Chapter 13: My Buddy Holly Story

Buddy Holly’s music was my first music. Well, my first non-kid music.

While my big brother, JT, played “Everyday,” “Peggy Sue,” and “True Love Ways,” on our Hi-Fi, I’d run around the living room singing along.

Weird, I know. But I was five.

When I was old enough to understand the tragedy of “The Day the Music Died,” it shook me. Holly, Ritchie Valens, and JP Richardson all perished on February 3rd, 1959 when their small plane crashed in an Iowa cornfield.

Charles Hardin “Buddy” Holly’s legacy is powerful. When I asked Chat GPT who he was, this was included in the answer:

Buddy Holly is remembered as a pioneer who helped shape the foundation of rock and roll, and his music continues to inspire generations… his impact on music remains immense.

Remains immense. Present tense. He’s still influential. He still matters.

During my Air Force field training (basic training for potential officers) I spent a day flying a T-37 training jet in Lubbock, Texas. Forty-six years later, I drove my Hyundai Tucson through Lubbock, but not before stopping at the Buddy Holly Center museum.

I spent a couple of hours there. Besides Charles Hardin’s report card — the iconic songwriter got a B in English — what stood out to me most was how brief his (living) length of fame was. His ominously prescient #1 hit “That’ll Be the Day,” was released in July of 1957. Less than 19 months and six more Billboard top 50 hits later, Buddy was gone. He was 22 years old.

Yet, those who say he inspired and influenced their art, span both time and genre — The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, Coldplay, Emmylou Harris, and Ed Sheeran are some of the notable names.

Leaving Lubbock, my thoughts were about lives cut short. About what Buddy’s life might have evolved into had he had the chance to live as long as I have.

For me, Buddy Holley’s life — the true, correct spelling includes the e — is both inspiring and discouraging. Inspiring, because of how he creatively mixed elements of country, gospel, R&B, and “Rockabilly” into something new that we now call rock and roll.

I love the idea of combining a conglomeration of parts into something new and good. And although I don’t understand the technical aspects of music, people who do say that Holly’s genius was his ability to make something complex seem simple. Anyone, the experts say, can play his music, but only he could have created it.

It’s discouraging though because despite living more than three times as long as Buddy, I’ve yet to create anything that’s resonated outside my tiny circle.

__________

Two months later, I was in Iowa, heading north toward Minneapolis. I wasn’t going to make it to the border, though, so I checked my hotels.com app. I figured I’d drive another hour, then call it a day.

The logical stop was about 50 miles away — Clear Lake. It had inexpensive hotels, a state park, and the lake.

Clear Lake, I kept thinking, Clear Lake. Clear Lake… Why does that sound so familiar?

Then it registered. Clear Lake was where Buddy Holly’s plane went down.

I slept fitfully, woke early, worked out, then had lunch by the actual Clear Lake while doing research. I needed to know if I could visit the crash site. Part of me wanted the answer to be no. Then I wouldn’t have to decide if it was even right to do that.

But the answer was yes, and after some internal debate, I decided that it wasn’t too creepy to go looking for it.

There was no guarantee I’d find it. It wasn’t clearly marked on Google Maps. I only knew it was in the middle of a cornfield intersected by gravel roads with names like Route 7 and Avenue H.

I considered giving up when I saw a white Chevy Traverse parked in a small dirt lot that had a sign paying tribute to Don McLean and his 1970s hit, “American Pie” (a song he wrote about the repercussions of the doomed flight).

Eerie, I thought. Really? A white Traverse?

A minute later, another car pulled in next to me. “Not much to see here, I guess,” I offered.

“Just the glasses.” A 60-something woman pointed to a model of Buddy’s signature horned rimmed glasses. Beneath them was a pile of actual glasses.

The woman and a man I assumed was her husband took a photo, then drove off.

I was about to do the same when I saw a group of four walking from the cornfield back toward the lot.

I strode toward them. I had two questions.

“Are you coming from the actual crash site?”

“Yeah, it’s just up the path on the right. Maybe ten minutes from here. If you keep walking, you can’t miss it.”

“Just curious. Is that your car?” I pointed at the white Traverse.

“Yes.”

“I need to tell you something, and I want you to let me know if you think it’s freaky, or if I’m just being overly dramatic.”

“What is it?”

“Two years ago, after visiting my daughters and granddaughters in Los Angeles, I was heading back home to the Bay Area. A guy driving a pest control truck illegally crossed in front of me. There was no time to react. I crashed into him. Hard. Very hard.

“For a couple of seconds, I thought, ‘So this is how I die.’ The airbags deployed, and I survived. Obviously. But the car didn’t. I never drove it again.

“And guess what?! It was a white Chevy Traverse.

“And now here I am in the middle of nowhere at Buddy Holly’s crash site, and when I get to the parking lot, the only other car there is your white Chevy Traverse.”

“That is freaky!” the man reassured me.

“Thank you,” I said.

__________

After spending a respectful moment at actual spot where the fateful flight ended, I was back in my car, heading north. I thought about the pilot. Nobody talks about him. I thought about JP Richardson. I thought about Ritchie Valens who was only 17 years old. People still love La Bamba.

The crash site

And I thought about Buddy. I played “Words of Love” and remembered that JT is gone. Then I listened to “American Pie,” and thought about the day the music died, and about how lucky I am to have lived this long.

Would I rather live a short, hugely influential life or a long, modestly meaningful one?

Given a choice, would Buddy have exchanged his life for mine? Would I exchange mine for his?

I don’t know what he would say. But as extraordinarily impactful as his life was, I wouldn’t trade my life for his.

It’s a ridiculous question anyway. I mean unless we’re planning on suicide (I’m not) none of us have much say in how long we get to be here.

Still, Buddy Holly’s short life made me think about death. I’ve read that that’s not all bad.

Two thousand years ago, in Meditations, Marcus Aurelius wrote,

“Contemplating death reminds us to live in accordance with nature, cherish the present, and act virtuously.”

In the commencement address Steve Jobs gave to Stanford grads, he said,

"Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life… Death is very likely the single best invention of life. It is life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new… Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

Thanks, Buddy. Thanks for inspiring me to try to do that more.