The house upon the hill....

  

Two young lads decide to check out the spooky looking house not far from their homes..

but maybe they got more than they bargained for. 'The house upon the hill'...it's chapter 

number two in Tales Unleashed and is here for your inspection...step up and take a look. 

The House Upon the Hill

Our town of twelve hundred people had a resident that was more than just a bit unusual. The “lady who lived on the hill” – as she was known, never by her given name – was rarely seen during the light of day, preferring to go out early in the evening, strolling down the road to the little grocery store about a half mile from where she lived. Sometimes she would ride her old bicycle, the original tires patched and re-patched from the years of riding up and down the cinder roadway. Indeed, Beatrice McGee was a strange and lonely lady. No one could remember a day when she did not live alone in that house on the hill. Rumor had it that her husband had been lost at sea some fifty years ago, and she took refuge in this lonely country house that would be far removed from the dark and murky New England coast which had claimed him.

And here it was, Halloween eve, young Tommy and Joe in their ever-increasing curiosity to get a closer look at the old woman, inched their way through the briars and brambles leading to her place . . . trying to get close enough to peek through a downstairs window on her front porch. The house was usually dark, with perhaps one light in the second floor to keep out the bats, and a dim light on the first floor. The night air started to settle in quickly now as a half moon brought more light to the scene just in front of the boys.

“Tell me again why we are doing this?” asked Tommy. Joe replied, “You’ve heard the rumors Tommy… everyone in town says she has about twenty cats.. and they’re all dead, stuffed and in different spots all around her . . . I’ve got to see for myself.”

Before Joe could respond, Tommy crouched lower and headed out to cover the last fifty yards to the front of the house. Joe wanted to be somewhere else at this point . . . anywhere else. He had hung out with Tommy through some weird adventures, but this one was going to take the cake, and if they got caught . . . boy, would things be bad at home for both of them.

Beatrice had no phone or television. The boys had heard that she would listen to the radio at night, pop some popcorn and then retire sometime before midnight. It was now just eight p.m., and with any luck at all, Tommy and Joe would have a real close look at the ole’ recluse and see for themselves what the town’s people had talked about for years.

Finally, the two boys had made it to the porch. Both on their hands and knees, they paused, trying to catch their breaths and straining to hear anything from inside the house.

The faint light of the one bulb which was lit filtered out through the dirty window and faded curtain, and onto the weathered boards where the boys sat.

“Hear that?” Tommy said, grabbing Joe’s arm to get his attention. “She’s got the radio on for sure.”

Joe leaned over closer to Tommy’s left ear and said quietly, “I want to go home . . . come on Tommy, I don’t care about seeing any dead cats and this place is just too creepy.”

Just as Tommy was ready to respond, they heard a rush of air and boards scraping boards as the bottom window was thrown up and a voice shrieked out, “What do you young-uns want? Come to visit my dead cats did you?” What followed was a foul, high pitched laugh that made both Joe and Tommy jump from the porch with legs and feet struggling to get traction below them. Within seconds they were ten, fifteen, twenty yards away . . . Beatrice was still laughing from the open window . . . and yelled to the pair as they made their way down the hill, “What’s the matter . . . cat got your tongues?” The question was followed by a screech that followed the pair as they raced homeward, Joe losing his baseball hat as he ran, with Tommy in the lead by a good five yards.

Two minutes had passed and the pair, totally spent, stopped at the bottom of the hill, both out of breath and shaking profusely.

“Next time you want to do something stupid, count me out,” Joe said.

“Ah, shut up,” Tommy responded, and the two started the final two-minute walk back to town.

Back at the top of the hill, Beatrice settled into her favorite antique rocking chair, and grabbed a coffee jar filled with popcorn she had made days before. Except for the sound of the rocker pushing down on loose boards of the old house, the house was still. The radio playing lightly on the mantle . . . the cats, placed here and there, all in their respective spots, their glazed eyes piercing the cobwebs and dust, transfixed on Beatrice their keeper.

As Beatrice rocked and smiled, she announced to her pets, “Tomorrow is Halloween my sweeties . . . do you think our two little friends will return?”

“We shall see, we shall see.”

Tommy and Joe didn’t return the next night, Halloween. But they planned on going back on a Saturday afternoon, when the sun would be high, and the shadows not so frightful. But it was not to be.

Three weeks after their night on the porch under the screech of Beatrice, an overnight fire burned down the house on the hill and everything that was in it, including Beatrice and her beloved collection.

The next day after the fire, as Tommy and Joe sat on a slope nearby looking across the way to the destroyed house, Tommy remarked, “I guess we’ll never know . . . about the cats, that is.”

“Oh I know,” replied Joe. “It was too strange of a story not to be true . . . just too strange not to be true.”

Honoring last request....

 

Honoring a last request....

 

Some times in life....you just have to do the right thing, especially when asked

by a complete stranger. And so it was for this young man who purchased

an antique trunk at a road side sale. (This is a copy- writed story, and not 

part of Tales Unleashed.) Enjoy the read....and be aware of that next 

purchase you make along your way. SS 

                                         The Trunk    ©

Daylight was quickly being extinguished as I pushed the car up

the county road that headed home. The sugar maples had dropped

at least half of their leaves…and they quickly gave way to the push

of the tires on the ’56 Ford. Oh that glorious Ford…pure steel and

heavy as a tank…a car you felt secure in…and you knew that it would

get  you home thru almost any set of circumstances.

It was getting late in the day….the sun had just started to descend

behind the trees in the West as I made my way up a county road

that I had not driven in years… it was a little off the beaten path..

but who knows what treasures might be found around the next

corner.

Just yards ahead and to my right an old farm house came into

view, surrounded by broken down pines and a fence that looked

well in need of repair. The mailbox out front leaned dismally to

the left, looking much like the house itself which was crying

for some attention. A small sign tacked onto the mailbox

post simply said, “many items for sale…make an offer”.

I braked the Ford quickly as the car rolled up close to the

driveway…..a cloud of dust engulfing all within a few yards

of my approach.

 

I exited the car and strolled through the tall grass and walked

to a rickety lawn chair that sat in front of a pile of junk…well…

maybe the man’s treasures…you know the old saying.

His head perked up from what appeared to be a quick nap as

I approached and he said to me “Make an offer on anything

you might like…gotta git rid of some of this stuff before they

come and carry me away.” He took a swig from an old canteen

that looked like world war two vintage and re-looped it around

the front of the chair.

“Been collectin’ this stuff way too long now…and much of it

belonged to the Mrs… but she’s been gone now many years ..

so it’s time it’s out of here.”

My eye scanned from left to right, seeing not much of anything

I’d be interested in…but one item pulled me to it. The old

trunk had a bunch of other stuff piled on top of it.. and I

slowly removed the items…revealing what appeared to be a

very old trunk…you know the ones that your grandmother

kept in the attic with family heirlooms in.

I quickly released the trunk from it’s doomed position and

flattened it out on the long grass which really was in need

of mowing.

 

“I’ve got the key that goes to that trunk if you want to make

an offer.”  My eyes quickly scanned the outside of the trunk…

it’s aged and cracked black covering hinted that it was at least

from the 1940’s…maybe before.

“What are you asking for it….just as it is…without me even

looking inside?” The old man sat up on the edge of his chair…

rubbing his bearded chin as if it was going to give him a number.

“Well young fellow….I’ll tell you…you give me $20.00 for it.. and

It’s yours.  Don’t think you’ll find much in it…but I really haven’t

gone thru it stem to stern.”

    “Deal” I blatted out quickly before he could change his mind.

As I lifted the trunk and headed to his position, I could see he

was getting a well worn key off his chain. As he handed it to me

I traded the key for a folded twenty that I had in my right pocket.

“Pleasure doing business with you” I said as I hurriedly headed for

the car…hoping he wouldn’t change his mind on the deal he had made.

    As I drove away from the old house I had a sense that this

trunk was something special, but I had no idea why I would

think that.

   I left the trunk in the car overnight as it was getting late and I

had encountered a long day, not including the stop at the old

man’s place.  The next morning I arose early… I was anxious.

 I placed the trunk on the kitchen table, looking it over very

carefully as I fixed my morning coffee and listened to the over

night news on the radio. There was something odd about this

trunk…it felt familiar, almost friendly….but I thought why should

that be? I’ve never owned trunk before… and had really never

looked at one..even in some of those fancy antique stores that

I’d  been into over the years.

Yet, this trunk seemed inviting. I gave the latch and lock a quick

squirt of 3 in 1 oil and gently eased the old scratched key into place,

turning it ever so gently. Nothing. I exerted a little more force…and

within a couple of moments the latch gave a loud pop…and it sprang

at me…almost like a lion after a fresh piece of meat.

The ‘old smell’ hit me directly in the face as I gently lifted the top

of the trunk to its open position. My eyes glance quickly from right

to left trying to take a review of what was in front of me.

Old pictures to the left, stacked neatly by order of their size …

aged newspapers on the right… yellowed and tattered from being

prisoner in this dark and murky place that had no sunlight.

I removed all the contents gently, placing them on the table

nearby…..a small cloud of dust arose after each pile was

brought out into daylight. Interesting I thought. How long had

these items been in place… and why hadn’t the owner wanted to

take the time to sort them, keeping and throwing as he went.

But, it was not my concern, and I continued to handle the items…

curiously looking at each bundle as they came out.

The last picture at the bottom of the trunk was of a younger man…

looking to be in his twenties, in a military uniform appearing quite

handsome and robust. I removed the photograph with great care…

two of it’s corners were bent and nearly detached. Flipping the picture

over I read the following which had been printed in what appeared

to be pencil…although faded, it’s message was clear as if had been

written yesterday.

‘Dad…I wanted you to have this…it was snapped of me just

last week and I wanted to post it to you before we head to

Pearl Harbor next week. Hope you are well…love you lots…

take care of yourself.’ In an elegant written signature it was

signed ‘your devoted son William Garson. Nov. 27^th, 1941.

I stopped for a moment…..thinking of the dates in my mind.

Had his father sold me the trunk not aware that this photo

was inside? Perhaps. Either way, it had to be returned.

I immediately sat my coffee down, grabbed my keys and

headed for the door, I wanted to return the picture to his

Dad…I’m assuming who was the man who sold it to me.

As I drove up that same dirt road… I glanced over at the

picture which sat in the seat next to me….what a handsome

young man this was, and I was sure his father would like the

picture returned.

A hundred yards out from the old man’s place I saw the blinking

lights of an ambulance parked out front…and immediately

behind it, a Sheriff’s car… it’s flashing lights also illuminating

the shadows of the new day now in progress.

I grabbed the photo and ran to the house just as the ambulance

crew with stretcher in hand made it’s way thru the tall grass.

The old man, pale but somewhat alert seemed to recognize me

as I approached. “Mr. Garson…. Mr. Garson….I’m sorry you

are not doing well today…but I need to ask you about this

photograph.”

He raised a hand to the attendants to halt them in his

removal as I positioned the photo within a foot or so

of his direct eye contact. His demeanor went to immediate

sadness as he recognized the picture displayed before him.

“That’s my son William….he was 20 years old…in the Army,

and was killed the morning they attacked Pearl. His mother

died 3 months later from a broken heart… I had forgotten

all about the picture… placed it in the trunk fifty years

ago…it was too painful to look at. Do me a favor young man?”

I opened my mouth to speak but my throat was so dry, no

words came out…only a nodding of my head in and up and

down movement. “I’ve got a bad ticker so they say…this might

be my last trip out of the house…will you make sure William’s

picture is buried with me?”

Again, I was speechless, and repeated the head nod in the

affirmative. A strong hand grabbed my left arm and the

attendant’s voice cracked with “ we have to go sir…he has

worsened greatly in the last few minutes.”

With that, they loaded the senior Garson in the back of the

ambulance and it sped away. I stood there, numb, looking for

someone I could speak with about his situation. I asked the

deputy that was there if Garson had any family, and he replied that

he did not…he had lived alone many decades since his wife

had passed away.

I took the picture, returned to the house and sat in the

Kitchen, gazing at the old trunk… and the story that it had

brought to me just twenty four hours ago.

For the next day or two I kept tabs on Mr. Garson and his

condition…knowing that if he did not come home..the promise

I had made to him regarding William’s picture would be kept.

I wasn’t family…. I never knew this man……not until yesterday,

but sometimes you just are thrust into a situation that happens

to you, and this was one of those.

I knew that soon I’d be placing that picture with Mr. Garson…

and that he and his son would be together again.

It was a tough week…but it was my destiny, and when called

upon I would complete the task.

The Crow....keeper of the gate.

 

From Tales Unleashed (2019 Bookstand Publishing), accompany the crow high above

the landscape as two intruders enter his domain....

a quiet place entered by few on an infrequent basis. The Crow, keeper of the gate is 

is shared below, I hope you enjoy it. 

                                                                The Crow, Keeper of the Gate

Each morning as the new day would break, the single crow, high in his nest, would be the first to emerge from his overnight lodging of sticks and leaves to survey the land below him. Sitting on the nest’s edge and preening his feathers as he stretched, he would jerk his neck side to side, listening and looking for anything new that might appear below. It was not quite daylight, but the long shadows below him were already losing their hold on the tombstones that lay beneath. Nothing had changed overnight. The solitude of the morning was punctuated only by the crow’s call and a similar one coming from afar. He was the king of his castle. His nest towered over the fifty or so headstones that had been here for well over eighty years.

What a serene and pleasant place to nest, in the forest, high above the mossy grasses and wild flowers that spawned their yearly gifts of fragrance and color. Today would be just another day for the crow . . . he would fly and call and search the vicinity, always with one eye, keeping track of what transpired in or near his home base. But few people came here. The last two men in a van with shovels spent almost a day here, opening a hole in the ground below his nest and tucking a long wood box into the ground, then covering it before speeding away right as night fall started to makes its entrance.

These grounds were quiet indeed; except for the occasional chipmunk or squirrel moving through the maze of stones, little happened here. One particular day the crow watched as a young buck came into his ground, laid down, and gently went to sleep. Flying down to examine the deer, the crow saw the wooden shaft protruding through its side, a fatal insertion he concluded as the young deer was destined to move no more. Oh my, it was hunting season again.

But today seemed different, the crow felt uneasy as he overlooked his domain. Was something about to change today? As he strained his neck to the east he saw a vehicle approach the cemetery gate, enter, and make its way to the bottom of his tree. The truck disembarked two men, each smoking those profane-smelling things that the crow hated so much.

The crow watched intently as the two men opened the back of the vehicle and started to remove some kind machine he had not seen before. Removing his hat and wiping his brow, one of the men uttered, “This tree should have been taken down years ago Henry. It has fouled about twenty yards of the cemetery with droppings, broken limbs and sticky sap . . . it’ll be good to get it down.”

With that, the furious noise of the chainsaw began. The crow, still sitting on his nest edge, felt the buzz and vibration as the teeth of the saw found its mark. Within a minute or so…the nest started to move, the crow taking to flight before he could be pulled downward by the whirl of the falling tree. As the crow circled over head, the two men congratulated themselves as they surveyed the project just completed. His home was now gone, a change in the tapestry of the forest that he could hardly comprehend. The crow settled onto the top of one of the largest monuments watching as the men put their equipment away and drove off.

The crow wasn’t beaten though. He took to flight and found another tree, not as big as his original home, but ample nesting for his future days and nights. Sitting on his new perch the crow nodded to himself, in a positive attitude, not one of defeat. As he watched the vehicle go down the hill, the crow thought to himself, you win today, but I will be in my new tree when someone someday brings you back, and places you in that long box in the ground. I will always be here, it is what I live for. Until then you two, enjoy what time you have left before you return to my eternal place.  The crow launched himself into the air, to celebrate his air, his home, his total domain. The crow, above this orchard of marble and granite, will be there, now, tomorrow, and always . . . waiting for the next arrival at the gate, because he is the keeper.

Another get together...

 

Looking forward to Monday the 20th at 11 when I meet my old broadcast 

buddy Mike Baldwin at the Texas Hot in Wellsville. I had the privilege of 

being Mike's morning guy when WJQZ went on the air in 1986....and 

we dominated the ratings in western New York....what fun times we had!

So we'll get together at the Hot.....have some laughs....have some great 

food and hopefully we'll run into some people we know!

Thanks Alexandra...

     

    A shout out to Alexandra Mosca for including my book Undertakings in one

   of her recent F. Book posts.....it's nice to see people enjoying the read!  

   

The Buddy Holly crash, part 5

 

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.

The Buddy Holly crash, part 4

 

 By all accounts the Big Bopper was fully recognizable with his familiar 1959 crew-cut.

 The embalming had been superb, and the restorative art to his features also done well.

Dr. Bass and his assistants removed the body, performed an extensive examination and

multiple groupings of x-rays. Dr. Bass concluded and reported to Jay that there was

no foul play in the death of his father and that he had died from massive trauma, and

that he died instantly. (Dr. Bass noted that Richardson had more than 60 bone

fractures resulting from the accident.)  Batesville Casket Co. provided a new casket in

which J.P. was placed and a small procession drove him to his new resting place. The rumors

were nixed, Jay had seen his father for the first and only time, and had laid his father

back to rest. Sadly, Jay himself passed away in August of 2013.   

So the rumor that the pistol was somehow involved in the crash was finally

dismissed.  Jay Richardson finally got to see his father for the first time….it

must have been a  very bittersweet day for him, for sure.  

So what really happened that terrible morning?

I’m not an investigator by any means, but I actually think that within minutes

of taking off… Holly in the front seat…finding themselves in swirling, blinding

snow urged, or more forcefully, told Peterson the pilot to turn around and get

back to the airport a few short miles away. At the time of the crash, the

landing gear was not deployed, so the chance of him trying to land the aircraft

is quite remote. The engine was at normal cruise speed at the time of the

crash. Peterson may have been trying to gain altitude in an effort

to get above the weather he was confronting, but in actuality was making a

descending move not an ascending one.  I think Peterson, not instrument

rated, was very confused, spatially  disorientated, and lost control.

February 3^rd of 1959 is talked and written about a lot…even 63 years later.

The lack of sophisticated weather tracking, communications and equipment

were most likely also factors in that terrible day. Accidents similar to this are

rare today. The four lost that day will not be forgotten. Their memories will

be perpetuated as time marches on…and that’s the way it should be.

Next up and lastly; the conclusions about the crash

(You can scroll down for the first three parts of this story)

the Buddy Holly crash....part 3

 

It's February 3rd, 1959, within a few minutes of 1:00 a.m. Young pilot Peterson takes off

from the Mason City Airport in very wintry conditions, with a new weather front coming 

his way from the Northwest.....

The short flight and the crash..

The crash site….

Unfortunately the Beechcraft with Buddy Holly and three others had not gone far.

In less than five minutes and traveling under six miles, the aircraft impacted the terrain

at high speed, descending into a steep bank, hitting the right tip of the wing and leaving

a trail of debris 450 feet long, the remainder of the fuselage rolling into a ball and stopping

at a fence line. Here was an eerie scene for those who arrived the next morning. Four young men with great potential lying around a shattered airplane in a field.

There were no witnesses to the crash. Upon exam, the instruments in the plane read as follows: fuel pressure, oil temperature and pressure gauges were stuck in the green or normal range.

The attitude gyro indicator was stopped in a reading indicating a 90 degree angle.

Also, the rate of climb indicator was stopped at 3,000 feet per minute descent.

The airspeed indicator was stopped showing between 165-170 mph. (At this speed

and rate of descent from 800 feet…it would only take about 15 seconds to impact)

The seat belts had all suffered failures either in their attachment points or buckles.

The violent force of the crash itself resulted in Holly, Richardson and Valens all being

thrown from the aircraft. The bodies of Holly and Valens were within twenty feet of the

fuselage, Richardson’s body was thrown across the fence line some forty feet and onto the

property of Oscar Moffitt. The pilot Peterson’s body was trapped in the cockpit. The deceased were all covered in light snow which had accumulated overnight. The aircraft did

 not catch fire,(with 39 gallons of fuel supposedly on board, it’s kind of unusual that

there was no fire, or even mention of any fuel residue being noticed at the site during

the investigation) the landing gear was retracted at the time of the crash. The propeller hub gave evidence that the engine was under power when hitting the ground. County coroner Ralph Smiley certified that all victims died instantly, cause of death ‘gross trauma to brain’ for the

three recording artists and brain damage for pilot Peterson. The bodies were removed

from the site that morning. The only autopsy performed was that on the pilot

Peterson. Only macroscopic physical exams noting injuries to substantiate cause of death were

performed on Holly, Richardson and Valens.  

Next up part 4;  the pistol found and the years later exhumation of the Big Bopper. 

parts 1 and 2 are found below...

The Buddy Holly crash....part 2

  

The loss of Buddy Holly, part 2, the take off 

The take off and the very short flight…

At 12:55 a.m. on Tues. Feb. 3rd, pilot Roger Peterson eased the nose of the Beechcraft

Bonanza airplane out on runway 17 at the Mason City Airport. On board, Buddy Holly,

J.P. Richardson and Richie Valens. (Yes, Waylon Jennings gave up his seat to the Big

Bopper…Richardson was feeling ill with a cold or worse, so Jennings gave up his seat

to the Big Bopper. The actual famous ‘coin flip’ for one seat was between Tommy Allsup

and Richie Valens..the physical flip was made by local D.J. and M.C. Bob Hale.. and

Valens won the seat so he would be on board.) Holly was seated up front next to the

pilot Peterson, Valens and Richardson were seated directly behind them.

 The weather had down-graded a bit, but not significantly since the last weather check by Peterson and his boss Hubert Dwyer. The ceiling was now down to 3,000 feet from 6,000 feet, and a front was approaching with light snow, winds were 20 to 30 mph and visibility was 6 miles, the temperature was a frigid 18 degrees.

Unfortunately a ‘flash’ weather advisory issued a few minutes before 1:00 a.m. was

never received or passed on to the pilot.  A large mass of snow was moving in their

flight path from the Northwest, and visibility had been lowered to two miles. This would

be significant upon the post crash investigation later on. Remember, Peterson was flying VISUALLY, with no instrument ratings. The flight, only 311 miles would take about one

 and one half hours.

Hubert Dwyer watched as the airplane lifted off the runway, made an initial left turn

onto a northwesterly heading and started climbing to its’ designated flight level of 800 feet.

Dwyer watched the tail light of the aircraft as it disappeared out of view…. that was

just after 1:00 a.m. Peterson had planned to file a flight plan once in the air, and was

to radio Dwyer once settled in for the flight.  When Peterson had failed to make

contact, several attempts to communicate with the aircraft were made and all were

unsuccessful.

At daylight, Dwyer in another airplane, went to trace the route of Holly’s

plane…… and the wreckage was found less than 6 miles from the airport. It hadn’t gotten

far. Had there been a structure failure? Did Peterson quickly discover the weather was

worse than he thought and was he turning to go back? Did the plane have too much

weight with passengers and luggage? Was there an engine problem that

could have caused loss of power? All good questions which would eventually be

confronted.

Next up: the crash site 

(scroll down for part 1)

the Buddy Holly crash, part 1

 

 If you are over 60...you'll remember this mishap..if under 60

 you will at least recall the music made famous by these folks.

 This is a five part series that will be updated every couple of 

 days...so please come back for it.  

Buddy Holly, J.P. Richardson, Ritchie Valens and pilot Roger

Peterson....all in a Beechcraft Bonanza airplane, with luggage

and laundry stowed in the back. Within minutes after takeoff

all four would be part of rock and roll history. Here is their 

story............

So much has been written over the years concerning the death of

Buddy Holly.  Volumes of information; accident and investigation

reports, coroner’s notes, published books and articles that seem

to grow year after year.

There  were even rumors as late as 2005 that the NTSB might

re-open the crash investigation of the Holly crash in Feb. of 1959.,

but it didn’t happen.  This author has even made attempts to

reach family members to learn of where the aircraft remains are

now located…even after 63 years….but no responses have been

received  to my inquiries.

All the information in theses next few postings were taken from

public files, documents, police and coroners notes, etc.  And I write

about the event as a tribute to the young men who perished that

February 3^rd. Whether you liked his music or not, Buddy Holly was

a rising star, up there with Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis himself.

So let’s remember these young people, their music, their families

and their legacies….and kind of imagine…what could have been. 

Part 1, the Pilot, Roger Peterson

The pilot, Roger Peterson.  Age age 21, was young, having been licensed in 1954, Roger had accumulated 711 hours of flying experience, 128 of those hours in the Beechcraft  Bonanza, an aircraft with a strange v shaped tail assembly.  It was known as the ‘Dr. killer’ because it had many crashes involving amateur pilots, many of them physicians. The aircraft’s top speed

was 165-175 miles per hour, and this version of the aircraft seated the pilot, three passengers

and their luggage. (As I side note, I had flown in this aircraft configuration a couple of times

years ago. We used to fly from the old Palmyra airport to Syracuse and back. I remember

the cockpit being quite tight with not a lot of room.)

Roger’s boss Hubert Dwyer was owner of Dwyer’ flying service, owner of the aircraft which

was designated N3794N. On the evening of the incident, Monday Feb. 2^nd, both Dwyer and

Peterson had made several stops at the weather control center at the Mason City

airport.  The weather was wintry, light snow, winds from the south at 20 mph, ceiling

of 6,000 feet. Dwyer I’m sure was a bit concerned for the flight because of the three famous

people being transported later that night. But it’s quite evident he had confidence in Peterson who had accumulated his hours on charter flights. The flight was going to be 311 miles as the

‘crow flies’, from Mason City to Fargo, N.D.  Fargo’s airport was the closest to their next

gig to be held the following day in Moorhead, Minnesota.

And so it was that evening that pilot Peterson and his passengers of Holly, J.P. Richardson

and Ritchie Valens started on their fateful journey.

Was Peterson qualified for this evening’s flight? His boss Hubert Dwyer thought so…

even with the ‘famous’ people as his cargo, Dwyer had great confidence in young

Peterson and had sent him on many previous missions before.

As a note; pilot Peterson only had his visual flight rules certification. He had taken 9 months

before, his instrument rating exam and had failed it. So what did this mean? Well,

he would be flying by sight only, landmarks, horizon, lights. Using a compass and the on board

Sperry attitude gyro. Now that was another challenge. Peterson was used to flying with the

traditional horizontal horizon gyro….and not the Sperry gyro. This is a bit complicated, but

basically, incorrect readings can be taken if not totally familiar with the instrument.

There will be more about young Peterson in the final investigation report; that will be

in part five of this story in a few days.

The aircraft was loaded with the luggage and personals and Buddy Holly took the seat

in the front next to pilot Peterson, with Valens and Richardson sitting behind. A last check

and it was off to Fargo, N. Dakota and then to Moorhead for more rock and roll.

Next up: part 2; the takeoff, the short flight, the crash will be posted soon. 

It's only a number......

 

Do you believe in a lucky, or perhaps and unlucky number? Joshua Cobb's number was

3.  But why a 3? Most of us are born with a number attached to us in some manner.

The story below is number 10, in Tales Unleashed.

The Haunted Belfry

The church near Berkley Creek, Pennsylvania has been closed many years ago. It’s pastor who had been loved by all, had been dismissed by the elders after engaging in an affair with a woman on the church’s finance committee.

And so it was that the church sat idle, entangled by the yearly growth of weeds and invasive vines which choked at its very shingles, decade after decade. The glorious Sunday morning worships which echoed the organ and choir sounds down the hollow were now silenced, replaced by the calls of wayward crows looking to roost. An occasional passerby walking on the dirt road out front would stop, give pause and try to imagine the building when it was king of the hill. It was now indeed a lonely place. The building had witnessed the baptisms, marriages and funerals of hundreds of its followers…..but now only silence, except for the occasional thrice ringing of the church bell. It was not a regular alarm in the tower….it only happened about three times a year, and it was usually on the third of the month, and it was always at 3:00 a.m., when all men and beasts within its range were nestled into their beds.

A bit unsettling to say the least, especially for neighbors who lived within the half mile separated only by the tall pines and sugar maples which buffeted the sound.

It had been rumored for years that the church was haunted…haunted by its organist Joshua P. Cobb, an elderly man in his 70’s who had played and maintained the pump organ for over sixty years. Joshua had met an untimely death in the church while practicing for a recital late in the fall of 1940. The custodian who discovered Joshua was stunned to find him face down, heading down the set of steps which numbered twelve. But Joshua had only made it part way down, his foot breaking thru the old board on step number three, his foot still lodged there… his body dangling down the remaining steps causing his demise.

The number three was Joshua’s number indeed.

Church records showed that he had been born on March 3^rd, 1873, and was one of three children.

So when that bell tolls three times at that ghastly hour, people think little of it….. they know that Joshua is still there, kind of a perpetual caretaker. But on that 3:00 a.m. ringing, people have a tendency to pull the covers up a little tighter and hope for early daylight.