Words On a Page: Remembering The Day the Music Died

This is a story about a box.

Or, rather, this is a story about her box.

When I was younger, I often wondered why people felt the need to keep knick-knacks and keepsakes from years gone by. My father was especially guilty of this habit; he had (and still has) shelves in his workshop lined with every sort of tchotchke, from troll dolls to coasters gathered from bars across the country.

But, on an otherwise uneventful night in August when my grandmother decided to pull out her box of mementos, that all changed.

Her box was special. It was a time capsule from a lost age. An age without the Internet or cell phones to distract and entertain. An age when gas cost 25-cents a gallon and the cool kids went cruising on Saturday nights.

This box contained the things that she deemed important. Countless kindergarten projects and baby pictures littered her floor as we unpacked her remembrances. Scrapbooks filled with corsages and dinner napkins from events, parties, dances and proms stood in stacks like towers guarding her legacy.

As we reached the bottom of one pile, I saw a small notebook with the word “Autographs” embossed on its cover and my eyes lit up.

“Grandma,” I asked, “What’s this?”

“That’s something very special,” she replied.

I thumbed through its fragile leaves, the smell of old, worn paper rising to greet my nose, and came across page after page of autographs. Many of them were from high school friends and old acquaintances, but one page stood out from the rest.

The page had two signatures, arranged haphazardly as if written in a hurry, and the words “The Crickets” signed across the top.

“Are these the Crickets?” I choked as I realized what I held in my hand.

“Oh yes,” my grandmother calmly replied.

I scanned the page frantically, searching for the one autograph I knew I would recognize. Instead, I was greeted with the signatures of Joe Mauldin and Jerry Allison.

The look of disappointment on my face did not escape my grandmother. She proceeded to tell me the story about that night; how she had gone to see them at the civic center downtown and how she had waited after the show to get their autographs. She also told me how she hadn’t been able to get Buddy Holly’s signature because he had gone out a different exit.

As she spoke, I turned the page and small piece of paper dropped out of the autograph book and onto the ground in front of me.

My grandmother grew silent and watched as I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. A small smile crept into the corners of her lips and stayed there as my eyes examined the page.

Then, I saw it.

There, in the upper left corner and written in dark, black ink, were the two words I had been looking for.

Buddy Holly.

“But I thought you said you couldn’t get his autograph?” I asked, puzzled.

“That wasn’t the only time I saw Buddy Holly and The Crickets, dear,” she replied with a wink.

The rest of the night was spent Googling the value of Buddy Holly’s autograph, joking about what other autographs grandma might have stashed away somewhere and hearing the stories behind every page in that book.

When we were finished, we carefully placed everything back in the box, closed the lid, sealed it with a fresh strip of packing tape and placed it back in the rafters of the garage.

“Someday, you’ll be able to show your grandchildren your box,” she said as I hugged her goodbye.

The written word is an amazing thing. A simple signature can carry with it memories and stories, friendships and fights, monetary value and sentimental significance. What will your signature leave behind?

I can’t remember if I cried

When I read about his widowed bride

But something touched me deep inside

The day the music died.