“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. And I knew if I had my chance, I’d see the Fiesta where kids once danced; and maybe I’d be happy for a while.”
It was Sunday September 10, 2023 and Tom’s alarm clock rang at 5:30am. Even though it was still dark outside our room at the Arrowwood Resort hotel in Okoboji, Iowa, I noticed there was fog in the air when my photographer opened the curtains. As it turned out, there was also a nip in the air as well. When the three of us headed to the van at roughly 7:40am, the temperature was 55 degrees.
For two-and-a-half hours, I stood in the camera case as we crossed the border into Minnesota on a northern trajectory. While we had a 140-mile drive in the light fog and cooler temps to get to the Fiesta Ballroom in Montevideo, Minnesota, the Winter Dance Party troupe had a 220-mile ride from Eau Claire, Wisconsin to the same ballroom on January 27, 1959. Not only did they have a longer ride than us, but the performers also made the trip in sub-zero weather with blowing snow, all in the comforts of an old dilapidated, converted school bus with a crummy heating system. After realizing that fact, I sure in the heck-fire wasn’t going to complain about my padded and warm camera case again on the trip.
Vicki drove our Pacifica through the middle of downtown Montevideo, and to me, the entire small town of about 5,300 people looked like its better days were behind it. Even though it was Sunday morning and perhaps a lot of the inhabitants were either in church or preparing to watch an NFL football game on TV, Montevideo seemed worn, tired, and fairly desolate. With that said, my photographer’s wife had no problem finding a parking spot along North 1st Street, across the street from a large building called Hunt on Main – which was a three-story building that featured apartments on the upper floors and retail space on the bottom level. In 1959, that building was known as Hotel Hunt, and was where the Winter Dance Party stars spent the night of January 27th after their performance at the Fiesta Ballroom.
My photographer left his wife in the van as the two of us went out to get some pictures of the old Hotel Hunt. As Tom held me near the front of the building, I looked up and wondered which of the upper rooms Buddy Holly had stayed in. At one point during our ten-minute visit near the exterior of the building, I envisioned the exhausted musicians trudging through the snow and cold as they walked through the front door of the hotel several hours after their performance had finished. Funny thing was – Buddy and the boys didn’t go directly to the hotel after their show. There’s a legendary tale in Montevideo that’s been spun about the Winter Dance Party visit. It’s been well-verified by numerous people who claim when the concert had finished at the Fiesta Ballroom, the entire group was invited to an after-show party at the house of Diane Bagus, a high school sophomore. Holly, Dion, Bopper, Ritchie, and Frankie Sardo were all at that girl’s house – some of them even autographed one of the walls there. And believe it or not, those Rock and Roll stars were perfect gentleman. Bagus once said, “They weren’t rowdy or anything. They were talking about touring. They were really tired and beat.” Obviously, those rockers weren’t too tired and worn out to party with a 10th-grader! Funny thing was, at the time, Valens was only two years older than Bagus.
Back in the van after our short visit at the former Hotel Hunt, Vicki drove the two of us to the site of the Fiesta Ballroom, which was roughly one mile to the east of the hotel. When we arrived at the site, which was located along a narrow street lined with several small businesses, my photographer carried me onto the hallowed grounds where the Fiesta Ballroom once stood. Just six years after the ballroom’s walls were filled with the music of Buddy Holly, the place was destroyed by fire. Today, there’s a small, dilapidated building standing in the ballroom’s footprint.
While I posed for a couple of images at the site, I was able to envision what the Fiesta looked like as Tom had a historic photograph of the ballroom with him. Even though Montevideo was the smallest city on the entire Winter Dance Party tour schedule, the Fiesta Ballroom was packed with teenagers on the night of January 27, 1959. And thankfully, one of those ticket holders to the show, a girl by the name of Jane Ellefson, brought her camera and captured closeup photos of the performers from her position near the front of the Fiesta stage.
That Sunday morning in Montevideo, along Black Oak Avenue where the Fiesta Ballroom once stood, the quietness of the area was broken only by the faint sound of music. But this time, the music didn’t come from Tom’s cell phone. Instead, the faint tunes came from inside my spring-filled resin head as Tom carried me back to our Pacifica. “A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance, and maybe they’d be happy for a while.”
Montevideo, Minnesota was one of those places I’m happy we visited, but I wasn’t disappointed when we left town and were on the road headed towards Moorhead, which was 160 miles to the northwest. But just a little over seven miles outside of Montevideo, we drove through a tiny speck on the map known as Watson, Minnesota – population 182. While that little hamlet wasn’t named after my photographer, it did feature a fillin’ station, convenience store, church, town hall, and of course, a bar. I was surprised when we didn’t stop in town, but Tom was too hell-bent on getting to Moorhead – something Buddy, Ritchie, and The Bopper weren’t able to do in 1959.
At roughly 1:30pm, Vicki pulled into a parking area along 5th Street South, which was only a few blocks from the center of downtown Moorhead. When Tom removed me from the camera case and carried me across the street, I couldn’t believe my painted eyes. We were standing in front of the Ecumen Evergreen senior living complex. I was totally confused. Was this the place where President Biden had planned on living after he leaves the White House in January 2025? It turned out the property in front of me was where The Moorhead Armory once stood. The Armory was the venue where the surviving members of the Winter Dance Party tour performed on February 3, 1959, just hours after learning three of their friends had been killed with their pilot enroute to the airport in nearby Fargo, North Dakota.
With heavy hearts and likely tears in their eyes, Dion DiMucci, Carlo Mastrangelo and Fred Milano of the Belmonts, Frankie Sardo, and backing musicians Tommy Allsup, Waylon Jennings, and sax player Thom Mason, arrived at The Armory where they were forced to play the two shows scheduled for February 3rd. Even though three of the four major headliners were dead, show promoter Irvin Feld of General Artists Corporation vowed to sue the surviving performers if they broke their contract by not finishing the rest of the tour. To help with the two shows in Moorhead, 15-year-old Robert Velline (stage name Bobby Vee) came to the rescue with his group, the Shadows, and filled-in for Buddy Holly. It turned out Bobby Vee, who lived across the river in nearby Fargo, knew the words to all of Holly’s songs and the shows continued as a tribute to the fallen singers.
Even though the Moorhead Armory hosted the “Night the Music Lived On”, the historic venue was demolished in 1990 and replaced with a senior living complex. As I posed for several photos near the exterior of the Ecumen Evergreen complex, I didn’t hear any music. There was no ‘Rave On’, or ‘Chantilly Lace’, or ‘La Bamba’ echoing through my hallow head. Instead, all I thought about was the selfish, greedy, and ruthless act of Irvin Feld. And to top it all off, the surviving members of the Winter Dance Party tour weren’t allowed any time to grieve or attend the funerals of their friends – and that was downright wrong. Feld could’ve postponed all of the shows for a week or two, then reschedule the shows once the funerals were finished.
When Tom and I finished our business at the site of the Moorhead Armory, my photographer carried me back to the van where Vicki patiently waited for us. During our drive to the next site in Moorhead, which was where the Comstock Hotel was once located, I stood in my camera case and stewed over the unethical antics of promoter Irvin Feld in 1959. But my anger quickly turned to sadness as soon as my photographer’s wife parked our van next to a Wells Fargo bank along Center Avenue in downtown Moorhead.
After an all-night ride on their cold bus, Dion DiMucci and the rest of the Winter Dance Party troupe arrived at the Comstock Hotel, which was where they planned to spend the night following their two shows at The Armory. Tommy Allsup and the road manager walked into the lobby of the Comstock and Allsup asked for the room next to Buddy Holly. The desk manager asked Tommy if he was a member of the group, and when Allsup said he was, the clerk said: “Well, you know those guys were killed in a plane crash last night?” That was how the rest of the Winter Dance Party performers discovered the grim news and the fate of their friends.
While Vicki stayed with the Truckster, my photographer carried me to the front of the Wells Fargo bank, which had been built in the footprints of the Comstock Hotel. Our task of capturing quality images near the exterior of the building was made easier when Tom discovered Center Avenue and 8th Street North were both closed to traffic due to ongoing construction. I posed for a few images with the bank behind me, then I posed for another image near the front entrance. As I stood there, I envisioned Tommy Allsup as he walked past me – only to hear the shocking news inside the hotel’s lobby.
I imagined once Tommy Allsup and Waylon Jennings got into their rooms at the Comstock Hotel, they broke down and cried. Not only did they grieve for their three friends, but both of them also knew they had escaped death themselves. Allsup lost his seat on the plane when Valens, who was sick, won a coin toss inside the Surf Ballroom which sealed his fate in Rock and Roll history. And Jennings gave his seat on the plane to J.P. Richardson because the Bopper also had the flu and needed to get some rest. But for Waylon, it was one of the last things he ever said to Holly that haunted him for the rest of his life. When Buddy found out Jennings had given his seat on the plane to The Bopper, Holly said to him: “You’re not going on the plane tonight, huh?” After Waylon said he wasn’t, Buddy said: “Well, I hope your old bus freezes up.” The young guitar player immediately replied: “Well, I hope your old plane crashes.” Even though Waylon was joking, that haunting statement made him believe he had caused the plane crash, and it took years to convince himself otherwise.
“February 3rd made him shiver, with the news the clerk delivered. Bad news on the doorstep, he couldn’t take one more step. I don’t know if Tommy cried, he should’ve been by Holly’s side. But something touched him deep inside, the day that Buddy died.”
When Tom and I returned to the van where Vicki was waiting for us, my heart ached as I thought about the events of February 3, 1959 – The Day the Music Died. But as we headed over the Red River and into Fargo, North Dakota, I knew our Winter Dance Party sites were finished – at least until the end of the trip. And that was okay. I had two full days of mourning over the loss of Buddy, Ritchie, The Bopper, and Roger Peterson, and I needed an immediate injection of positivity. But where do you think Tom took me next? That’s right – a cemetery.
I was thrilled when we crossed the border into North Dakota because it became the 42nd different state I had visited. But when Vicki drove the Truckster onto the grounds of Holy Cross Cemetery in Fargo, my excitement turned to confusion as I had no idea who’s grave we were about to see. I knew there were no Presidential gravesites in North Dakota. As a matter of fact, I wondered if any Presidents, besides Teddy Roosevelt, had ever stepped foot in that state.
Once we stopped along a roadway near the back of the burial ground, Tom carried me towards a black, polished granite headstone that had been cut in the shape of a diamond. When I saw the name ‘Maris’, along with a baseball player, etched onto the monument, I knew exactly who was buried there – Roger Maris of the New York Yankees. And to add a piece of irony to our visit – exactly four months earlier, on June 10th, I stood at the graves of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. But there was another piece to the puzzle of irony. When Tom set me on the ground next to the grave marker, I noticed Roger’s birthdate was September 10, 1934. That’s right – we were paying our respects at the grave of Roger Maris on what would have been his 89th birthday. Had we known the day’s significance ahead of time, I’m sure Vicki would have purchased a potted plant and left it at the gravesite.
Roger Maris began his MLB career in 1957 with the Cleveland Indians, and a year later, he was traded to the Kansas City Athletics. By 1960, however, Maris was traded to the Yankees where he played the next seven seasons. But it was during his second season in New York, in 1961, when Roger Maris became a household name as he belted 61 home runs to eclipse Babe Ruth’s record of 60 set in 1927. After playing for two years in St. Louis, including in the 1968 World Series against the Detroit Tigers, Maris retired from baseball as the all-time single season home run king. That record lasted until 1998 when Mark McGwire crushed 70 home runs; and three years later, in 2001, Barry Bonds blasted 73 long balls. Maris still held the American League home run record until Aaron Judge of the Yankees hit 62 homers in 2022.
During his retirement from baseball, the quiet man from Fargo became invested in a Florida beer business with his brother. In 1983, the slugger was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma, which ultimately took his life on December 14, 1985 at the age of 51. Ironically, Ruth and Gehrig also died young – Babe was 53 when he died from throat cancer, and Lou was only 37 when ALS took his life.
A few minutes after we discovered September 10th was Roger Maris’ birthday, a large commercial jet took off from a runway within a thousand feet of us. Because of the numerous trees surrounding the cemetery, the three of us didn’t realize an airport was nearby. But shortly after we left the cemetery and we drove past the airport, Tom noticed it was Hector International Airport – the same airport where Roger Peterson was headed in the early morning hours of February 3, 1959. I was shocked when my photographer didn’t stop to get a picture of the airport, but there was a logical reason. It was nearly two-thirty in the afternoon and my larger-than-normal camera guy was hungry – he had saved his enormous appetite for a specialty pizza from Blackbird Wood Fire Pizza, which was located a few miles away in downtown Fargo. It turned out that place wasn’t an ordinary pizza joint – Blackbird Wood Fire Pizza had been featured on Guy Fieri’s TV show ‘Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives’.
My photographer’s wife got lucky and found a convenient parking spot along Broadway in close proximity to the Blackbird. But when the three of us walked up to the restaurant’s entrance, we were stunned to find it was closed on Sunday. To top it off, most of the eateries in the vicinity were also closed that day as well, which was a surprise since the campus of North Dakota State University wasn’t too far away. Instead of eating where Guy Fieri once dined on gourmet pizza, we were forced to settle for an early dinner down the street at Boss’ Pizza & Chicken – Vic had pizza, while my photographer ate deep fried yard bird and watched one of the early NFL games on TV.
After my companions had finished their meal, it was time to begin the long trek west. But before we got onto I-94 where Vicki planned to drive off into the sunset, Tom had one final site in Fargo he wanted to visit; and that site was situated inside West Acres Mall – a large shopping center located a few miles southwest of town. It’s not often I’ve been carried inside a shopping mall during one of our trips, but it happened on that Sunday afternoon. And the funny thing was, the three of us didn’t venture into any of the stores. Instead, we had made the journey into the mall to visit the Roger Maris Museum.
When Maris was first approached with the idea of building a museum in his hometown of Fargo, the humble ballplayer declined. But when he was finally convinced to change his mind about a museum, Roger had several conditions that had to be met – the museum needed to be “where people will see it” and it needed to be open to the public free of charge. In 1984, the Roger Maris Museum came to life inside a wing of the mall and was visible, accessible, and free to anyone who wanted to see it.
The three of us went into a small theater at the museum where we sat in original 1961 Yankee Stadium seats and watched video footage from Maris’ playing days. Then Tom carried me along the glass-enclosed wall where I saw some artifacts from Roger’s time in the Majors, including the baseball he hit for his 60th home run. To me, it was a modest museum for an even more modest ballplayer. Maris once said: “Sometimes I wish I never hit those 61 home runs. All I want is to be treated like any other player. I never wanted all this hoopla. All I wanted is to be a good ballplayer, hit 25 or 30 homers, drive in around a hundred runs, hit .280, and help my club win pennants. I just wanted to be one of the guys, an average player with a good season.”
Over the past ten years, I’ve visited a countless number of museums – some were huge, while some were very small. Even though the Roger Maris Museum in Fargo was not a Presidential Museum, I was still impressed by the entire display inside West Acres Mall. I thought the entire display was a good representation of a humble ballplayer once known as Roger Mar-Ass.
The three of us had a 92-mile ride to get to our pre-reserved hotel in Jamestown, North Dakota. At roughly 5:17pm, Vicki pulled into the parking lot of the Hampton Inn & Suites – our home-away-from-home for the night. While his wife was in the lobby registering, Tom unpacked the van and brought all of their belongings, including me, to the room.
Even though there was plenty of sunlight left, I thought for sure Tom and Vicki were finished for the day. After all, how many great sites can my photographer’s wife be expected to handle in one day. For my cameraman’s sake, hopefully one more – especially after he discovered the World’s Largest Buffalo Monument was only a mile or two from the hotel.
Back in the Pacifica, Vicki followed the GPS directions to the monument, which was located near the National Buffalo Museum and the touristy Frontier Village. When we arrived at the village, I was shocked to see no other visitors were there – we had the big buffalo all to ourselves.
Tom carried me along a narrow pathway that led to the hill where the giant buffalo had roamed, or stood, since its construction in 1959. Now known as ‘Dakota Thunder’ and created by sculptor Elmer Peterson, the enormous 26-foot-tall, 46-foot-long, 60-ton concrete buffalo was mind-blowing – and believe it or not, it was anatomically correct. I posed for a handful of images from various angles near the monument; and at one point, Tom forced me to pose close to its two-ton set of gonads.
We finished our visit with Dakota Thunder, then Tom carried me into Frontier Village where I posed for another picture. While the buildings were original to the 1800s North Dakota frontier and moved to the site where they were reconstructed, everything in that area seemed very touristy – even though we were the only ones there. I laughed to myself when Tom recited a few lines from Chevy Chase’s movie ‘Vacation’, because Frontier Village reminded my photographer of the movie’s Dodge City scene. “Kids, this is the very street Wyatt Earp used to keep law and order on.” Vicki responded: “It seems kind of dirty and touristy.” Tom shot back: “Oh, Ellen, the Old West was dirty. Everything isn’t like home. If everything were like home, there’d be no reason for leaving home, right, Rusty?” It was my turn, and I said: “Oh yeah, dad, this is great. Now I’m glad we didn’t go to Hawaii.”
Vicki drove the Truckster slowly out of Dodge City, or rather Frontier Village; but instead of turning south onto Highway 281 which would have taken us back to the Hampton, my photographer’s wife turned north and headed towards the nearest Dairy Queen. I stood silently in the camera case and watched in disgust as Tom devoured a banana split twice as fast as Vicki ate her small hot fudge sundae.
The clock on the van’s dashboard read 7:45 when we finally returned to our hotel. Once in our room, Tom placed me alongside the TV set where the three of us watched the Sunday Night Football game between the Dallas Cowboys and New York Giants. After the 40-0 onslaught by Dallas had finished, the lights in the room were extinguished at 9:45pm.
Throughout the night, I stood in the darkness and thought about Theodore Roosevelt’s time in North Dakota. TR arrived in the Dakota Territory for the first time in 1883 to hunt buffalo and other game. In my mind, I somehow envisioned the 25-year-old Roosevelt making his way into Jamestown where he crossed paths with Dakota Thunder – the World’s Largest Buffalo. Teddy took several shots with his rifle, which obviously didn’t affect the giant concrete beast. TR turned around, said “he’s got bigger balls than me”, and headed home to New York where he lived the rest of his life in obscurity.
When I regained consciousness, I instantly wondered why such goofy stuff pops into my resin head when Tom is fast asleep. Perhaps that horrible vision was spawned from watching my photographer trying to touch Dakota Thunder’s gonads. Unfortunately, as hard as I try, there are some things I just can’t unsee.
