A close-up of the crash site memorial. Author
Ahead was a small patch of land about ten feet by ten feet where the corn was not growing. There were two markers on the ground. One was a stainless steel guitar with three of the old 45-rpm records, one hit from each performer. On my right was an obviously separate stainless steel marker. It looked like wings with the name of Roger Peterson. The pilot.
I sucked in a breath and held it. The ground all around the markers for Buddy, Ritchie, and The Big Bopper was littered with a variety of items. Hotel keys, business cards, handwritten notes, framed letters, and plastic wrist bands in a variety of colors. There was also a CD and an assortment of guitar picks. I wanted to pick up some of the items to examine them, but felt it would be too disrespectful. These were gifts and mementos left by others and were not meant to be touched by me.
I looked southeast toward the airport but could see nothing but grain silos and corn as far as my eyes could see. The plane had been airborne for such a short time—five minutes . . . maybe six? The pilot within me began to reconstruct what happened and I began to feel sick. I could hear the roar of the Bonanza engine as it became louder and closer with each pulse-pounding second. Flight instructors drill into students the faith to trust their instruments in limited or zero visibility. It’s all you have when you have nothing else. Whether Roger was misreading his instruments as some suspect, or if (as I believe) he just lost control of his plane, slipped into a spiral, and was unable to recover, the plane struck the ground with throttle up at full power and rolled itself into a ball of aluminum and wire. The landing gear was up, and he was in a ninety-degree bank so close to the surface that his wing caught the ground. The plane cartwheeled.
A close-up of the crash site memorial. Author
“Stop!” I said aloud, snapping myself out of the ugly scene playing out inside my head.
I looked down at the markers. “I’m not here to be sad or to analyze what happened,” I told myself. “Then why am I here?”
I looked around the field and felt the anxiety drain away. I was drawn there to celebrate the lives of Ritchie, The Big Bopper, Roger, and Buddy, not focus on their terrible deaths.
My mood changed quickly from sadness to joy. I pulled out my iPhone and began snapping pictures. Given all the water and mud it was easier said than done, but I did the best I could. My sense of joy increased and I clicked on “Hey, Buddy” on my iPhone and John Mueller began singing.
I was overwhelmed with emotion; it was impossible to describe.
And then I did something totally out of character: I began to move. I rarely dance and then only when Arlene forces me. For only the second time in my life I felt the urge . . . no not urge . . . I felt compelled to dance! My feet began moving in the mud. My arms were outstretched, my eyes closed, my entire body moved and I realized I was celebrating the life and work of the incredible Buddy Holly and his companions, Ritchie Valens and J. P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson. A few tears mixed with the summer rain to flow down my cheeks and I laughed aloud! I felt so grateful for their legacy. I felt totally and completely blessed, feeling as though Buddy, Ritchie, The Big Bopper, and Roger were dancing and laughing with me. I spun, I turned, I yelled! Mud splashed everywhere and I didn’t care as I sang along with John.
“Hey Buddy rave on, and sing us a song, Baby won’t you come out tonight . . .”
A self-portrait at the crash site memorial. Author
I must have looked like a member of some primitive tribe covered in mud and dancing around the campfire. I was totally and completely immersed in the moment. And then the song . . . stopped.
I slowly opened my eyes and looked around. The clouds had parted and the sun was beginning to shine. I smelled the clean rain-fresh Iowa air, filled with the aroma of organics.
I sank to my knees and began praying for those who had lost their lives in this field, for their family members, and for their friends.
I thanked God for bringing Buddy into my life through John Mueller.
I prayed that this site would only bring happiness and joy to others.
I also thanked God for the farmer who owned that field and that he would continue to allow the markers to remain and allow strangers to visit. In today’s crazy world of litigation, I think it is a blessing to us all that he allows strangers from around the world to walk through his field to reach this first field of dreams.
I closed my prayers and stood. I tried to wipe the mud from my knees but it was useless. I looked at my mud-covered hands and tried to wipe them on my pants, but that was also a waste of time. I didn’t care. I laughed instead, screaming as loud as I could, “Who would ever believe this?”
The crash site memorial for pilot Roger Peterson. Author
A rush of gratitude surged through me. I needed to tell John Mueller. I cleaned off my fingers as best as I could, grabbed my iPhone, composed a quick e-mail, and attached a picture of me at the site.
John,
I’m standing here, all alone, ankle deep in the mud. It is raining and I’m listening to you sing “Hey, Buddy” on my iPhone. I’m touched deeply and still cannot figure out why. I do not understand why I am here at this moment but I know I am grateful to you, my new buddy John, for this experience.
Thank you.
Gary
I pressed send and looked around. The sky was already half clear and the sun was shining bright. A light breeze brushed by my face and I smiled. Was that Buddy passing by? I took one last look around and said my goodbyes. I could never have anticipated this experience. And how could I ever describe it without sounding . . . well . . .
I missed Arlene. It was time to walk back to my car and make the seven-hour drive home to Illinois.
I was completely exhausted by the time I reached my car parked along that country road. “Hey. It’s done,” I said into my iPhone.
“It’s done? You sound happy!” she replied.
“How did all this happen to me?” I asked. “I am absolutely overjoyed. I can’t explain it.”
Arlene laughed. “Well, you better figure out how to explain it or this whole journey has been a colossal waste of time!”
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“Just packing the car,” she responded.
The crash site entrance (on the opposite side from where I entered), with an oversized pair of Buddy’s iconic glasses. Author
“Take your time and I’ll catch up to you. We can grab a bite in Iowa City. I love you, Arlene.”
“I love you, too. Hurry to Iowa City. I want to hear all about it!”
I followed the road around the field. I had been right. I entered from the wrong side. Along the side of the road sat a huge pair of black glasses marking the proper entrance to The Field. Who was responsible for them? The farmer? The community? It was so clever, a unique tribute to Buddy and the three other young men who died there.
The final words of the song rang in my head:
“Hey, Buddy . . . I’ll see you on down the line.”