Having worked at the Buddy Holly Center for two and a half years, I feel a strange connection to Buddy Holly. Maybe it's because his songs are ingrained into my head from the continuous loop of music in the Buddy Holly Gallery. Maybe it's the stacks of books and magazines and interviews I read about his life, the movies, biopics and documentaries I watched, or the times I tried to write something new and fresh about an aging legacy for press releases and promotional copy.

Maybe it's the people I met year after year at the Center - people who loved Buddy as a brother, as a husband, as a friend, as a bandmate, as an idol.

I came to think of him as simply "Buddy", as I'm sure lots of people do. In some small way I felt that his energy surrounded me each day in that Center. One or two nights a week it was my turn to close down the building, turning off all the lights and music and locking all the doors. I'd often end my route with his gallery, a beautifully designed space that holds his clothes, his guitars, his glasses, his schoolwork. Some nights I would shut everything down, pause for a minute next to his Gibson guitar, and say goodnight to him.

It sounds silly, but I could feel them there.

You'd be surprised how many people try to claim Buddy Holly as their own, how many people desperately seek recognition in connection with him. Through his circle of friends and acquaintances, I met some of the kindest, well-meaning people - and some of the most desperate, selfish people as well. I guess fame affects people in ripples - in Buddy's case, the people who were truly closest to him are fiercely protective of his legacy; the people that surround that inner ring often flail their arms and throw their weight demanding recognition and respect; the next ring of people are content to share their memories and celebrate his impressive influence and impact.

I like to picture him as the kind of person who wouldn't want all that attention.

It was 45 years ago today that the plane carrying Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, J.P. Richardson, and a yound pilot crashed into a snowy field in Iowa, taking all of their lives; 45 years ago today that one sensitive, prolific songwriter left his family and wife without getting to say goodbye.

Last year at the Buddy Holly Center, we commemorated February 3rd in a small but meaningful way: by hosting a Buddy Holly Gallery tour and a viewing of The Real Buddy Holly Story, a documentary produced by Paul McCartney.

About 50 people came to the Center that day, and Buddy's older brother Larry was one of them. Larry is a respectable tall Texan; a kind, soft-spoken man. He would sometimes show up at Summer Showcase concerts - just stop by, take a seat and listen to the music, not needing any recognition for being there. This time he came into the Fine Arts Gallery and sat on the third or fourth row. At the end of the documentary, after sitting through scenes detailing the plane crash and aftermath, he sat quietly, tears in his eyes.

That moment made Buddy real to me.

I didn't really know you, Buddy, but I felt your spirit many times through the people you touched.

Thank you.

Lucy loves you |