Sixty four years ago this morning, on a wintery February morning, I descended the stairway of our modest Northern New York home to prepare to go to school. My older brother John, a junior in High School at the time, had preceded me downstairs a few minutes earlier. He was halted at the dining room table near the foot of the stairs, poring over a headline in the Syracuse Post Standard and muttering, “Oh jeez…”. As I brushed past him on my way to the bathroom I glanced at the front page he was looking at and saw the pictures of three Rock and Roll stars blazed across the page along with large headlines about a plane crash. I was thirteen at the time and a freshman in High School and it didn’t mean too much to me then. Little did I know how much that would change as I progressed further and further into my teenage years over the subsequent days, weeks, and months and that I would in fact ultimately become a Buddy Holly fan and imitator after his untimely and tragic death that long ago snowy morning in 1959.