A RIDE TO REMEMBER

      His first airplane flight, sure to thrill the 61-year-old farmer. And even more exciting, a “puddle jumper” with just one engine and space for four people.

      The farmer's name was Harry. The idea was mine, and I’d be sitting next to him. How could I miss it? He was my Daddy.

      That morning flight proved to be just as memorable as I had hoped -- but a tragedy hours later made that whole day truly unforgettable.

                                        -- 0  --

     Frigid. That’s really the only word. It's seven degrees this morning, the second day of February, 1959 and it's been like that here in Iowa for most of the winter, one of the harshest in recent history. But the sky is clear, so we're sticking to plans for Harry's first trip on an airplane.

      Bundled up, Harry and I drive a few miles from our family farm to the municipal airport in Mason City. With about 30,000 people, it's the largest community in north central Iowa. The airport is appropriate -- a pair of runways and a remodeled farmhouse for a passenger terminal.

      I'm hiring Dwyer's Flying Service there to take Harry and me on a short aerial tour of the area. I'd prefer something bigger and newer than our plane, a 12-year-old Beechcraft Bonanza, but nothing else is available and it's equipped relatively well with an instrument panel for low visibility. 

      “Welcome, it's gonna be a great day,” Roger Peterson, our pilot, calls out as we are coming over. He's barely 21, but has  several years of experience and lots of enthusiasm.

      To put Harry at ease, I encourage him to walk around and look over the plane. Then, I can’t help smiling as I watch him. At six feet and well over 200 pounds, he's almost as tall as the plane and nearly as wide as the only doorway.

                                              -- 0 -- 

      I'm home for just a brief visit. I grew up on our farm and left after high school to attend the University of Iowa. Now I live in South Dakota, where I work as a journalist.

      I arranged the flight for Daddy partly to return a favor. The first time I went aloft, it was many years ago, and it would not have happened if he hadn't asked a neighbor to treat me to a ride in his plane. That was a two-seater, with no space for my father.

      For some reason, Daddy never had a plane ride before or after that. Maybe it had something to do with his having only an 8th grade education, and then working as a farm hand most of his life. But he showed early on that he had a lot of good sense -- marrying a school teacher, who also was the belle of the area.

      And Daddy clearly had an adventurous streak. In the early 1920s, he went to California to seek his fortune -- driving all the way from Iowa with his wife and baby daughter in a Model T Ford, often traveling on gravel roads.

      After five years without success, my parents drove back to Iowa and Harry decided to become a tenant farmer. That was a tough time for him and my mother.

      Every two or three years, they'd pack up all their belongings and go to yet another place with a rundown farmhouse. Despite all that, they managed to save enough to buy the same farm where they still live — a 160-acre property that's worth a lot more these days than they paid for it. 

                                       -- 0 --

      "Time to take off, " Roger Peterson calls from the cockpit.  Moments later, the little Bonanza is rumbling down the runway and and gradually picking up speed amid many vibrations and bumps. Finally, the sound of wheels lifting.

      We gain altitude fast and Peterson puts us on a circular route, as I requested — heading west a few miles to Clear Lake, a large natural body of water, and then swinging to the east for a good view of our family farm before going  back to Mason City.

      I'm not sure how high or fast we go, but it's enough to get plenty of turbulence in our cramped space. It’s also really noisy.

      “How ya doing,” I shout to Harry. “Afraid?”

      “Not at all,” he yells back, shaking his head and grinning as he peers out the window.

      One definite highlight is looking down at Clear Lake and a picturesque town with the same name. It's easy to spot the Surf Ballroom entertainment venue with a distinctive, vaulted roof.

      Just as Harry seems to relax, Peterson is shouting again — this time to warn that we’ll soon start descending for the landing. That brings tension again in Daddy’s face. He's aware that takeoffs and landings are the riskiest parts of an airplane trip.

      Within a minute, there’s a feeling of slowing down, and then “dropping” as Peterson retracts the flaps and nears the airport. For the last time, I tell Harry to look out the window as we touch down.

      Did Daddy enjoy it? I don’t have to ask. The smile on his face says it all. On our way out of the airport, I stop to pay for the flight. It cost $6 for the whole 20-minute trip. I get a receipt to prove it.

                                       -- 0 -- 

      Unfortunately, the rest of this story is terribly sad.

      I mentioned seeing the Surf Ballroom as we flew over Clear Lake. It had a South Seas beach theme with a large dance floor, but was used sometimes for concerts.

      As it happens, “the Surf” has a hot show tonight -- a group of rock and roll stars who are going around the Midwest for a "Winter Dance Party" tour with about two dozen stops in three weeks.

      The headliner is Buddy Holly and his band, The Crickets. Their  newest song — “That’ll Be the Day” — just hit No. 1 on the charts. Other top attractions are Ritchie Valens, a 17-year-old singing sensation, and J.P Richardson, known as "The Big Bopper.” 

      As expected, the Surf is packed for the show and it goes on until nearly midnight. When the musicians come out, their bus is waiting to take them to the next stop on the tour, a Minnesota town called Moorhead. 

      But their bus is poorly heated and has had a series of mechanical breakdowns, causing repeated long, cold nights. on the road. So Holley charters a plane for himself that night to avoid the bus. And when Valens and "The Big Bopper" find out, they decide to join him.

      After arriving at Mason City airport, the three men board the same Bonanza that Daddy and I used — and Roger Peterson once again is in the cockpit, willing to take them even though he knows that weather conditions ahead are deteriorating with snow and wind.

      After taking off shortly before 1 a.m., the Bonanza starts climbing and the lights on it can be seen for a while from the airport control tower. But then the plane slowly disappears from view, and then there's a lengthy period without any  radio contact.

      The plane is presumed to be missing., and a search begins. After a few hours, the wreckage is found in a snow-covered field -- only about five miles from the airport and not far from our family farm. 

      All four people aboard die in the crash.  The news shocks everyone in our area and people across the country. 

      After a 7-month investigation, authorities say they found no evidence of engine trouble or structural failure. They conclude that Peterson flew into challenging weather, could not see, got confused and lost control of the plane.

                                      -- 0 --

      Maybe the awful accident would've been largely forgotten in time if it hadn't been for Don McLean, a singer/songwriter. He was a huge fan of Holly, Valens and The Big Bopper.  All were some of his childhood heroes.

      So in 1971, McLean pays tribute to the dead trio by composing and recording “American Pie" -- the now classic song with many symbolic lyrics  that is more than 8 minutes long and alludes repeatedly to “the day the music died.” For a month, the song ranks number one in the nation and is a smash in some other countries, too.

                                         -- 0 --

      This summer, while home again for a visit, I go to see the crash site located at the end of a well-worn, half-mile path through a cornfield. There are some decaying flowers. 

      To honor Holly, there are two small, linked  posts, a symbolic reminder of dark-rimmed glasses that he always wore. In addition, there are three connected metal plates bearing the names of Holly, Valens and the Big Bopper.

      Nearby is one with pilot Roger Peterson’s name on it.

      As for my family, relatives tell me that a long time passed before Daddy summoned enough courage to get on an airplane again. But I know he and I had our special bond.

Wesley Pippert was a journalist in Washington, DC more than 40 years and led a University of Missouri program .