, she saw Manson again — a ghostly resemblance from the past flashed across a television screen. He’d been arrested in connection with one of the most bizarre murders to rock the nation. Later, as head of a macabre hippie tribe, he was charged with murder and conspiracy in the ritualistic slayings of Sharon Tate and six others.

The impact of the prolonged, sensational trial “happening” in Los Angeles crosses the continent and penetrates this small Ohio town where Rosie lives. She follows accounts of the trial, waiting for it to end.

The isolation and protective attitude of the community, has shielded Rosie and her son from malicious repercussions they might have experienced when their relationship to Manson became known.

Rosie’s effort to protect her sons from the thundercloud hovering over them is almost valiant. She steadfastly maintains a regular, normal life for her family.

She’s hostile to the press, largely because of an article which appeared in a neighboring West Virginia paper after Manson’s arrest last December. The article disclosed her and her son’s identities. The early marriage was first revealed in an extensive biography of Manson published in the Los Angeles Times.

When Life magazine sent a reporter, Rosie refused to open the door, even when he offered to pay for the story of her marriage to Manson. When the Los Angeles Times phoned, she wouldn’t accept the call.

For some reason, she didn’t turn me away. She agreed to talk, was amiable and open. She answered several questions, but clearly indicated her remarks were not for publication.

The meeting took place at the restaurant Rosie now manages and partly owns.

It’s a simple diner, the kind that does a brisk breakfast and lunch trade in a small town, but a big step up for a former waitress. Metal tables, ones usually found in kitchens, are covered in yellow checked oilcloth. Orange vinyl-covered chairs are set around them.

Across the street is the courthouse, with patriotic red and white petunias waving atop the stone wall flanking it.

Rosie lives in a second floor apartment over a doctor’s office in the red brick building pushed up against the restaurant. Across the hall, the Selective Service board reviews candidates.

The contrast between Rosie and the image reflected of Manson as an exotic, mesmerizing tribal chieftain, makes it impossible to associate the two. She tends to the restaurant with that peculiar pride of ownership. She’s a fiercely dedicated mother.

Manson today would be a stranger to her. Clearly, she’d find the hippie lifestyle totally foreign. If anything, she’s a classic example of Middle America.

She’s tall and slim — she looked good in pink slacks and white sleeveless shell. Her dark, almost black hair is cropped short and full, framing clear, tanned skin that’s delicately freckled.

Her deep brown eyes cloud over when she’s worried, then warm quickly as she flashes the ready, sympathetic smile that’s made her well-liked in a town of 3,000 that might otherwise have turned against her.

While we talked, the boy came in from school. Nearly 15, Manson’s son is an average teenager. His thick dark hair is short, then slightly longer on top with bangs brushing his brows. Dark brown eyes match his mother’s. Slightly self-conscious, he’s showing the first signs of teenage blemishes. His stiff new jeans were matched with a muted blue striped shirt.

His mother gave him money, then sent him out to buy clothes. He returned shortly to have his purchases inspected. There were blue jeans, two sport shirts — one deep blue, the other pale yellow — and “another belt?”

She didn’t introduce us, but sent him off on an errand.

“He’ll want to know who you are,” she said when he’d gone. “I’m not going to tell him.”

When Rosie’s brother came in and sat with us, I knew the interview was over, even though his broad grin dropped only slightly when she told him why I was there. No, he agreed, there was no reason “to stir things up” again.

Rosie went home to exchange the slacks for a uniform. She would be waiting tables that evening. She obviously was worried. It had been a while since anyone had been around asking questions. It was the first time she’d answered any of them.

In time, the case of Charles Manson will be over. The shocking murders will be a blur on the nation’s memory. Rosie’s first marriage will become what it was up until last December — a part of the clouded past no longer penetrating her daily life. And perhaps, as Rosie hopes, her son will accept the brutal knowledge of his parentage without any lingering emotional scars.

By SHERRIE MORAN