The day the music died...

It's an obscure place. North on 8th Street, right on 315th, left on Gull, Clear Lake Iowa. Look for the pair of glasses and then walk 1/2 mile west along the fence.

I was pondering whether to go at all. I had no desire to feed the macabre side of human nature and my imagination went to what it must have been like in those last few moments. Did they know? Did they have time to prepare? What thoughts raced through their heads in the cold winter night as gravity overcame technology and pulled them to earth?

The wind came from the west, cold, and shedding mist as clouds passed before the sun. The sky was wide as it is in these places where trees are scarce. We walked, hand in hand, on a dirt path keeping an eye on the fence. Somewhere along the wire there would be a break and we would know.

Towards the end of the field was a small metal sign. Buddy Holly. Ritchie Valens. Big Bopper. 50 years ago a small plane with three rising stars fresh from the applause was suddenly brought down to earth just minutes after it took off for North Dakota and the hope of a warm bed. For the next hours the bodies would lay in the snow waiting for others to discover that the bus with the band had arrived but they were not to be found. Valens was still in his teens and the Big Bopper had not yet reached 30.

We paused for a minute as the breeze circled around us and the air got colder. Rain from a cloud far away fell in a short burst as we walked away. It was almost 7 at night and the fields were quiet except for the sound of the wind. Everything else was silent and at rest as Iowa prepared to sleep.