“Are you the guy trying to reach my husband?” demanded a female voice on the other end of the phone.
“I guess that depends,” I laughed. The voice on the other end remained silent. “Who’s your husband?”
“My name is Barb Dwyer. Jerry Dwyer is my husband.”
The last name stunned me into silence. Everyone I knew living in and around Mason City and Clear Lake told me neither Dwyer would ever speak to me if the subject was related even remotely to Buddy Holly. Despite the friendly warnings I left a message on their answering machine. For me, “no” is simply the first step on the road to “yes.” Then I called again. And again. As the days and then weeks slipped past I admit to losing hope that they would return my calls. And now, finally, Barb Dwyer was on the line.
“Yes, I have been trying to reach him,” I answered when I pulled myself back to the present. “But I would like to talk to both of you, not just Jerry.”
Jerry Dwyer and his wife Barb own and manage Dwyer Flying Services of Mason City, Iowa. On February 3, 1959, Jerry provided the chartered flight for Buddy, Ritchie, and The Big Bopper that was to fly the trio of musicians from Mason City to Fargo, North Dakota, for their scheduled performance in Moorhead, Minnesota. The flight was scheduled for late on the night of the 2nd or early on the morning of the 3rd. According to surviving records, the plane took off from the Mason City airport at 12:55 a.m. on February 3, 1959. Fewer than ten minutes later everyone on board was dead.
“I don’t know that we want to talk to you,” Barb replied. Her answer was curtly delivered.
“Well, you must want to talk because you called me back,” I answered as gently as possible.
She paused for a few seconds as she mulled over my response. “If we did speak to you, what would we talk about?”
“I’m working on a Buddy Holly project. It’s not a biography,” I hastened to add. “I’m writing about how Buddy, his music, and his life have impacted, and continue to impact, the lives of others.”
Several more seconds of silence passed. “Why do you want to talk to us?” she finally asked. “We have nothing to add.”
I had been thinking for weeks about how to answer the obvious question I knew she would ask me. Would she hang up? Would she open up and talk with me? I decided to simply say it and let her decide. “Because I strongly suspect that the moment that plane went down, your lives were forever changed.” An icy silence followed. When it became uncomfortably long, I added, “Am I wrong?”
Once again my words were followed by dead air. If I was a betting man, I would have wagered that the next sound I was going to hear was the “click” of her phone hanging up. Instead, I heard her clear her throat and continue. “We’re very busy and may not be able to talk to you for months. Besides, Jerry is writing his own book.”
“He is?” I replied. “That’s great. I might be able to help you with it and I would even help you find a publisher, if you like . . .”
“You know,” she interrupted, “the truth has never come out about that flight. Jerry will tell the truth because the truth has never been told.” Her voice was cold and defiant.
The conversation had taken a sudden and unexpected turn. “The truth? What is the truth, Barb?” I asked. When she didn’t answer I added, “I would love to give you the conduit to deliver the truth, but honestly Barb, the focus of this book is more about how you were impacted by your brush with Buddy Holly than it is about the event itself.”
What was the truth that has never been told?
I confess I was dying to hear the “truth” according to Barb and Jerry Dwyer, but I was worried that pushing the issue would risk losing the opportunity to speak with them about what I really wanted to know.
The last thing I wanted was for her to hang up, so I kept talking. I shared with Barb my experience as a pilot, and that for a few years I had operated the flight school and air charter service at the Kankakee Valley Airport (IKK). The common experience between us warmed the conversation, and I sensed Barb loosening up a bit.
“It’s not an easy business,” she said.
“It is a very difficult and stressful way to make a living,” I admitted, breathing an inner sigh of relief. She was still talking. After discussing various aviation issues, I thought of something else that might help her feel comfortable about speaking with me.
“Did you know we have a mutual friend?”
“We do?” She sounded surprised. “Who’s that?”
“John Skipper.” John is a veteran newspaper man with the Mason City Globe Gazette. He read and helped edit the baseball portions of my first book.
“Oh, yes. We know John.”
It was time to circle back around to the main issue. “Barb, I’m on a short deadline.”
“How short?” she asked.
“Very short,” I responded. “I’m really out of time, but I can get my publisher to hold the presses if you will talk with me.”
“We maybe can talk in the Fall,” she offered. “Maybe not.” It was already late July.
“That won’t work for us,” I explained. “My deadline is the middle of August, and we really need to speak soon. Is Jerry available now?” I asked. Was I was pushing my luck?
“He’s out of town,” she replied. “We’re selling off our aircraft and retiring. We have to have all the planes out of Mason City soon, so we are really busy.” Her answer was once again clipped, curt.
“I can arrange a conference call and we can get him on wherever he is,” I offered.
“No,” Barb said firmly. “I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.” A second or two of silence followed before she added, “You want to know how Buddy Holly impacted our lives?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Buddy Holly ruined our lives.” And without so much as a goodbye she hung up.
I pulled the phone from my ear and said aloud, “Wow. I can understand that. And what truth about that night has never been told?”
Barb Dwyer was trying to tell me she and her husband know something about the flight and the accident that has never been disclosed.
Is that even possible?