The loss of Buddy Holly, part 1

 

Introduction…….

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.

There are five parts to this series….if you miss one…simply scroll

down to read the previous one…they will be marked 1 thru 5. 

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. 

after each posting...you may comment if you like by scrolling down
to the bottom; click on no comments, then leave yours. 

Trust your instincts....

 

You were about to cross the street, and you had the right of way,
but all of a sudden, something told you to stop...to stop quickly,
and perhaps even step back a bit.

It was like a magical force holding you in place as your body
stiffened to the silent message that pierced your brain...and
as you stopped in your tracks a delivery truck entered your
vision and zoomed past you just one foot from where
you stood.

The concussion of the passing air chilled you to the bone as
you suddenly realized that you had just escaped being crushed
by this two ton mass of rolling steel.

Your silent instinct, your intuition, messaged you that there
was danger before you.....and thank goodness you listened.

Did you ever experience something like this in your life?

Perhaps maybe an event or situation not quite so dramatic,
yet possibly life changing?

Your instinct, or intuition, I believe is a God given sense,
much like hearing, speaking, smelling, touching. Your
instinct or 'gut' feeling is always correct. But in order
to use it effectively, you must trust it, embrace it..
nurture it.

I knew a lady years ago who had experienced an event as
the one I just wrote about above. She actually believed it
was her instinct, or guardian angel as she suggested,
that saved her life. She still talks about it to this day.

So whether it's picking out the right check out lane at
the grocery store...or getting into the more
comfortable lane of driving... or heading out on the
road before a coming storm....  follow your instinct.

Your intuition will serve you well. Some may call
you superstitious, weird, paranoid, etc. Don't let
them bother you. You can always come back with,
"I knew you were going to call me that."

That is your instinct....it's a gift.

Have an experience like this?  If so...comment below,
I'd love to hear about it.  SS

oh...as an add on here...and this is more of a
'strange' as I call it....a few years ago I had
an email from a clairvoyant in California..who had
heard me on the national radio show Coast to Coast
A.M.....she told me that in 2018... I would be
publishing a 2nd book....one not of undertaking, but
it might contain or story or two about such.. and
it would be of short stories. She was spot on.
The second book Tales Unleashed was actually

published in 2018.....umm....makes you wonder

doesn't it? 

 It's kind of like Ripley's
Believe it or not.

What do you want for yourself?

 

It's never an easy topic to discuss........even to think about for most 

people...but it's one that has to be contemplated. 

What do I want my family or survivors to do with me once I pass on? 

Have you talked about it with your wife? children? significant other? 

You will save your loved ones from terrific stress and frustration 

if you let your wishes be known ahead of time....yes, ahead of time.

So many options to think about....burial....cremation...donation of your

body for research....calling hours... no calling hours...viewing... no

viewing...final place of disposition (cemetery) for body or cremains..

It seems like an endless list....but it can be quite simple if you just sit

down and talk about it. 

If you have a computer, you can go on line and just google;

preparing for my final disposition.

There will be many sites that can help you figure out what's best for

you ...and your family. Better yet, call your LOCAL funeral director and

tell him you need to sit down and talk about your 'end needs'.... he'll

be happy to give you all the answers you want, and that will help to 

eliminate doubts, fears and questions you may have built up in your

mind over the years. 

The most peaceful people I ever dealt with while in the funeral business

were those that had 'a plan' in place....believe me...it just makes good

common sense.  Call someone soon....establish a plan...and relax. 

It's a 'feel good' story....something we all need.

 

This story was posted here a few months ago......I don't have anything Christmas related,

but this truly is a 'feel good' story...and is about family....and the holidays are about

family indeed.  So indulge me here.....and follow Mary Pritchard in her quest for a 

retirement home. 

   Is it possible to be 'drawn' to a certain place? Can your 'sixth sense' take

over and actually lead you to a place where you are supposed to be?

It does seem so.  Mary Pritchard found that out upon her retirement...drawn to

a place, and actually to a time that she had experienced before. Mary did find

that perfect retirement home....in Morgantown. It's chapter 4, 'The Mason's mark'

one of 28 stories to be found in Tales Unleashed.  

The Mason’s Mark

Mary Pritchard had always wanted to live in a nice quiet home, one with a front yard, perhaps a porch, maybe even a large dining room. But as a youngster in the 1950's, she had little choice about where she would be. Her mother had passed when she was a very young girl.

Mary possessed the one and only doll that her mother had gifted her on her fourth birthday. Soon after that, with her mother’s passing, she would have to go live with her Aunt Trudy, her only known relative. Mary’s father Miles had also passed away very tragically while on a job near their home in Morgantown. Miles was a master mason . . . a bricklayer, if you will. His work was beyond compare and Miles had helped build dozens of homes that were the envy of all who viewed them.

As Mary neared her retirement age, the call of returning to Morgantown kept coming to mind. And so, a year before retiring, Mary contacted a number of real estate agents in the Morgantown area to arrange to look at some homes there. By email, Mary finally had two or three very nice homes to look at . . . and her excitement grew as she marked two walk-throughs on her calendar, scheduled on the same weekend.

Meeting the local agent at a small friendly coffee spot in Morgantown, Mary looked at the information about the two homes that the agent had laid out in front of her. Both were well-kept homes, in nice neighborhoods, and each offered the right accommodations for someone soon to retire. But there was something about 151 Spruce Street that drew Mary’s attention more than the other property. The front yard was small and easily maintained, a nicely decorated porch graced the front, and the home was entirely made of brick. It weathered well over the years and had been maintained beautifully by its previous owners.

That same afternoon the real estate gal drove Mary to 151 Spruce. My, it was a lovely home, and even had a picket fence!

“The price is a bit high,” Mary exclaimed to the agent as they made their way up the front walk. “Do you think they might come down a bit?” The agent assured her she would see what could be done if Mary decided she wanted to buy. The agent gave Mary the quick tour . . . guiding her along the way from room to room and pointing out the amenities as they went.

“I must show the basement,” said the agent. “It has a new furnace, new water heater, cement floor, and it’s completely dry!”

As the two descended the ten short steps down, Mary felt a warm sensation, as if someone was welcoming her to this place. Yet she had never been in this house before. She was sure of that.

As the two gals chatted back and forth, Mary made her way to the straight and square red chimney on the west side of the basement. Old it was, but showed no signs of wear or deterioration. Two bricks up from the basement floor, Mary spotted an irregularity on one brick’s surface. Squatting down and brushing the dust from the brick she read, MJP, 9-’50. As she touched the brick a second time, a wave of exhilaration came over her. She knew then and there that her father Miles James Pritchard had helped build this house, presumably in September of 1950.

She stood up, turned with tears in her eyes, and said, “I’m home, I’ll have a check in full for you tomorrow.”

After more than fifty years, Mary had come home to Morgantown . . . not just a home, but a home that her father had helped to build for her. A better retirement gift, no one could ever have asked for.

It's been 50 years....hard to believe.

 

It's a case that's still open.  March 1970, and a man in Andover, N.Y. on his way to work

 comes across a deceased male along- side a county road. But this was not an accident

or natural death....this was homicide....and for some time thereafter was recognized as

a gangland killing.

And so, fifty years has gone by...and I understand the case is still 'open'....but time

is on the side of the perpetrators at this point. I remember visiting the grave where 

this man is buried in Andover...and a few years ago there was discussion of disinterring

the remains to possibly do a dna test....a test that wasn't in existence back then... but

I'm sure the costs and time constraints have weighed heavily in the decision not to 

proceed with the attempt to identify. 

So... who was this victim? Was there a reason he was dumped along side a road

in Andover, N.Y.? Interesting for sure.....a final resolution may never be known.

The following two news releases are out there on the web if you do some 

searching. 

' A hunter's panic'..........

 

It is deer season in many parts of the country....a time of adventure, a family 

tradition of being in the woods...a time to bring young hunters into the exciting

realm of bagging that buck. But with the adventure comes the possibility of 

accident, a physical dilemma of some sort...and worse; a chance of being lost

out there. This is a true story...and it is possible that it has happened to you 

or to someone you know. Take a look, at A Hunter's Panic... story number 

13 in Tales Unleashed., it might actually give you a chill. 

The Hunter’s Panic

It was a cold day in late November. Deer hunting had arrived in the Northeast, and today would be like so many others over the last forty years. The early rise at 5:00 AM, a quick bite to eat, packing some lunch and a thermos in the backpack, and joking with family members about why such foolishness was attempted year after year! It was more about a family tradition maybe then actually putting meat in the freezer. One often thought how much more fun it could be if were just a bit warmer than the twenty degrees that was now showing on the thermometer.

At twenty degrees, you couldn’t sit for long. And if the temperature was accompanied by a brisk wind and some snow, it was a whole lot less attractive than sitting at home by the fire. Brothers Steve and Ron had been hunting together just shy of four decades. The oldest, Ron, seem to garner the most luck, usually pulling the trigger within hours on the first day . . . then blowing the whistle in his pocket to indicate it was time to come and drag it out.

As the pair left the house to head to their popular spot, Steve immediately noticed the black sky to the west, indicating probably a good snow was in store for the day. It was still dark, and the twenty degrees harsh, as the duo made their way from the parked car and into the woods, agreeing ahead of time on a plan to rendezvous within a couple of hours and to compare notes on what had been seen. A wave of the hand to each other and the hunt was on. It would be another forty minutes before the hunting began at 7:00, and faint light was just starting to creep into the top of the giant pines which lined Steve’s route into his spot. Within minutes, he had settled into a small clump of hemlocks very near a little creek which was now frozen over.

He quickly took inventory of his backpack, pulled out the thermos, and tucked it into his top coat. He knew he’d be needing it soon today. Sitting on a log with his back to a tree, he looked over the 12-gauge and eased the five slugs into the gun, chambering one, and setting the safety as quietly as he could. Now he was ready. Let the fun begin.

He and his brother had been to this spot to many times over the years. It was a block of woods, maybe a quarter to half mile square, with a neighbor’s fences bordering on three sides and a county road on the fourth. The number of deer and turkey was usually very plentiful, and Steve knew the chances of success would be high today.

The only challenge for the moment was keeping warm. He had three layers of clothing on, heavy hunting pants, high boots with double socks, and a hat that tied down over the ears to keep the wind from freezing soft tissues.

The quiet of the moment was astounding. As the morning light continued to drift into his sight, a light snow started to develop from the west, no doubt from the storm clouds he had seen earlier. The waiting game had begun . . . listening, watching, slightly shifting the head from side to side, trying to soak in anything that might be within his view. Within a few minutes, the stillness of the woods made his eye lids heavy, and he lowered his head. He thought a quick nap would be interrupted if a deer came charging his way.

The invasive nature of the twenty-degree chill had found its way inside his sleeves and around his back, and Steve came to attention quickly, his eyes now focusing on full daylight and a pounding snow storm. How long had he dozed? Looking at his watch, it was now 8:10! How could he have slept so soundly in this cold? He shook himself of the two to three inches of snow that had engulfed him, his pack, and his shotgun. It was dry snow and brushed off easily. As he scanned the woods, his sight was only ten to twenty feet away as the snow was coming in heavy amounts now. This was going to be a tough hunt today. With heavy snow and no visibility, you could walk by a deer and not even see it, and the deer would probably bed down and not be moving at all.

It was time to go find his brother. Steve stood up, put on his backpack and headed out. The snow was falling heavier by the minute and the west wind started to kick in, making it almost impossible to watch where you were stepping. Pulling his hat brim down further to help his vision, Steve continued on for a few minutes, heading for the spot where his brother usually sat. But things were looking odd today. The snow had melded things together and the landscape did not look familiar at all. Steve stopped to collect his thoughts. The wind had increased, driving the snow deep into his neck and crevices of his gun. He turned a full 360 degrees, looking for a tree, land contour—anything that looked familiar, but there was nothing that seemed right.

Steve continued to walk, stopping only for a moment behind two large oaks, out of the wind, the catch his breath. The sky was dark and ominous, the snow relentless, and the wind had shifted now from the north.

Steve decided to go back from where he had started, but his tracks were very faint, and within a hundred yards, they had been engulfed by new snow. Steve was not one to panic, but this place in time took him back to a year when he was a kid, and he had been lost for a few hours while at a scout camp in the Catskills. The only difference of that day and this one was the weather.

Steve started to have a panic attack. His breathing was quick and shallow, his eyes and ears straining for something that would give him a clue as to where he was. The whistle! Steve reached into his side pocket, pulled out the whistle attached to the silver chain, and gave two long bursts on it. But his brother would never hear the sound. It was muffled by the heavy snow and strong wind, which he now estimated at least twenty miles an hour. He stuffed it back in his pocket. His panic attack made him perspire . . . the worst thing that could happen in this kind of storm.

Steve moved to get under a small group of pines on a slight incline. Sitting on his pack, he reached for his thermos—but it was gone. Somehow in his quick movements through the snow it must have dislodged. His breathing rate increased, and he tried to settle himself down, knowing that now, he was his own worst enemy. Settle down now, he thought to himself. This parcel you are hunting in is no bigger than a half mile square. If you don’t walk in a circle, eventually you will walk out of it.

He had never been lost before. Well—maybe once. But he marveled at how Mother Nature could totally consume you with her fury, scrambling all of your senses into a total feeling of despair. Trying to calm himself, he thought about his father and his grandfather, and wondered if they had ever been in this situation before.

He would wait it out. The day that started out as a tradition of being with a loved brother, maybe shooting a nice ten-point, and enjoying the outdoors had turned into a whole lot less. His mind had made him panic, the cold had taken its toll on his good spirit, and now Steve just wanted to go home.

As he sat under the pines watching he snow continually piling up on itself, he saw a shadow starting to emerge through the storm. It was a man for sure, but the clothing he did not recognize. It looked like the abominable snowman making its way toward him. Covered in snow and moving slowly, the figure continued the trek up the slight slope. When the figure came within ten yards, the right hand rose and gave a wave in his direction. It was his brother.

Giving a yell, Steve waved back, gesturing his brother to come to his location.

Ron approached brushing the snow from his form. “Quite a day,” he said. “You okay? You look a little flushed.”

Steve let out a big breath. “Yeah, okay, I’m getting a bit cold, and somehow I lost my thermos.”

“Let’s see if we can find our way out of here. We’ll head back to the car, get warmed up, and see if the weather breaks for later.”

The two headed out. Steve knew that even in the toughest times, the big brother was there to save the day. Within just two hours, Steve had been lost, been panicked, and been found. He wondered if his brother might have suspected such, but there was no need to even consider it.

There was no deer shot that day, but it really didn’t matter. The end of the day brought safety, hot food, and brotherly love in abundance. That in itself was more than ample. 

Wow.....what a year uh?

 

What can you say about 2020? A year that has been un- matched in events,

turmoil, challenges, and the list goes on.  Let's hope next year will be a bit

brighter for everyone.  

I'll be starting some regular posts again here soon. Most of my engagements

at libraries, seniors groups etc. have been called off because of Covid 19

naturally....let's hope we get a break on that as well, and soon.

Meanwhile there are lots and lots of posts listed on the right side of my

blog here, and I invite you to go through them...think you'll find some

interesting stories. Stay well out there. SS