Our minds are one of the truly amazing parts of our bodies. We can think, plan, invent, innovate. But one of both the pleasures and pains of our minds is our
memories. Sometimes when we least expect it, an event triggers the past, and the nostalgia begins as we relive our youth. Such an event took place last Sunday, February 3, when an article about the deaths of three young men caught my attention, and made me remember that time and where I was.
Sixty years ago, on February 3, 1959, those three stars of rock-n-roll were killed in the crash of a small plane taking off from a small airport in northern Iowa. Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, J. P. Richardson (the “Big Bopper”) perished, along with their pilot.
Immortalized in the song “American Pie”, written by Don McLean in 1971, the trio were in the midst of a tour of small venues in the upper Midwest in late January and early February 1959. Holly was the most celebrated of the group, but Valens and Richardson were considered “rising stars” of the music world.
Two of the three were also splashed on the silver screen, with “The Buddy Holly Story,” and Valens portrayed in the movie “La Bamba”. Both films were well received, and introduced them to a new generation of rock fans.
I was just 16 at the time, and in my third year of high school. My interests were taken up mostly with the basketball team I played on, with school work a distant second on my list of priorities.
When the news came to our small high school in North Central Missouri, it was a topic for the teens there. Many of my cohorts were into the “new” music, rock-n-roll, so that meant that I was made aware of how terrible the event was. And, as with most places where teens congregated (like a high school!) there were some who took their inspiration for dress and actions from the stars of movies and popular music.
This was the takeoff for some nostalgia from my past. Bodie (real name Delbert; I never knew how anyone got ‘Bodie’ out of that!) took on the persona of James Dean, the young movie star killed in a car wreck just a few months earlier. Bodie tried to dress like the movie version of Dean, kind of a slouching walk and hair that was slicked back into what we called a ducktail (actually another term not suitable for this publication). His attention to studies was somewhat lacking, even though the standardized testing showed him to be about third in intelligence in the entire school. We wondered what was to become of Bodie, given his lack of ambition, but he found a job on the railroad and spent his working career there.
One other of my classmates also decided to look the part of a young Elvis, with his hair flat on top and the famous ducktail along the sides. His name was Eddie and was charitably described as pudgy. His grades reflected a high IQ, but no one would mistake Eddie for an athlete. One of his claims to fame was the new car he got for his 16th birthday, making him one of the few with wheels in the school. How far would he go in the competitive world was answered. He slimmed up, went into the Air
Force and flew fighter jets in the Vietnam War era.
Other faces swim up out of the mists of memory of my time at Madison High School. We had only 18 in our class, and most I can remember, with only a few that I know of what happened to them. For some reason, no reunion has been held in the now almost sixty years that have passed.
I remember David well. He was 6’7″, so of course he played a large part of our basketball efforts. He was big and thick, and delighted in tormenting his smaller classmates in the P. E games of dodgeball, as hands were big enough to throw those balls at rocket speed as us victims. He would up marrying his high school sweetheart, a cheerleader who stood all of 5 feet tall. David would work at a funeral home in his later life, but he died young of a heart attack.
Kay had her life mapped out from an early age. We all knew that the studious, stout girl would go on to be an elementary teacher forever. That she did, though I have never been told what became of her. As with myself, at 76 years, many of my mates probably have already “shuffled off this mortal coil”.
My best friend, if he could be called that, was Russell. One of the divisions in the early years of high school was between the “townies” and the “country kids”. He and I spent several years in a one room country school about six miles south of town. Whether he was my best friend or not, I am not sure, but he must have felt that way about me. When he got married, just days after graduating, I was his best man. After a couple of years, I lost track of him, but since his older brother and my older brother kept up their friendship for over sixty years, I did, from time to time, get glimpses into what went on in Russell’s life. That first marriage didn’t last — according to his brother, he has been married at least six times, and probably eight. A good life, no?
Integration came easily to our small school. One of the families that lived on the “wrong side of the tracks”, an African American family, had three children in the school, one of which was Carolyn, in my class. I do not recall any overt racism, as both kids and teachers seemed to accept them well. Being across the tracks was no cliche — about three or four homes for the African Americans were south of the railroad tracks, just beyond our baseball field. For some reason, our family was brought up without the normal racial prejudice, but I did have occasion to resent the youngest member of the clan. Tommy was two years behind me in class, but he was a better ball player than I was, and I didn’t like that. Sadly, not long after we left school, Carolyn was killed by her husband in a murder/suicide.
Others come to mind, also. Two cheerleaders were in the class, Glenda and Judy. Glenda was okay, but off limits to the hoi poi. Judy was somewhat reserved (stuck up, by our standards!) Then there was Peggy, the best looking of them all. That alone kept us farm boys from even daring to ask her out. Peggy’s cousin, Mike, became a bar owner and bartender in our small town.
Then there was Jerry. He was the son of the school board president, and there were some of us who believed he was given privileges and advantages because of that. Since he was the catcher on our baseball team, our shortstop and I (at second base) despaired of him ever throwing a decent toss to catch someone stealing. It seemed as if he was playing long toss, a lazy loop that had no chance of throwing anyone out.
Ordell was one of our outfielders, adequate but not spectacular. But his older brother, Donnie, a year older, played shortstop. He and I made up the middle infield for most of three years. Donnie had the best arm I have seen and he could field with the best of them. A pity, too, for he could not hit even if it were tee ball!
Others I might name but not much else. Larry, who died young, Ronnie and Bobby — and several whose names escape me.
You are probably bored with my look backward, but I am sure you have had the occasion to be transported back to your youth by an event or name long forgotten. But there is something else about such a trip down memory lane. All of those who were so important to us at those times (such as high school) were a part of molding us into what we are today. We should give thanks for them, for they are part of the mosaic of our lives. None of us are ever self made persons, and for that we are grateful.
Cherish the memories you have.