"Bad news on the doorstep...something touched me deep inside, the day the music died..."
                    Don McLean - “American Pie”

Everyone has a memory of a date, a day on the calendar, that never fades and is always remembered, never forgotten. Not a birthday or anniversary, but rather a day in which something significant happened, whether for better or worse, that created a lasting memory – always recalled when that date arrives. “Not Fade Away!”

To me, the date is the third of February. It may be my grandfather's birthday, the day I was baptized and the day the Patriots won their first Super Bowl. But what makes it memorable are two events, 15 years apart.

At around one o'clock in the morning on Tuesday February 3, 1959, a small plane crashed in a snow-covered corn field in Clear Lake, Iowa –  killing Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and  J. P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson.

I was in the eighth grade at Saint Gregory's in Boston and had just turned 13. Around noontime that day, the sad news spread throughout the school and cafeteria. There were tears in the schoolyard, girls cried and were comforted by the nuns. There were no tears in my eyes but there was deep sorrow and tears in my heart. “It's Raining In My Heart!” From the first time I heard, "That'll Be The Day,” I couldn't get enough of Buddy Holly and his music. And when he appeared on the “Ed Sullivan Show” on December 1, 1957, he made my heart beat and my feet tap. He captivated the rhythm of my soul and drew me into the new world of rock and roll. Elvis was for girls, Buddy was for guys and this boy. And I still have his albums I bought way back then for about $1.49 each.

Although decades have passed, his music is still vibrant and relevant and he is probably still the most influential musician of the rock era. When the Beatles first appeared on the “Ed Sullivan Show,” John Lennon, with respect and reverence, asked, "Is this the stage Buddy Holly played on?"  “Oh Boy!”

In early October 1973, I went to Foxboro, Massachusetts to watch the Patriots play the Colts. Sometime during the game I started to get a sore throat and over the next few days it got  worse. I went to my family doctor, he checked my throat and gave me a prescription for some foul-tasting medicine. I didn't work and on my next visit, he gave me a stronger medication – but it didn't work.

On my third visit my doctor made me an appointment with a specialist. The specialist examined me, took throat cultures and gave me prescriptions for antibiotics and a more foul-tasting medicine. Neither worked.

Between the soreness and the medicine, my taste buds rebelled. Not only did it hurt to swallow but food tasted terrible and liquids tasted sour. As hard as he tried, the specialist couldn't help me. And I thought my sore throat would be an everlasting chronic condition.

On Sunday February 3, 1974 – the Feast of Saint Blaise, the patron saint who protects against diseases of the throat – I went to Mass at Saint Michael's in Avon, Massachusetts. After Mass, in honor of Saint Blaise, there was the blessing of throats. Two V-shaped candles were placed beside my neck and throat and the priest blessed me in the spirit and honor of Saint Blaise.

I then walked up the aisle towards the main exit. At the holy water font I blessed myself and walked out the door –  and as I did my sore throat vanished – disappeared. And I haven't had a sore throat since, nor have I failed to have my throat blessed every year.

Buddy Holly and Saint Blaise make the third of February at date on the calendar that is always remembered. “It's So Easy!”

"...do you recall what was revealed the day the music died?"  “That'll Be The Day!”