Given our abundance of local political scenarios on which to feast somewhat sarcastic musings, I am reluctant to let another week go by without comment.

Postponing such pontifications seems as absurd as putting off a fishing trip to a stocked pond.

However, since I do have to get my very favorite library book back to the Freeland branch before the library’s six-month, three-hundred forty some thousand dollar extreme makeover (we can only hope that there will be enough money to erect an original Georgia Gerber beautiful bronze statute of Dewey Decimal and his dog System), I am feeling pressure to give you a brief book report of the best book I have read since Franklin W. Dixon’s Hardy Boys classic, “Footprints Under The Window.”

So, without pressure in mind, let us postpone our local political repartee until next week so I can get this book off my chest.

It is so absolutely essential to the understanding of my youth that I feel I must share some of this with you just in case you have ever heard of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens or The Big Bopper, J.P. Richardson.

It was a cold and dark and dreary day in the hallways of Wickliffe Elementary School. It was a Tuesday morning, the third day of February 1959. It was the day that would come to be known to our generation as “The Day the Music Died.”

“The Day the Music Died” also happens to be the name of the book that I just finished. A book written by Larry Lehmer and published in 1997, this effort took the author over 18 years of pencil pushing and tape pausing.

Some folks think Don McLean’s elongated hit “American Pie” somewhat described the shattered feelings of those shocking moments in the ‘50s when we first heard that three of our American idols and their pilot Roger Peterson had crashed in the snowy cornfields of Iowa enroute to the next leg of their Winter Dance Party.

For me, this detailed reanalysis and reconstruction explains why our teen magazines fizzled their coverage of this tragedy to move on to the careers of Frankie Avalon, Fabian and Bobby Vee.

I remember Mom talking about her shocked reaction to the disappearance of Captain Glenn Miller. We had just seen “The Glenn Miller Story” reassuring my life-long joy watching any and all films with Jimmy Stewart or June Allyson.

Come to think of it, quite a few maudlin musical memories haunt my why-can’t-I-forget-this-stuff-instead-of-my-car-keys mind set.

I remember the sobbing screams of the women in the Granada Hills, California Post Office while I was in the lobby picking up the law office mail. These ladies were Elvis Presley fans who had all just heard that Elvis had left the building.

I remember speaking on the phone from Whidbey to my niece Tama back east, right after Kurt Cobain’s name and numbness were splashed across national front pages. The prose on her bedroom walls, now part of the family’s guest bedroom, still reflects her sense of being abandoned by a musical hero.

I remember the lost look on my fourth grade buddy Mike Clark’s face when he told me that James Dean had died in a sports car wreck. Edna Ferber’s “Giant” was still in production as a motion picture. How could they complete a movie without Dean as Jett Rink, the original JR?

I remember sadly reading of the devastating losses of other musical heroes in plane crashes: Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas and Hawkshaw Hawkins in 1963; Jim Reeves in 1964; Otis Redding and his band, the Bar-Kays in 1967; Jim Croce in 1973; Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Ronnie van Zandt and Cassie and Steve Gaines in 1977; Rick Nelson in 1985; Stevie Ray Vaughan in 1990; John Denver in the mountains of Colorado.

That cold Ohio morning I heard about Buddy Holly, I remember thinking that my life would no longer be worth continuing. Thank goodness I wisely negated my emotional road to demise for I am still enjoying new Buddy Holly music, or at least it is new to me.

The music did not die.

It was birthed on Feb. 3, 1959 and re-births today.

After reading Larry Lehmer’s fact-filled and trivia-treasured “The Day the Music Died,” I located a double CD collection of 50 Buddy Holly tunes, including his classics “That’ll be the Day,” “Peggy Sue,” “True Love Ways,” “Rave On” and one I had never heard before, “Holly Hop,” written by his mother Ella and recorded in the Holly family garage

For a fun trip down this rock n roll memory lane, head to Lubbock, Texas for Buddy’s 70th Birthday Bash, Sept. 7, 8 and 9. For more info, check on the web at www.buddyhollycenter.org or call directly at 806-775-3560.

Before you attend, read Lehmer’s book.

Read Lehmer’s book to find out why it took 21 years for the Cerro Gordo County Courthouse in Mason City, Iowa to discover an envelope containing the frames of Buddy Holly’s eyeglasses and the Big Bopper’s watch.

Read what Waylon Jennings, touring member of Buddy’s backup group, The Crickets, last words were to Buddy before Holly boarded the plane.

Read about the coin flip that secured Ritchie Valens last minute seat on the ill-fated Beachcraft Bonanza.

Or, if you are already too busy this summer reading something that you like, ask me about this delightful book when I see you next at Pay-Less, Clinton Food Mart, Casey’s or Ken’s Korner or Prairie Center’s Red Apple, The Star Store, Bailey’s Corner Store, Coupe’s Greenbank Store, or Saar’s Market Place Food and Drug.

It’s not that we eat that much. Like my dad and my brother after him and a long line of balding relatives before me, we like grocery stores.

Oh my, but there is so much information to share.

I wonder if our publisher would consider letting me write for the Wednesday paper if I cross-dressed and promised to use a pseudonym.

Don’t say anything to her yet.

I need to think this through.

Maybe I could do book reviews as seen through the eyes of someone who does not read that often.

Now that Freeland wants an easement through my property to please the curious and developing hikers, I may need additional monies to put in snow cone stands along the proposed trails.

Shall I have a special fundraiser for self-serve, snow-cone stands for easement seeking hikers or just bite the bullet and sell my childhood collection of Superman comics on E-Bay?

Better yet, maybe I can sell my autographed Jimmy Swaggart album to generate capital?

Shall I go to the Capitol and generate on the steps?

Thank goodness I have time to think about this.

What if I’m just kidding myself and I don’t really want to get another book of ferry tickets?

That’ll be the day.