If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you likely know that museums are one of my passions. I regularly travel to museums across the U.S. with my family. Well, a new exhibit just opened a few weeks ago at The Perot Museum of Science and Nature in Downtown Dallas, Texas, called Topaz: A Spectrum in Stone. The reason I’m writing about it today is two-fold: First, it’s really cool, and the Perot has a stunning Gem & Mineral Hall; and two, I was a writer on this exhibit. (I even gave the exhibit its name.)
This is not the first exhibit I’ve worked on for the Perot (and I hope it will not be the last), but it is the first one I’m writing about on this blog. In fact, Topaz: A Spectrum in Stone replaced a mineralogy exhibit that I had previously worked on a few years back. As the name implies, it’s all about topaz.
I knew only a few passing details about these stones before I started, but learning about new things is part of why working for a museum is such a wonderful experience. For instance, I now know that red-orange topaz are the rarest of the rare in the world. Why, you ask? It’s because of the presence of chromium during the stone’s formation.
Along those lines, topaz are naturally colorless. If they have a color at all, it can be due to the presence of radiation or heat. In fact, you can artificially make a topaz blue by exposing it to further radiation and heat. Conversely, sunlight and UV radiation in general can actually leech the color back out of it.
Indeed.
The topaz displayed in this exhibit are some of the most well-known specimens in the world. Here a few of the stars of the show:
Remember all that stuff about chromium above? Well, this topaz is one of the best examples of a fiery red-orange color. It was mined in Brazil and cut to have a stylized flame pattern along its surface. The Imperial Flame topaz is one of the best examples of this rarest-of-the-rare topaz in the world.
Another one from Brazil, this topaz is largely clear, but has a yellow-green tint to it. It has an eye-shaped cut, but here’s the kicker: This topaz is over 9,600 carats! (Yes, Vegeta, over 9,000.) It’s so gigantic that at first glance it looks like a fancy paperweight, but this stone is the real deal. Keep in mind that this gem is this large even after it’s been cut. Just imagine how big it must’ve been coming out of the ground.
The Texas Bluebonnet
My close-up shot of the actual stone came out blurry. Consequently, this is not the Texas Bluebonnet, but this shows you the approximate color and cut of the actual stone.
Another fun fact: Texas is the only state with its own official gem cut — the Lone Star cut, which forms a five-pointed star in the middle of the gem. Also, blue topaz is the Texas state gemstone. So, if there was one topaz that embodies both the pale blue color of Texas topaz (found exclusively in Mason County), and the Lone Star cut, it’s this 234-carat topaz.
This is just to name a few. The exhibit also includes several bicolor topaz from the Volyn deposit in Ukraine, some other imperial topaz that are more of an amber yellow, and several large, uncut topaz that are stunning in their colors and/or size. One of them even looks like it’s a piece of ice from right off the side of an iceberg. Trust me when I say that photos don’t do them justice. Like, at all.
I’ve been to a fair few natural history museums in my time, but the Gem & Mineral Hall at the Perot remains my favorite, and not just because I’ve worked on exhibits there. The specimens they have there, such as the famed Eyes of Africa, the largest intact stibnite crystal ever found, and a person-sized purple geode, all come together to really show us the breathtaking beauty that our planet has to offer.
In closing, if you are in the Downtown Dallas area, I highly recommend giving the Perot a visit. There’s so much to see and explore, so make a day of it. From dinosaur fossils to space exploration, and many points in-between, The Perot Museum of Science and Nature is an experience quite unlike any other.
I love museums and historical sites. If you’ve followed this blog for any period of time, this will come as no surprise. If you’re just joining us, museums have been something I’ve always enjoyed, even as a kid.
The thought of preserving our history where it can be enjoyed by the public is something that has always been a part of me as long as I can remember (even before I saw Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.) In my writing career I’ve even had the pleasure of doing some museum work, and hope to do much more in the future. So, suffice to say, historical sites and museums are my bread and butter.
There’s a phenomenon that I’ve encountered a few times when I’ve visited these places that I want to share with you, which I call “Oak Tree” moments. I’ll get into why I call it this in a moment, but it’s a catalyst that peels back the fog of time and years in a sudden rush.
Sometimes when you stand in a historical place or in the presence of historical artifacts, it can be hard to reconcile that you are actually there, that history is so close at hand. An Oak Tree moment is the realization that you are, in fact, there. It can be a transformative experience.
This doesn’t happen to me at every site or museum I’ve visited, but when it does it is powerful stuff. For this blog post, I wanted to share with you a few of the times I’ve had an Oak Tree moment, starting with the original.
My First Oak Tree
When I was fourteen, I had a week-long school trip to our nation’s capital. Washington D.C. was the most impressive city I had ever visited at the time. I had a keen interest in history even back then, having joined the local chapter of our school’s Junior Historians two years before at the age of twelve.
As you can imagine, getting to see all the regular stops was incredible: the Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson memorial, Capitol Hill, and the crowning achievement — the Smithsonian. There, I got to see (among many other things) the original model for the U.S.S. Enterprise used in the original series Star Trek. They even had a pair of pointed-ear appliances worn by Leonard Nimoy on the show. I was a big fan even back then, and seeing the real deal was breathtaking, but not the Oak Tree.
We weren’t able to visit the White House, but drove by it. We looked at the Declaration of Independence through bullet-proof glass at the National Archives. We saw so many relics from the founding of our nation that I was close to such a moment, but not quite there yet.
Our tour group went to Mount Vernon, home of George Washington. If you’ve never been there, the grounds are tranquil and well maintained. I walked through his home. The tour guide told us that the green paint on the walls was Washington’s idea because it was soothing to the eye. Gorgeous as the house is, I knew in the back of my mind that it had been heavily renovated. Great care had been taken to restore the place to how it had been in Washington’s lifetime, but again I knew that little of it was original.
We visited Washington’s grave nearby, where he and Martha Washington are interred. I’ve always had a reverence for historical graves, and this one was no different, but still that feeling of realness hadn’t quite hit me.
The moment in question came when the tour guide took us to a beautiful, picturesque oak tree on the grounds, not terribly far away from the house. It had grown tall and strong. I remember looking up at it and thinking that it had come out of Lord of the Rings. That’s when the tour guide informed us that Washington himself had planted that tree.
My mind reeled at this. I thought about how long it takes oak trees to grow to that size, decades, centuries, even. The time difference between where I stood there at the age of fourteen and when Washington had stood on the same spot to plant the acorn seemed vastly far away, yet close at hand at the same time. He had actually been there, on that spot. The house wasn’t just a reproduction; it was really the place he lived, the place where he died.
In my mind’s eye I saw the tree sprout up out of the ground as the days and nights flew by in a time-lapsed flash, growing and growing until it finally became the tree I stood beneath. It was like a waking dream. This was the first time I had ever felt connected, really connected to history.
The Hatch
Some years later, I found myself at the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas. I’ve been lucky to visit this museum more times than any other, but on this occasion it was my first visit. If you’ve never been, I highly recommend it. After a short video presentation, the museum starts off hundreds of years before World War II, talking about how trade and conflict over a long period of time created the complicated relationship between Japan and China.
As you walk along the timeline, you start to see Japan’s gradual rise to power and imperialism, including the military campaigns they waged in China, creating the client state of Manchukuo. The displays and exhibits don’t try to downplay the violence. One of the photos in the gallery here is of an infant sitting in the ruins of a bombed out train station in Shanghai. On a future visit, this photo would absolutely wreck me.
Finally, as you might expect in a museum about the Pacific War, you are led to a short presentation about the attack on Pearl Harbor. The display features one of the two-man Japanese subs present at the attack. There are many artifacts from that day and models of ships. Just around the corner from the submarine, however, tucked into an unassuming alcove is a rusted piece of metal.
I’ve mentioned this particular piece of metal before, but this was the first time I had ever laid eyes on it. The metal is reddened with rust. A black stain crosses it about half-way. Above that stain, there is an egg-shaped hole cut into its surface.
This is a hatch from the battleship, Arizona one of the first USN ships lost in the war. The black stain comes from all the oil floating on top of the water. It shows us where the waterline was when the ship sank. The hole was cut by Navy divers who were looking for survivors on the other side.
I’ve seen the famous photo of Arizona in the aftermath, her once-proud lines blackened and ruined, belching smoke. It’s a powerful image, but nothing (and I mean nothing) prepared me to see an actual part of her hull. The fear and desperation of that day seemed to radiate from it, but with it, the courage, the determination, and uncommon valor also. I’ve never really been one to believe in ghosts, but the reaction I had was visceral, and I was overwhelmed.
I may have had an Oak Tree moment then, but it was to a very violent and dark chapter of our history. I have since visited this hatch on several occasions, and there has always been a reaction, though nothing quite like the first time. Each time I visit, I am thankful for the Japanese Peace Garden that exists on the grounds, which is always a welcome coda to the war.
The Diary
Last year, my family visited the National World War II museum in New Orleans, which includes an incredible number of exhibits from both the European and Pacific theatres. Before we go any further, I should say that even though this story also deals with a WWII museum, it led to one of the most heartfelt stories of the war that I’ve ever encountered.
We took the guided tour, and I’m really glad that we did. (Once again, I highly recommend doing so.) We progressed through the march to Berlin and then the march to Tokyo. As we got a decent way into the Pacific War, the tour guide stopped us at a glass enclosure and pointed out an open diary.
This particular diary belonged to Thomas Jones, a Marine whose blonde hair earned him the nickname of “Cotton.” Cotton kept a diary like so many did to document his experiences in the war. He also kept a picture of his high-school sweetheart in the diary, a young woman named Laura Mae Davis. Knowing the danger he was in, Cotton wrote in his diary that, if something should happen to him, he wanted Laura Mae Davis, the woman he loved, to have his diary.
Unfortunately, something did happen. Cotton died at the age of twenty-two at the battle of Peleliu. His personal effects, including the diary, were sent home to his family. Unfortunately, it appears that the diary went into a box and never made its way to Laura Mae Davis. Eventually, the diary was sent to the museum and put on display.
Fast forward to 2013, and a fateful trip to the museum. A 90-year-old woman with her family sees the diary, and the photo, recognizing it as a picture of herself. By sheer chance, Laura Mae Davis encountered the diary that Cotton wished her to have from the beginning. She brought this to the attention of the curator, who read Cotton’s words in the book, and gave it to her on the spot. It eventually came back on display at the museum where I encountered it.
There are so many service members who kept a diary just like Cotton’s, thousands, tens of thousands. This book is a single thread in a greater tapestry. The scope of World War II is so large that it’s almost more than the mind can comprehend, but Cotton’s diary shines a spotlight on one story among many in such a way that it humanizes them all.
Honorable Mention: The King’s Palace
Early this year I went to Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee, the home of the one and only Elvis Presley. I wrote about it in the blog post here, where I talk about having an Oak Tree moment, but I didn’t give specifics to it, only that it had happened to me.
You know what it was that triggered it? It wasn’t a white bespangled jumpsuit or the sight of the famous pink Cadillac. Two things triggered it, actually. First, it was the wood paneling in the security booth that guarded the driveway just outside the mansion itself. It’s the same kind of paneling that was in my childhood home, which had been built in the sixties. It gets really hot in Memphis in the summer, but the booth station had to be manned at all times because of who Elvis was. Thankfully, there was a standalone A/C window unit to give some much needed relief to the person on call. These small details really brought Elvis’ fame home to me.
The second part was green carpeting — on the ceiling. In the world-famous Jungle Room, where Elvis famously bought all of his furniture at once, he had green shag carpeting installed on the floor. Besides using the space to entertain celebrities, he also used the Jungle Room as a place to record music. This led him to carpet on the ceiling as well. From various accounts, this is the room where Elvis would often watch the news and eat breakfast. So, the carpet gave me that momentary view into the life of the man himself in the very space where these events took place. Absolutely magical.
Final Thoughts
History is a weird thing. The effects of it are all around us, every day, influencing us in a dozen subtle ways, affecting our opinions and viewpoints across a spectrum of areas — often without us even being aware of it. Museums and historical sites are our direct link to that history, where we come face-to-face with it.
I know that not everyone is quite so moved by history as I am, and that’s fine. It can be easy to get lost in all of the names and dates and minutiae, but in the end history is really about people. Oak Tree moments, on the rare occasions that I experience them, bring all that into sharp relief for a moment. They are a reminder that we are all fellow passengers through time.
So, I put the question to you: Have you ever experienced an Oak Tree moment of your own? If so, I would love to hear about it in the comments. If not, I hope that you do have one at some point in the future. You never know when something will strike a spark. Sometimes it can be the littlest thing, the smallest detail that can forge that connection with history.
When my father would take me to elementary school, we had something of a tradition: We would listen to music to set the mood for the morning. It was through these early morning music sessions that I was first exposed to classical composers such as Vivaldi and Brahms, as well as the guitar magic of Fernando Sor and Enrique Granados. One of the albums that made its way into the mix was Paul Simon’s, Graceland.
The entire album is fantastic, but there was something in the catchy bass hook of “Graceland” that really resonated with me. This was the first time I had ever heard of the place, but I didn’t know what it was. My father informed me that Graceland was the famous residence of none other than the legend himself, Elvis Presley.
Recently, I had a chance to finally follow in the footsteps of the King. Paul’s Simon’s eponymous theme played through the speakers of the rental car on the way there, as it should. The Graceland Museum is right across the street from the mansion itself. It is filled with all manner of Elvis artifacts, ranging from his cars, including the famous Pink Cadillac, some of his Army gear from the time he was drafted, and tributes and various personal possessions. His signature jumpsuits and golden records are also on display, though I wasn’t able to see them this time around. It’s good to have something new to see next time I’m in Memphis, however, since I already want to go there again.
Where I was fascinated, however, was in the mansion itself. Elvis bought the estate when he was just 22 years old, and he lived there for the remainder of his life. He modified the grounds extensively, adding the iconic guitar gates, an outdoor pool, a trophy building, and an indoor racquetball court.
The grounds there are peaceful. Part of me was captivated by the trees on the green in front of the house. I went in with the tour group, just one more pilgrim in the crowd. While luxurious, even decadent in places, I was struck by just how small the house was. Elvis was arguably the first international megastar. Musicians nowadays with a fraction of his star power live in megamansions that could dwarf Graceland. That Elvis chose this place as his main residence, and didn’t have a string of much larger places, is something that’s worth noting.
The Graceland Mansion has been frozen in time from the era when he lived there. His living room with a grand piano and stained glass peacocks, his yellow basement lounge with its three TVs and a (for the time) state-of-the-art RCA sound system, the world-famous Jungle Room with its carved wooden furniture and green shag carpeting on the floor and ceiling — it’s all in the state that Elvis left it.
It’s here that I had my ‘oak tree’ moment (a phenomenon that happens to me often enough at places like this that it really deserves its own blog post). Basically, it’s the dawning realization that the place you’re standing in isn’t a reproduction or facsimile; it’s the very real place where this person lived. This is where they sat down for dinner, spent time with family, took important phone calls, made tough decisions that are now lost to the sands of time — where the quiet moments of their life took place. In Elvis’ case, it’s also the place where he passed away. Heavy stuff, man.
The second floor of the Mansion is roped off. The audio tour, hosted by John Stamos, tells the visitors that the upper floor is kept private. I suspect that’s largely because having people see the place where he died just should not be on display. And, you know, I’m fine with that.
The next day, I went into Memphis proper to see the place where Elvis’ recording career first began its meteoric rise to prominence. Just as I would recommend the tour of Graceland, the same is true of Sun Studio, the birthplace of rock and roll. The likes of Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, B.B. King, and so many others made their careers at Sun Studio.
The space where Elvis recorded “That’s All Right,” his first runaway hit, is right there on the first floor of Sun. You can see the spot where he recorded the single that began his rock stardom. The story goes that Elvis had a fateful recording session with Sam Phillips, Sun’s owner and record producer, one that did not go so well at first. After a few hours, Sam decided to call it quits. The guitar and bass players began putting their instruments away when Elvis started singing “That’s All Right.” Something in it really grabbed Sam’s attention, and he asked Elvis to sing it again. The bass and guitar players pulled their instruments back out and they spent the rest of the night trying to get the song down.
Once they finally had it in the can, Sam sent the record over to the “Red Hot & Blue” radio show hosted by legendary DJ, Dewey Philips. “That’s All Right“ became an instant hit. A few days later, Elvis signed his first recording contract with Sun. His first record came out two weeks later, and so begins Elvis’ path to becoming a fixture in American pop culture. He inspired a generation of artists, and his fame paved the way for many other musical legends. As Buddy Holly put it, “Without Elvis, none of us would have made it.”
Buddy Holly would, in turn, go on to inspire many others, including the Beatles. So, the impact that Elvis has had on music cannot be understated. As an aside, I once knew a lady who had a collection of pristine liquor decanters in the likeness of Elvis, complete with microphones and necklaces gilded with real gold. I mean, that’s a little on the weird side, but how many other musicians are ever enshrined in such a way?
Yet, when I think of Elvis, not the one we see on black velvet but the man himself, I can’t help but feel pity for him, especially in the final years of his life. Increasingly isolated, with most of his musical rights sold, divorced, performing constantly, with years of bad habits taking their toll, he died alone at the age of just 42.
There’s a piano in the lounge adjoining the aforementioned racquetball court. That was the last instrument that Elvis ever played, on the day he died. According to his cousin and member of the Memphis Mafia, Billy Smith, the last songs Elvis sang were “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain“ and “Unchained Melodies,” the latter of which was one of the last live performances he ever gave. Both songs, especially when sung by Elvis, have that poignant, yearning quality to them, which I can only conclude encapsulated his state of mind at the time. Listening to them now is haunting.
I didn’t know this before I arrived at Graceland, but Elvis is actually interred on the grounds, near a fountain in the Meditation Garden. He’s there along with his mother and father. Tragically, his only daughter, Lisa Marie, now lies there in a mausoleum next to her son, Benjamin Keough. It’s difficult to stand there and not be moved, yet the peaceful nature of the grounds I spoke of earlier is a balm to this.
You know, in many ways, I have been on my way to Graceland for a long time, ever since those trips with my father as we zipped down the country roads in his ’72 Datsun pickup truck. Trips like this are transformative in many ways. Where I thought the visit would be for the glitz and glamour of one of America’s brightest stars, I came away with more of a feeling of introspection for having been there, a cause to ask the important questions of life, death, and existence. My trip to the Buddy Holly Museum had a similar effect on me.
Even still, Elvis had a personal mantra in the ’70s, summed up in this logo. Believe me, it is everywhere at the Graceland Museum.
The gates of the Graceland Museum.
It stands for “Taking Care of Business in a Flash,” or often shortened to simply “Taking Care of Business.” I believe this was Elvis’ way of telling us that time is short, to stay focused on what’s most important, get stuff done with style, and live a life worth remembering.
Not bad advice from the King, really. And considering everything that was going on in my life when I took this trip, they are sentiments I needed to take to heart. So, from me to all of you out there reading this…
Halloween is just around the corner! In honor of that, this blog is about a mummy. No, not the Universal Pictures mummy (though I love me some Boris Karloff), nor one of the Brendan Fraser variety, but a real, actual mummy.
Namely, Ramses the Great.
My first brush with Ramses was as a kid in 1989 when his exhibit came to the Dallas Museum of Natural History at Fair Park. The man himself was not there, unfortunately — he was still in his resting place in Cairo, but a lot of his artifacts made the trip over. The exhibit included carved statues of his likeness, incredible jewelry, cups, bowls, personal implements, you name it. Not all of it was tied to Ramses himself, but much of it belonged to those who lived in that general era of time, some 3,300 years ago.
Several of these artifacts were included in the 1989 exhibit, especially the stone slab depicting Anubis.
Considering in my heart of hearts I wanted to be an archaeologist back then, this was both a figurative and literal treasure trove for me. Egyptology was a field I considered going into, and it remains an interest of mine to this day. So, to say this trip had an impact on me as a kid is an understatement.
At that time, my grandmother was a schoolteacher, and there was a whole unit in social studies that taught us the basics of life in ancient Egypt, about the 19th Dynasty when Ramses reigned, and so forth. After the fact, I wound up with teacher’s resource guide used to teach the lessons. I put it with my other books on archaeology. Here’s a photo. We’ll get back to this book in a moment.
That logo, though.
Now, fast-forward to last December. I was passing through Houston and saw a billboard for a new exhibit at the Houston Museum of Natural Science: Ramses The Great and the Gold of the Pharaohs. I knew immediately that this was my chance to revisit the time of Ramses II. So, after the holidays, I loaded up the family and that’s exactly what I did.
This is what greeted us as we walked in.
The Houston Museum of Natural Science already has a wonderful Egyptian exhibit on permanent display there, which is definitely worth checking out if you’re in the area. This particular temporary exhibit was an extension of that section. The artifacts of the Ramses exhibit were incredible. I’ve included some pictures here, but trust me when I say that they don’t do them justice.
Beyond that, the technical side of the exhibit was flawless, and I say this having worked on exhibits in museums previously. The lighting, the flow from one display cluster to the next, even the music playing throughout the various spaces was everything I could have asked for. The display that explained the famous Battle of Kadesh, in particular, had a cool back-projection effect that looked nearly holographic. (Unfortunately my photos of it didn’t come out well, so I can’t show what it looked like.)
At one point, I came across a magnificent golden necklace. This one, the Gold of Valor belonging to Psusennes the First, a pharaoh of the 21st Dynasty.
Wow…
It looked really familiar, as did a number of the pieces of jewelry in the case, all of which are breathtaking. It was at that point that I wondered if some of these artifacts had been on display back in 1989.
Later, when I got back home, I unearthed the teachers guide that had been in my collection for years. In the back of the guide, there was a list of the artifacts on display back then. I put that next to the official exhibit book I picked up in the Houston museum’s gift shop. Turns out, it was the same necklace I had seen as a kid.
It struck me that in the intervening 33 years, the necklace had made the trip to Egypt and back and likely been on display in number of other exhibits. As I leafed through the teachers guide and the official companion book, I realized that I had seen many of the other artifacts before as well. While it had been most of a lifetime for me, what was a mere three decades compared to the three millennia these artifacts had seen since their creation? They were ancient in a way that my fellow Americans often have a hard time comprehending.
As we left the exhibit, we found a bench and started talking amongst ourselves about our favorite moments and displays. That’s when a gentleman from Egypt approached us and asked if he could ask us a few survey questions. I was too happy to oblige. The questions were mainly along the lines of ‘how did you enjoy the exhibit, and what could be better?’ I had nothing but glowing things to say. The question that really stuck with me, though, was the last one he asked me: “Why do you think people are interested in Ramses today?”
In my excitement, I was probably pretty rambling, but my answer was to the effect of: “When most people think of an Egyptian pharaoh, everyone knows the name of King Tutankhamen, but the kind of epic figure they are probably thinking of is likely Ramses himself. Immortality was something Ramses sought in life, and the fact that we are still thinking and talking about him three thousand years later means that, in many ways, he succeeded.”
The gentlemen from Egypt seemed to really enjoy that answer. I didn’t remember until later that I had snapped a picture of an ancient Egyptian prayer as I left the exhibit. I’ll let it speak for itself here.
Perhaps memory really is the closest thing to immortality we can achieve in life. At the risk of this post straying into melancholy waters, I know that the last few years have been ones of loss for many of us, myself included. Yet there is something comforting, something eternal in those words: “Speak the name of the dead and they will live forever.” Thanks for reading…and Happy Halloween!
I’m a big believer in the power of art. Whether it’s books, TV, movies, video games, or other media, I think that the creative arts represent humanity at our best. I’ve also spoken about the healing power it’s had for me personally in a number of places on this blog. I’m sure you, the reader, are no stranger to being uplifted by a well-timed song on the radio, a silly comedy when you’re feeling down, or any number of other examples that come to mind. Art and the act of creation are, to me, the defining trait of our human-ness.
I didn’t realize until posting this that you can see me holding up my phone in the reflection.
Not to get too Maximus Decimus Meridius on you here, but I do think that what we do in life does, in fact, echo in eternity, especially for artists. Some folks, like Stephen King or Willie Nelson, have had long careers, and have had a hand in defining and redefining their genres more than once. They are the pillars on which several generations of future artists may find inspiration while they continue being legends of their respective media. We are so lucky to have them.
Sadly, there are artists who leave us far too early, often tragically young. These are the comets of the artistic world, blazing a path through the heavens before the sudden absence of their light leaves us cold in their wake. Don Mclean’s famous song, American Pie, speaks about one of these comets, referencing February 3, 1959 — the day the music died.
His plaque on the Walk of Fame.
That’s when a plane crashed in a corn field near Clear Lake, Iowa that resulted in the deaths of, among others, Jiles Perry “The Big Bopper” Richardson, Jr., Ritchie Valens, and Charles Hardin Holley, better known by his stage name: Buddy Holly. I remember hearing about the plane crash as a kid, especially when La Bamba, starring Lou Diamond Phillips as Ritchie Valens, premiered in 1987. The movie ends with the now-famous coin flip between Ritchie and Tommy Allsup to determine the seat on the plane.
Exterior of the museum.
Last year, I travelled to Buddy Holly’s hometown of Lubbock, Texas to learn more about this icon of the ’50s and early rock legend. The West Texas city is surrounded by miles and miles of cotton fields, studded with towering metal windmills. Travelling there at night from Dallas, I remember the hypnotic red lights on those windmills the most, as they always appeared in the distance without ever seeming to get closer.
The next morning, I went to the Buddy Holly Center in the heart of the city’s Depot District. The Center is situated in an old train depot. Across the street, you’ll find the famous Buddy Holly statue at the West Texas Walk of Fame. The statue was much taller than it looked from the photos, but it’s fitting for a figure who casts such a long shadow in the music world. His signature look is all accounted for there in bronze: the suit, the guitar, and (of course) the glasses.
Wow.
Speaking of the glasses, the sign at the front of the Center is a giant-sized pair of Buddy Holly specs. The museum itself consists of two main galleries. One is a recreation of Buddy’s bedroom, including several pieces of furniture he owned. Opposite that display are tributes from many other famous musicians that have made the pilgrimage to the museum. The other gallery contains a host of memorabilia from his personal life, his performances, and a timeline of his career. Photography is not allowed inside the exhibits, but there are photos on Google.
Before you go in, you are treated to a short movie about Buddy’s life and legacy. A notable personality who shows up in that presentation is Paul McCartney, who talks about how the concert that Buddy Holly played in Liverpool was a catalyst to form the Beatles. Even the name of the Fab Four’s band was a reference to Buddy’s own band, the Crickets.
A wider shot of the West Texas Walk of Fame.
Of course, Buddy looks young in all the photos we have of him, but I didn’t realize just how young he was. When that plane crashed on February 3, he was just 22 years old. Twenty-two. His entire musical career lasted only around 18 months, but in that time he left an enduring mark upon the world. A comet, indeed.
That realization stung me pretty hard as I stood there looking at the actual glasses, which were recovered from the crash site. It really drove home what a tragedy it was to lose such a gifted musician at the dawn of his career. The Big Bopper had been oldest of that trio at 28, and Ritchie Valens was only 17. Yeah, the lump that I got in my throat as That’ll Be The Day played through the hall is roughly equivalent to the one I’m feeling now as I write this.
I didn’t take this photo. It’s from Wikipedia.
While the Center does not shy away from the circumstances of Buddy’s death, the museum itself is far from a solemn place of remembrance. Quite the opposite, in fact — it’s an upbeat and lively space. It’s a fitting testament to the man who, by all accounts, brought such an energy and fire everywhere he went, to everything he did.
You know, the act of creation is sometimes like throwing pebbles into the still waters of a pond. For many of us who create, the ripples we cause are small, barely noticeable most of the time. But as I stood there on the museum floor, surrounded on all sides by artifacts from his life, I found myself in awe of just how big the ripple Buddy left behind truly is.
So, should you find yourself out in Lubbock, Texas one day, I highly recommend that you make a visit to the Buddy Holly Center to learn not only about the legend but also the man behind the myth. As long as we remember him, a part of him endures. As Buddy himself put it:
Down in the South Texas hill country, situated between vast open green fields and numerous vineyards, sits the picturesque town of Fredricksburg. Many of the buildings are built of white stone flecked with streaks of orange. The people are friendly, and the whole place just has a good vibe to it, with rows of antique shops, restaurants, and boutiques along the main strip. If you’re ever in the area, I highly recommend stopping over there.
Fredricksburg also has the distinction of being the hometown of Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz, the Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Fleet during World War II. In fact, there’s a large bronze statue of him right next to the old hotel where he grew up, which is now the Nimitz Museum. Just look for the distinctive ‘steamboat’ structure off the main street — you can’t miss it.
The man himself.
The Old Nimitz Hotel (Now the Admiral Nimitz Museum).
If you circle that block, you’ll also find that the town is home to the National Museum of the Pacific War. The place is enormous. It contains hundreds of displays and exhibits, models of ships, uniforms, presentations, and mini-featurettes. It starts with the roots of the conflict between China and Japan, and then takes you all the way through the Pacific War, from Pearl Harbor to the U.S.S. Missouri. Every major engagement and landing is covered here, and in pretty extensive depth. If you tried to read every panel and display, it would take you days to get through it all. Believe me, I’ve tried.
Just around the corner.
Full disclosure: This latest outing to the museum is my fourth trip there. Each time I go, something new resonates with me. The last time I went was when my son was two. The thing that moved me the most then was the famous “Bloody Saturday” photo of a baby crying amid the ruins of a bombed out train station in Shanghai. It’s still a powerful photo, and indeed the entire museum is a moving experience. It’s hard to look at the dizzying scope of the conflict, along with the countless examples of courage and valor, and the loss of so many lives, and not feel something.
Case and point: Just after the presentation about Pearl Harbor, there is a little alcove that contains a rusty metal hatch. There is a noticeable black stain across the middle of it. Above those black lines is an egg-shaped hole cut into the metal.
At first, it might seem an odd artifact – that is until you realize that it is a hatch from U.S.S. Arizona. The black line is where the oil floated at the waterline. The hole was cut by Navy divers to see if there were any survivors in the compartment. Powerful stuff. Just seeing it is enough to make me tear up.
Every. Time.
We see it all in black-and-white photos and newsreels, but the time that has passed disconnects us from it. This one piece of rusted metal has a way of bringing me back to one of the darkest days in U.S. naval history.
I hasten to add that, though the museum does present the war from the USA’s point of view, it does not balk at showing the devastation and loss that Japan endured. There’s always the temptation to downplay that aspect of the war, but the museum does not. When a warship went down in the Pacific, several hundred people died, regardless of which flag it was flying, hundreds or thousands at a time.
Horrific.
In fact, on this trip the image that struck me the most was a photo of two dead Japanese soldiers washed up on the shore at Guadalcanal. Both were half-buried in the tide, and looked painfully young. I can’t imagine they were older than 18 or 19. I won’t display it here, but you can find it easily enough on Google.
Now I’m not trying to diminish the impact of those photos of dead American soldiers, such as those taken from the Bataan Death March, just simply reflecting that wars have a cost on both sides. Every one of those boys that didn’t go home left a hole in someone’s life. A mother, a father, wife, son, daughter – you name it. You don’t have to go much farther than the exhibit about the five Sullivan brothers aboard the U.S.S. Juneau to see what I mean.
But, as an anodyne to these feelings of loss and pain, there is one other feature of the grounds that is a ‘must see’ as far as I’m concerned. Just behind the Nimitz museum, there is a Japanese peace garden, a gift to from a group of retired Japanese admirals.
May peace endure.
It is absolutely stunning. There’s a koi pond, with a flowing water course that winds around the periphery to a replica of Admiral Togo’s study. In the middle of the garden there is a Zen garden made of raked white stone. It’s…pretty sublime standing there, a place of tranquility and introspection.
Profound.
If you’re ever at the museum and things get just a little too intense, stepping into the garden is a good way to reaffirm the beauty that people can create, even between those who were former enemies. I always like to end a tour of the museum with a stop here. Just my personal preference. It’s the cleansing breath that brings you back to center.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
Again, if you’re ever in the area, I can’t say enough good things about Fredericksburg and the Pacific War Museum. I hope that you find it as illuminating, emotional, and powerful as I have.
The Sector M 