Coming in 2023......

 

What’s coming up in 2023……a western, a romance, an adventure

in the old west....

 

It’s Dry Gulch, Arizona, the year is 1875. Young rancher Travis

Dawson has just left his father’s ranch after losing his younger

brother Caleb in a horse riding accident.

Forty miles to Tucson, and Travis and his horse Jack have set out to

get away from the memory of that horrible accident.

A robbery along the way…meeting an attractive lady Sarah at the

local mercantile….being talked into a job and place to stay with

the local undertaker Turnball….the last job he thought he would

ever be involved with!

The story is gritty, dust ridden, raw, thought provoking and full of

one surprise after another for the young Dawson.

Travis Dawson, Undertaker….now copyrighted and expected to be

printed and available in 2023!

This is a western that has it all…..watch for the previews on line on

the world wide web…..and get ready for

                                   Travis Dawson, Undertaker.

                                  Authored by Stanley E. Swan

Old man Crenshaw's place....

 

Youngster Jeff loved being on his bike and pedaling around the neighborhood....

except there was one place he tried to avoid. The house where Old man Crenshaw

lived.....it was down right spooky and broken down. From time to time Jeff would

see the old man standing in an upstairs window with a rolled newspaper tucked 

under his arm...what was that about? One day in late May as Jeff made his way 

up the hill and past the house....he stopped the bike and peered ahead to see both

a Sheriffs car and ambulance parked at the bottom of the drive. 

This is story 19 in Tales Unleashed (Amazon) 

Old Man Crenshaw’s Place

When most kids loved riding their bikes to school, Jeffery Adams was just the opposite. His six-minute ride to and from his rural farm house was down an old dirt road, up a steep incline and past Old Man Crenshaw’s place, a dilapidated two-story building that seemed to reach out for him every time he passed it. What was there about this house?  His father had told him many times about its owner, Ebenezer Crenshaw, a cranky old man that had worked at the newspaper for many years. It was rumored that Ebenezer was a conjuror . . . sitting by the light of a single lantern, reading tea leaves and cards, and casting spells on those he didn’t care for. Could it be true? Perhaps. Jeffery cranked the pedals as hard as he could every time he passed the Crenshaw place, kicking up cinders and dust as he would fly by the front porch and walk.

Once, he had seen the man in jeans and tee shirt, with a rolled-up newspaper under his arm, standing in an upstairs bedroom window. This place was creepy, very creepy . . . the kind of creep that sneaks into your bedroom at  night, slithering through that slightly opened window you had left before retiring. 

It was one afternoon after school in late May that Jeffery, on the way home was just coming up to the Crenshaw house. In front of the house was the Sheriff’s car and an ambulance, neither of which had their emergency lights flashing. A deputy stood in the middle of the road, presumably directing traffic to slow up a bit as it approached. Jeffery rolled up to the deputy, stopped his bike, and asked the officer, “What’s going on in there anyway?”

The deputy replied with, “Looks like Old Man Crenshaw has died. Someone stopped earlier in the day for some reason and found him inside. Now move along, son. Nothing else to see here.” 

With that Jeffery started pedaling homeward again. Geez, now Crenshaw’s would be creepy… him being dead and all. What would happen to this place? He pondered that question as he continued the journey home.

A couple of weeks passed. Crenshaw had been buried in the local cemetery not too far down the road from Jeffery’s house, and things seemed pretty normal again in his part of town. One night sitting out front of his house with his dad, Jeffery remarked to him, “You know dad, I saw Old Man Crenshaw one day. He was standing in an upstairs bedroom window in jeans and a tee shirt with a rolled-up newspaper under his arm.”

“Is that so?” replied his father. “Interesting, I heard that as a kid he delivered newspapers all over town. Did it for many years I think. Later on, he was actually employed by the same paper company for many years. Seems like he always had a newspaper on him.”

Two days later, Jeffery and his best friend Will were pedaling around town when they happened to pedal into the Whispering Pines Cemetery. It was the place where Old Man Crenshaw had been buried two weeks before.

“Why are we here?” asked Will of Jeffery.

“I don’t really know for sure,” replied Jeffery. “It’s just . . . I just want to see where he ended up.”

As they rounded the corner in the cemetery road, straight ahead they could make out a newly dug grave with a couple of wilted flower pieces laying on top.

“That must be it!” exclaimed Jeffery as he pushed the pedals to get a little closer.

Within ten feet of the spot, Jeffery slammed on the bike’s brakes and dug his feet into the soft ground. On top of the grave amongst the brown flower pieces was one rolled-up newspaper, its ink starting to run from the rain since the interment. 

“What is it with the newspaper?” asked Will.

“I’m not really sure. But I’d bet you a million dollars his obituary is in that edition. I’d bet you a million dollars . And I know one thing for sure—it’s his last newspaper.”

 And so Old Man Crenshaw had gone on. His newspaper delivery days were long past him now, and his abandoned house would sit and continue to wither away in the months and years ahead. Someday, when someone would buy that house and start renovating, do you know what they would find in those walls? Yes, one of the best old stand-by insulations ever invented: newspapers. 

Discovering Dr. John....

 

So a young man, wondering in the woods in the back of his mom's property discovers an

old rusty, broken down vehicle.....that discovery would send him down the path to his

life's work.  It's story number 12 in Tales Unleashed (Book Stand Publishing)    

Discovering Dr. John

At fifteen years old, Chad Gillmore was a whiz in math and science. He couldn’t read enough about the wonders of the world around him. At age eight his mom had presented him with his first chemistry set, and night after night, Chad would be in his room conjuring multiple solutions and pretending to be the one that would make that next discovery.

Chad knew that he wanted to pursue an occupation in medicine, but he didn’t know why. His father, who had passed away when Chad was only an infant, was a laborer, and his mom worked two jobs in retail shops not far from home. His mom suggested to Chad that if he wanted to pursue a job in the medical profession that he should seek his education in the military, as there would be no feasible way she could afford him a six- or eight-year college program.

Having just moved to a small house in Alloway, Chad and his mom enjoyed the rural pristine twenty acres that surrounded their modest home. Romping through the woods on a bright summer day gave Chad time to think about what was next, for both himself and his mother.

It was a Thursday after school that Chad decided to head out into the woods to explore new territory that he had yet not invaded. With a backpack on his shoulders and a wave to his mom, he was out the door.

Up the gully to the top of the hill, Chad made his way among clumps of maples and pines, flushing out a couple of grouse as he went. When he broke over the crest of the hill, Chad made a discovery which was most unusual in this setting of greenery and rock. Twenty yards in front of him was a car. Well, more of a truck than a car. Shaded in colors of white, blue, and rust, the vehicle sat among the weeds and small trees, resting from its past years work. Chad ran to the vehicle and slowly circled around it, taking it all in . . . wow, this was a find indeed.

Chad dropped his backpack, pried open the front door, and eased himself into the front seat which was covered in leaves and debris. A key was in the ignition, the dashboard was rusted and covered with dirt. Cobwebs were in every space of the interior, proof that few had entered before him.

Peering into the back, Chad saw what looked like some sort of stretcher, rolled up and rotten from the elements which he presumed had battered it for decades. There was something soothing about this car. It had a peaceful feeling to it, a feeling of good deeds being done and pursuits being realized. Chad couldn’t quite understand it. It was strange, yet inviting, to his spirit.

After a brief rest, Chad reached for the key in the ignition and tugged it slightly . . . and to his surprise the key slid out. He tucked it into his right jeans pocket. Jumping out of the front seat, Chad pushed the door firmly, but the door was inches from exacting a firm closure. Chad noticed some type of faint lettering on the door and started rubbing off the years of dirt and grime that masked it. Within a couple of minutes, Chad backed away from the door and read,

Dr. John Sullivan
Dispenser of Fine Medicine
Main St. Alloway

Wow. A medical car, used, abandoned and placed here for its final rest.

Chad touched the door and whispered in a faint breath that only a passing robin might have heard, “I’m going to carry on your work Dr. John. Thank you for the healing you did. Your key will be in my pocket until I start my own work someday. Thank you.”

Chad grabbed his backpack and headed for home, contemplating whether he should share the discovery with is mom. Maybe tomorrow . . . but not today. Chad knew that he would re-visit the car in the weeks ahead, and that Dr. John might speak to him about what his future chosen profession might bring.

And so a few years later, Chad with his interest in science and math, did indeed enter the medical profession. By way of the U.S. Army, Chad received his training and spent almost twelve years in service to his country and his fellow countrymen as a highly skilled nurse. During his time away, his mom did pass away, and Chad kept the house, renting it to local folks who could watch after it while he was away.

One week while home on leave, Chad revisited Dr. John’s medical vehicle which hadn’t moved from its original spot. Chad smiled as he ran his hand over the most rusted part of the truck’s hood.

“Thanks, Dr. John, for the inspiration. When I get home soon, we’ll get you out of this lonely place you’ve been a prisoner in, and get you fully restored.”

Chad’s find out in the woods so many years before had now seen him come full circle. He smiled lightly as he walked away from the vehicle, knowing that someday, not in the too-distant future, he’d be driving it through Alloway, on the road and among the houses to which it had been so familiar.

A walk in fog.....and time.

 

Welcome to my new followers....literally world wide by means of the world 

wide web. Little did we know years ago...such mass communications would 

ever become reality....but it is here...and a bit unsettling as well!

You'll find several interesting stories here on my blog....from the unusual 

to romantic...to unsettling in some cases....but don't be alarmed... they are

only just stories right? 

Ever go walking in the fog? Just for kicks maybe? You might rethink that

idea after reading the story below....thanks for stopping and have 

a great day!  SS 

 

Settle in and enjoy story #3 from Tales Unleashed.....

A Walk in Fog and Time

Is it possible to move through time? Is it possible that certain events are destined to repeat themselves, never coming to completion? Yes, yes indeed, it is possible. The story below is one of those events. Possibly a tragic event that would not allow the participants ever to have rest . . . read on, then decide for yourself.

The twilight was settling in quickly now. As I peered out the kitchen window, the impending darkness was bringing with it a thick fog bank, a result of the late afternoon rain and cooler temperature. The trees on the hillside beckoned me to take a walk among them, so I grabbed a light jacket and headed out the back door, paying little attention to the wet grass that clung to my scuffed-up oxfords. I’d been up and down these hills behind the house so many times, it seemed that I knew every tree, ditch, rock, and gulley that made it so friendly. As I made my way up the hill through the oaks and maples, their leaves rustled gently as the fog continued its downward spiral. I sat to catch my breath, feeling a bit faint from my fast ascent. No hurry, I thought. Sit and absorb the moment.

Sitting on a stump I knew so well, I watched the fog gain intensity . . . rolling down the hillside and enveloping me with a force I could actually feel through my thin summer jacket. I pulled up the collar around my exposed neck as the fog tried to invade my naked skin, giving me a chill that was unusual for this time of the year.

I listened intensely thinking that I was hearing a voice from further up into the woods, but I couldn’t imagine anyone else being out here at twilight. Zipping up my jacket to the top, I again headed up the hill, stopping every fifty yards or so to give listen.

Still, a faint voice, muffled by the fog, was descending to my ear . . . a man’s voice, soft-spoken, but authoritarian to some degree. I continued on and within a few moments I had crested the hill enough to look down into a bowl in the terrain. The man’s voice was slow and deliberate. The words spoken, I could not make out, but it was clear he was speaking to someone or a group. I moved between the large oaks, trying to hide behind trunks as I moved closer to make my discovery. And there before me, maybe a hundred yards ahead in the fog, were four figures cloaked in long grey capes with very large sleeves, almost choir robes. They all wore hats. The three shorter figures I presumed to be women, had bonnets tied at the chin, and the taller figure wore a wide brimmed, pitch black hat. He had in his left hand a seven-foot staff which towered above all four of the figures. Who were these people?

I moved closer . . . trying to look through the now very thick fog which was cloaking my view. Within another thirty yards or so my position had changed and my neck strained as I peered around the tree which hid me. On the ground in the middle of the group was a wood box, looking to be three feet long—perhaps a storage box for valuables, or a child’s casket.

All of a sudden the taller figure looked my way, sensing that he was being watched. I froze, hoping his eyes would not pierce the thick fog veil which surrounded me. He looked down at the book he had in hand and continued his speech to the group.

I’d had enough. My flight sense told me it was time to move away.

Slowly I backed away from the solemn scene, retreating back down the hill, my mind quickly trying to understand what I had just witnessed. The forecast was for clearing weather overnight, and tomorrow I would return to the bowl to see what I could find. In the meantime, I went to my encyclopedia and started to scan through examples of period clothing worn through the ages. When I got to the page of Quaker clothing my jaw dropped. Yes, this was the type of clothes these figures had on, right down to the length, cut and color. Now I had to know more.

The next day, the weather had cleared and I made my way to my local historian’s office. She was a gal just shy of being a hundred and she would know about my house, my town, and my hill. Sure enough, upon inquiry, she told me that Quakers indeed were some of the first settlers here. She asked me why I wanted to know, but I was not ready to relate to her my story of what I had seen.

Later that morning I retraced my steps to the bowl. The birds were singing. One lone turkey scratched for food as I entered the oaks that led to the bowl. I located the spot at which I thought I had seen the figures hovering over the small wooden box. The immediate ten feet of ground there was completely bare. There were no leaves, no twigs, no grass . . . just rich black earth. I had seen many times before spots in the woods that would be scratched by turkeys as they sought their daily feed, but this spot was beyond that. Not wanting to leave the ground looking so bare, I gathered a handful of leaves and twigs and covered the spot, trying to blend it in with all that was around it. The spot felt very lonely and strange, even with the mid morning sun now finding its way onto the site. I left the bowl and found that tree stump I had sat on the night before in the fog.

What had I seen last night? In the fog, a group of four in the forest standing around a small wood box. I had to think I had somehow been lost in time, or perhaps they had been lost in time. My conclusion was that I had witnessed a Quaker burial, but how could that be? It made no sense at all to me.

Now I’ll have to give serious consideration about going back to that same spot again. I won’t give up on the hill, it’s a fantastic place . . . but I know I will not return there in the twilight, and definitely not in the fog.

What did Julie VanBuren experience that day?

 

It's story number 24, page 91 from 

Tales Unleashed.

A Skate on Strange Ice

At age nine, Julie van Buren loved playing in the shallow McHenry Creek, just behind her house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She would sit on the bank of the creek with her mother and toss stones into the water; on occasion they would launch a paper boat, set it in the water and watch intently it as it slowly made its way southward. 

Winter time was just as much fun. Her mom would let her skate unattended on the very shallow creek which had a few pools of water less than ten feet across and less than nine inches in depth. It was a safe and gleeful place that had entertained many families over the years. 

Today was a beautiful sunny day in February of 1954. Julie laced up her skates and shoved off from the bank onto the frozen surface of McHenry Creek, its ice lightly covered with fresh snow from the night before. Julie’s smile was ear to ear as she pushed herself around the frozen pool. The scarf wrapped around her neck barely kept the cold air from creeping under her collar. As Julie completed her fourth or fifth trip around the ice, she dropped a glove and quickly turned to retrieve it. She didn’t know why she even had the gloves with her today—it was cold, but the sun was warm, and they were tucked in her coat and out of the way. Julie arrived at the spot where the glove laid, and as she reached down to pick it up, something beneath the ice caught her attention.

She sat down, moved the glove, and brushed away the light snow with her left hand. As she peered down through the ice Julie was startled to see a young girl’s face just below the surface. It was a young face, perhaps about her same age: rounded, highlighted by chin-length blond hair with curls on the forehead. The eyes were closed, and Julie thought it resembled a Halloween mask. The face was pale with no color and no movement whatsoever.

Julie was startled and tried to get up quickly, but lost her balance and fell back to the ice. She struggled to get away from the face that she had just seen. She made her way quickly to the back door and went to the kitchen to report to her mom of her ghostly encounter. Her mother assured her that it was just her imagination, but she persisted and the two returned to the creek and the spot that Julie had told her about. They found nothing.

The next few days passed with little being said about the incident by Julie or her mother. On the fifth day, her mother’s curiosity had gotten the best of her, and while Julie was at school, she went to the local library to do some research.

Finding some Lancaster history books she started thumbing through the pages of gathered materials looking for anything out of the ordinary. One story in particular jumped off the page at her. The headline from 1928 read: Lancaster girl Ruth O’Brien still missing.

Reading on she discovered that the young gal had disappeared in February of that year while playing in light snow. A total search of the area, including local waterways, had shed no clue. Along with the article was a pencil sketch of what Ruth looked like at the time of her going missing. Julie’s mother copied the article and the sketch and took it home, it was something she wanted to study further as time allowed her. 

Three days later young Julie discovered the article and the pencil drawing at her mother’s desk. Picking up the picture and going to the kitchen, Julie said to her mother, “Mom, where did you get this drawing? This is the girl that I saw in the creek last week. Remember me telling you?”

“I’m sure it’s just coincidence, honey,” said her mother. “That little girl lived here a long time ago.”

Julie’s mom decided to call the sheriff the next day, just to report what Julie had seen. The sheriff, getting on in years, chuckled and said, “There have been numerous other sightings over the years of young Ruth, but nothing has ever come of them.”

And so, Julie’s sighting in McHenry Creek would be the latest to be lodged with the local authorities.  

 The girl Ruth, who had vanished almost three decades ago during the month of February, had just made another brief stop near Lancaster.   

The Reading.....

 

    It's chapter eight from Tales Unleashed.....

    What could be more fun than to have your fortune read at the county fair.

For Jim and Cathy, a brief stop along the midway in a dark and mysterious

tent would make great changes in their lives.  Dont' be afraid....after all....

 it's just a story.  

The Reading

Jim and Cathy hadn’t planned to go to the county fair that day. Jim’s mom was a bit under the weather, and being the man of the house, Jim felt he should be nearby if she needed anything. His dad has passed away several years before. At twenty three and single, his job at the auto parts store and some other part time work helped to pay the bills and put some food on the table.

Cathy had graduated with Jim just six years prior. She didn’t want to go to college and had been Jim’s steady since the tenth grade. They had often talked about tying the knot but circumstances seemed to be against them both . . . so they went on day to day, week to week, trying to look down the road for brighter days.

The county fair was in action, just five miles to the east, and Cathy had asked for two weeks solid if they could go on that first Friday night. Jim hesitated, but his mom pushed him into it.

“It’ll do you and Cathy both good,” she advised. “Go have some fun. I’ll be just fine here.” His mom was confined to a wheelchair, had breathing difficulties, and suffered from a plethora of other problems which seem to get worse yearly.

Jim took her advice and picked up Cathy at 7:00 the night of the fair. They drove in his Chevy pickup, contemplating what was ahead for them at the fair. It was the event of the year with lots of food, entertainment, a midway, and just bushels of excitement to experience. As they walked by the fortune teller’s tent, Cathy grabbed Jim’s left arm and asked, “Hon, let’s go in. I’ve never had my fortune told. It’ll be great. it’s only five dollars . . . can we?”

Jim tried to pull away, but Cathy pushed him into the tent opening which led into a very small enclosed canvass room, no bigger than ten feet square. Dimly lit, they could see the room was appointed with wall hangings touting the great mind-reading powers of Belinda, who they assumed to be an older woman. To their great surprise, a sheet was swept aside and out walked a very attractive woman, probably in her thirties, dressed in a white fluffy blouse tucked into a deep purple floor-length skirt.

“Please sit down,” Belinda commanded, as she pointed to the two chairs in front of the small card table. On the table were just two items: a six-inch white candle which was lit and producing just a whisper of smoke, and the crystal ball, approximately ten inches in diameter and cradled in an ornately carved gold base.

Her eyes met Jim’s and she gave a smile of approval. “Why haven’t you married this fine-looking man?” she asked Cathy.

“Well, maybe someday,” Cathy replied. Before she could say more, Belinda had put a finger to her own lips, asking for quiet.

After being seated, Belinda surrounded the crystal with both hands turned up, almost in a position of accepting a gift. The room was quiet, the only sounds were those of others passing by on the midway and the carnival music drifting in slightly through the gaps in the tent.

There was no movement in the closed room, only the light grey smoke from the candle, which started to envelope the crystal, making for quite an eerie presentation.

“You two will be married in March of next year,” Belinda said. Do whatever you have to in order to make that happen.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for Jim’s hand. “Soon after you marry, you will be taking your mother for a long ride. It will be out of state. Now I must go.”

With that, the mysterious woman got up and quickly departed the same way in which she had appeared.

“That certainly was strange,” Cathy said.

“Indeed it was,” replied Jim. “But eight months from now, you and I will be one!”

The pair stood, gave each other a huge hug and headed for the midway which awaited their discovery.

The courting of the two continued for the next several months, through the holidays and on into winter. Not wanting to jinx the reading they had received, Jim and Cathy planned a wedding in Jim’s house with his mom and a few close friends . . . and their dreams would soon be true. A March wedding was a bit different, but the two were deeply in love, and no matter the financial circumstances, they would make it happen.

Two weeks after the couple exchanged vows, Jim’s mother took a turn for the worse. With pneumonia complicated by heart problems, she quietly passed away one evening while sitting in her favorite chair, doing her entertaining crosswords.

Upon making the final arrangements for his mom, Jim found out she had already attended to such, and had most of the expenses in advance. The big surprise was discovering she was to be buried in her home town of Bethlehem, PA. That was over one hundred miles away. But it was what she wanted, so Jim was not one to change plans that had been set in advance.

Jim and Cathy followed the hearse the day of the funeral. Under some small maple trees on a beautiful mid-April afternoon, they said goodbye to this sweet lady who had done so much for them. As they motored their way back home, Jim and Cathy talked about the day they had been at the county fair—specifically, their encounter with Belinda in the tent, the marriage in March, and taking his mother for a long ride. A visit to a county fair fortune teller had produced the two opposite ends of life itself: a wedding and a funeral. Joy and grief.

As they continued North along the interstate, Jim pointed at a billboard just before they made their exit. It advertised the 85^th Annual Broome County Fair.

“Maybe we’ll pass the fair up this year,” Jim chuckled. Within the hour, the pair had arrived home.

Two years passed and Cathy, seven months pregnant, wanted to go back to talk with the lady at the fair to see if she could tell them if it were to be a boy or a girl. But Jim would have no part of it. “One trip in a lifetime to a fortune teller is more than enough,” he warned. Their daughter was born two months later. They named her Belinda, after the ravishing black-haired beauty who had foretold their marriage.

And perhaps another trip to the county fair?            Maybe next year.

The Loss of Buddy Holly.....part five

 

This is part five, and the last installment on that horrific crash on Feb.
3rd, 1959. If you missed any of the parts in this series, you can simply
scroll down to view them.  I hope you enjoyed the read....the events
are part of rock and roll history....and each year they continue to fade
into the fabric of time itself.

conclusions on the crash…

Before the NTSB, there was the Civil Aeronautics Board (CAB).  They were the official

agency in charge of investigating the who, what and why of the Holly plane crash.

The post crash investigation at the scene came to no immediate conclusions. The

instrumentation all appeared normal with gauges and readings in their acceptable

parameters.  The engine gave no clues to mechanical failure or loss of power, the

propeller hub upon inspection proved the engine was performing normally at the

point of impact.

There was no part or parts of the wing, or moveable control surfaces

 found far away from the aircraft that might indicate an early departure from the fuselage  before the crash. Upon reviewing the autopsy report of pilot Roger Peterson, nothing remarkable was found that would indicate a medical emergency that would affect his flying senses or motor functions.

His injuries as the other victims were of mass trauma including the head and brain.

The young pilot Peterson was certified to operate under visual flight rules; i.e.

you need to be able to SEE where you are going. On that particular night, the lack of

a good horizon, low clouds, minimal amount of ground lights in the little populated area

would all make for poor visual flying.  To my knowledge the CAB never attempted

 to calculate the final weight of the aircraft with its’ passengers,

fuel and luggage.. if the aircraft was overloaded and the center of gravity was

compromised the plane would be severely challenged to fly correctly.

The CAB in Sept. of 1959 said the following about the crash, quote:

‘At night, with an overcast sky, snow falling, no definite horizon and a proposed

flight over a sparsely settled area with an absence of ground lights, a requirement

for control of the aircraft solely by reference to flight instruments can be

predicted with virtual certainty. The board concludes that Pilot Peterson was

confronted with this situation. Because of fluctuation of the rate instruments

caused by gusty winds he would have been forced to concentrate and rely

greatly on the attitude gyro, an instrument with which he was not completely

familiar. The pitch display of this instrument is the reverse of the instrument

he was accustomed to; therefore, he could have been confused and thought

that he was making a climbing turn when in reality he was making a

descending turn. The weather briefing supplied to the pilot was seriously

inadequate in that it failed to even mention adverse flying conditions which

should have been highlighted.’

 In 2015, the NTSB, who succeeded the CAB had considered re-opening the crash investigation. That was proposed by a pilot L.J. Coon, who felt the first conclusions were not correct.

He thought a possible right rudder failure, fuel readings and that improper weight

distribution as mentioned above could be involved. Coon also thought that Peterson

may have tried to land the aircraft, a distinct possibility, and that his efforts should

be noted in the official record. The NTSB in 2016 considered re-opening the

investigation into the crash, but it never happened. And there you have it.

 There are rumors the plane still exists…..and that the Dwyer family has at

least part of it hidden away.

Within the past two years I tried to contact Mrs. Dwyer to ask about the location of

the remains of the airplane, but I never received any answer from her or

her family. (Jerry and Barb Dwyer, were the owners of the airplane.)

Jerry Dwyer passed away in Clear Lake in January 2016. He was writing a book

about the whole affair…his wife has stated she will continue and eventually

finish the book in his memory and honor.

February 3^rd, 1959, a date forever etched in rock and roll history.