Stories that belong on page one don’t always land there. On a cold February evening nearly 50 years ago, Minneapolis Tribune editors settled on a front-page lineup that included an outboard-motor theft ring, a nursing home strike, a failed missile test, a congressional hearing attended by two monkeys training for space flight, the resignation of the secretary of the Navy and a short about a bleacher collapse in Portsmouth, Va., in which 29 people were injured. The lead story: An American Airlines flight from Chicago to New York’s LaGuardia Airport crashed in the East River, killing 65 of 72 aboard.

The newsy mix is typical for the Tribune of that era, heavy on wire news, politics, crime and mayhem, leavened with a brite or two. What’s missing? Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper were killed in a plane crash in northern Iowa early that morning of Feb. 3, 1959. Tribune editors decided that the deaths of three “rock ‘n’ roll idols” merited only this extended photo caption on page 11:

Singers Killed

These three rock ’n’ roll singing idols were killed Tuesday when their plane crashed near Mason City, Iowa, en route to play an engagement at Moorhead, Minn. Buddy Holly, 22, left, Ritchie Valens, 17, center, and J.P. (The Big Bopper) Richardson, 24, were killed along with the pilot of the chartered plane. The three took the plane after playing an engagement near Mason City so they could arrive early and get their clothes laundered. The rest of the troupe went by bus. The Moorhead performance went on last night although members of the troupe said they didn’t have the heart to perform. Some 1,000 advance tickets had been sold.

January 2007 update: The Associated Press reported this month that the Big Bopper’s remains will be exhumed and that his son, Jay Richardson, has hired a forensic anthropologist to look into how he died. Richardson hopes that the examination of his father’s remains will settle rumors that a gun might have been fired on board the plane, and tell whether the Big Bopper might have survived the crash impact and died trying to go for help. “I’m not looking for any great bombshell, but then again you never know,” Richardson told AP.

The Minneapolis Tribune reports on fisticuffs during Sunday services at a church in St. Paul’s Rondo neighborhood:

St. Paul News

FIGHT

Congregation of St. James African
M.E. Church Engages in an
Exciting Pitched Battle.

TWO LEADING TRUSTEES
ARE BADLY KNOCKED OUT

Struggle Is Over the Collection –
Police Called, but No Arrests
Are Made

The climax of the factional war at St. James African Methodist Episcopal church, St. Paul, was reached yesterday morning when following a sermon on “Brotherly Love” preached by the pastor, Rev. Seymour, the congregation engaged in a pitched battle over the collection in which two of the trustees were knocked out. So furious was the struggle that the Rondo street patrol wagon was called and a squad of blue coats hurried to the scene. The fight was practically over when the patrolmen arrived and no arrests were made.

Yesterday morning’s services were the first held since the election of trustees by the dissensionists over the head of the pastor last Tuesday night, and the church was filled. Both factions were well represented and the atmosphere was surcharged with electricity, although nothing happened until the collection was taken.

Fight Follows Sermon.

Rev. Seymour chose as his text “Ye are the Salt of the Earth,” and dwelt particularly on brotherly love and cheerfulness. At the conclusion of the sermon the congregation knelt in prayer and the preacher then announced that the collection would be taken. Instantly three of the newly elected trustees made their way to the front of the church where the table containing the collection boxes was placed. Rev. Seymour called upon two of the stewards to take charge of the money.

The stewards were S. Harris and John Jenkins, while the trustees were J.B. Lowe, Joseph Adams and R.C. Minor. Rev. Seymour stated that the trustees had no right to take charge of the money, as it was due him. But Mr. Minor took the opposite view and said the money should go to the church, as it was needed to defray expenses.

By this time the congregation was dropping its contributions into the boxes. Mr. Minor stood by one box while Harris and the pastor mounted guard over the other.

According to the general version the minister sought to take charge of the second box, whereupon Mr. Minor entered an objection and the trouble started. Robert Lowe, another of the trustees, then struck the pastor a blow behind the ear. Harris attempted to rescue his pastor, but was knocked down, and his son who had rushed to the rescue piled on top of him. Things looked ad for the loyalists at this juncture, but the women rushed in between the combatants and in the excitement Rev. Seymour escaped through a rear door.

Some one attracted by the shrieks of the women and under the impression that murder was being done, telephoned for the police. Actual hostilities were over by the time the police arrived. None of the combatants was badly hurt. Minor received a black eye, Harris a slight cut on the forehead and Rev. Seymour a slight bump behind the right ear. The rest of the warriors stopped several random blows with different parts of their anatomy, but were not scarred.

Stories Differ.

The stories told by the two sides, although practically the same, vary slightly on some points. Minor claims that Rev. Seymour “socked” him in the eye while the minister says he did not. All parties united in stating that Lowe “caught” the minister back of the ear. Minor is credited with jabbing a vicious left to Harris’ head, bringing the blood.

The dissensionists say that the minister attempted to seize both collection boxes, while his followers state he did not, and that Minor struck the first blow.

Dissatisfaction has prevailed at St. James church ever since last summer, and this winter determined efforts were made to remove Seymour, but he has steadfastly resisted all attempts to put him out. Several meetings have been held, and at one he was asked to resign but later the bishop caused the motion to be rescinded.

At last week’s meeting six trustees were elected over the minister’s head and a resolution was passed to reduce his salary to $10 per month. Following this meeting Rev. Seymour held a meeting of his followers in another part of the church and elected six trustees of his own. The dissenting element appears to be decidedly the stronger, although the pastor denies that it is, and says that most of the insurgents are not members of the church.

“Blue coats” from the Rondo Street police station at Rondo and Western Avenue were dispatched to the church after fighting broke out over the collection plate. But the battle was all but over when they arrived and no arrests were made. (mnhs.org photo from about 1900)

More than 18,000 spectators at the State Fair grandstand were on the edge of their seats. High above the grandstand turf, Lloyd Rellim rode a bicycle back and forth across a narrow bar at one end of a 30-foot-long metal frame. Another performer twirled on rings and a trapeze bar at the other.

Lloyd Rellim

Near the end of the performance, the frame jerked as it was being lowered for Rellim’s dismount. He lost his balance and fell 75 feet to the ground. Grace Rellim, who was operating the rigging, let out a scream and ran to her husband’s side.

“In typical ‘the show must go on’ fashion,” wrote Minneapolis Star reporter Willmar Thorkelson, “the orchestra struck up a tune and some acrobats started performing. But nobody watched them. We were looking at the bottom of the twin towers where we saw people with flashlights. In a couple of minutes there was an ambulance. As it took Rellim away, its siren drowned out the orchestra.”

The Minneapolis Tribune’s initial account, displayed on Page One under an all-caps banner headline, reported that the Rellims’ two children – Joyce, 11, and Neil, 5 – had witnessed the fatal fall. Neither of them had, it turns out. The sidebar below is a fly-on-the-wall account of their next few hours. Joyce Rellim, now Joyce Kuhlman, agreed to an interview last week. You’ll find that update at the end of this entry.

AERIALIST’S WIFE FACES TRAGIC TASK

Mother to Tell Son Dad Is Dead

By ED CRANE
Minneapolis Tribune Staff Writer

Today Mrs. Lloyd Rellim is going to have the hardest job of her life. She must tell her son, Neil, 5½, that his father is dead.

Rellim crashed to his death from a 75-foot perch at the Minnesota State fair Monday night.

His daughter, Joyce, 11, burst into uncontrollable tears after the accident, but hours later Neil still did not realize what had happened.

Lloyd Rellim’s rigging was built at a New Orleans shipbuilding company after World War II ended. A 30-foot-long rectangular frame was affixed to 70-foot pole. Rellim, astride a bicycle, performed at one end of the frame; Ruth McCrea worked the rings and trapeze on the other. (Minneapolis Star photo)

Mrs. Ruth McCrea, who accompanied Rellim to his act, took the two children into her trailer just behind the grandstand, while their mother went to Ancker hospital.

Mrs. McCrea’s face was drawn with shock at the sight she could not forget – of Rellim’s body toppling past her to smash into the sod. It was drawn, too, with the strain of trying to keep Neil from knowing what had happened.

Boy Sees Fireworks

Back of the open-air stage, it was dark, so that tinseled performers, singers, dancers and dwarfs stumbled over guy ropes as they came off stage.

On the other side there were bright lights. Bright lights, a roar of laughter from grandstands that less than an hour earlier had seen a man fall to his death. Lights, laughter and applause.

Backstage, Neil kept pleading with Mrs. McCrea. Finally, at the finale, he won his point. Like other little boys, Neil wanted to see the fireworks. And see them he did.

His tousled, yellow head bent back as rockets zoomed into the sky. His sister, sober-faced, hung in the background.

Rellim’s partner, Ruth McCrea, had completed her act on the other side of the platform when the accident occurred. “I’ll never go into the air again,” she said afterward. (Minneapolis Star photo)

“Hey, look, Jim,” he called to a friend. “Come here, look at Uncle Sam,” and he pointed to the fireworks.

There was a bang like an exploding arsenal, and a flash that lit up the whole fairgrounds. Neil didn’t wince – his eyes just grew a little bigger, a little rounder.

Once he said, “Mama went away. Why did she go? I wish she could see all this.” But a moment later, some new sight had caught his attention.

“I’d like to hold one of those rockets in my hand,” he said. And then, as huge globs of yellow fire dripped from the sky, he said, “Gee, I’d like to catch one of those.”

From the grandstands came the cries of other children, like Neil, and grownups, too. Backstage, the smoke of the fireworks filled the air and clung to the ground like fog. Biting, acrid smoke that made people’s eyes glisten as they watched the youngster.

Alone in World

“Everybody’s standing in front. I can’t see anything,” said Neil, and he ran out in front of everybody, out onto the field so that he stood silhouetted against the glare of the dying fireworks – a boy of 5½, standing alone.

The crowd left then, and as the performers hurried off to put away their tinsel and take off their grease paint a car from the sheriff’s office drove up. In it rode the woman who today is going to face the hardest job of her life.

AUGUST 2006 UPDATE: Joyce (Rellim) Kuhlman, now 70 years old, still lives in Payson, Ill., where she and her brother were raised. She remembers her father as a soft-spoken, artistic and mechanically minded man. “I remember setting on his lap at night listening to the radio, ‘Amos and Andy,’ curled up in his lap, me on one side and Neil on the other,” she said.

The Rellims spent a lot of time on the road in the 1940s. With his family in tow, Lloyd traveled to 42 states, Canada and Mexico to entertain audiences. “We had a truck that carried the rigging, and a trailer pulled by a car,” Joyce said. “It was a LaSalle. It was pretty good size. It was black and it had white sidewalls. … We had kind of a shoplike area in the truck, where he had his tools and stuff like that. He could make darn near anything.”

Born Lloyd Miller, her father legally changed his name to Rellim – “Miller” spelled backward – when he began performing an aerial act professionally in the late 1920s. He got his start in storybook fashion: “As a kid he ran away with the circus,” Joyce said. “He started out as a roustabout and decided that’s not what he wanted to do. He wanted to be a performer so he started training and created a high-wire act.” He and three partners worked most frequently with the Barnes-Carruthers Circus.

Contrary to the Tribune’s initial report, Rellim’s children — Joyce, 11, and Neil, 5 — did not witness the accident. (Minneapolis Star photo)

When World War II began, he lost his partners to the draft. He gave up performing and found work at Higgins Shipbuilding in New Orleans. “They built battleships,” Joyce recalled. When the war ended, he offered to perform at the shipyard’s victory celebration if the company would build the rigging for a new act he envisioned.

The act was called “Blondin-Rellim Cycling in the Sky.” Rellim rode a bicycle across a bar at one end of a rectangular frame that pivoted up and down atop a 70-foot pole. A trapeze artist, Ruth McCrea, performed on rings and a trapeze bar on the opposite end of the frame, about 30 feet away. Rellim’s wife, Grace, operated the motorized rigging. “There was no other act like it before or since. He made $100 each time he went up,” Joyce said.

To mount the frame, Rellim and McCrea first climbed a ladder and stood on a platform near the top of the pole. “That was the culprit,” Joyce said. “There was a hook that caught on the platform and threw him off.” Up until a short time before the accident, he had used a safety belt in case of a fall. “But he thought he had perfected the act and was no longer using it,” she said. “He never worked with a net.”

Joyce, then 11, was in a grandstand dressing room when she learned of the accident. “Some other show kids came and told me my dad had fallen,” she said, but she thought they were joking. “When the adults came and wouldn’t let me go outside I knew something was wrong.” Neil hadn’t seen the accident, either. “I guess he was down in the dressing room too,” she said. She doesn’t recall seeing any reporters or photographers.

After the accident, the family returned to Payson to rebuild their lives. Within a year, a Motorola radio factory opened in nearby Quincy, and Grace Rellim got a job there, eventually working as an inspector. Said Joyce: “That’s what put us kids through school. She made 90 cents an hour, which was good money at that time.”

Her brother doesn’t recall anything about the accident; he was a few months shy of 6 at the time. Now 65, he lives in Quincy, about 10 miles from Joyce’s house. He served in the Navy and later worked a truck mechanic. He became an over-the-road driver, Joyce said, when “he got tired of slinging wrenches.” He’s now retired.

Their mother, Grace, now 91, also lives nearby. I wasn’t able to locate Ruth McCrea, who would now be about 89 years old.

Joyce married a farmer. “When my husband decided to quit farming,” she said, “I went to work for construction companies. I was office manager for three construction companies.” Eventually, she grew weary of getting laid off and took a job at the unemployment office, finding other people jobs. She and her husband, now retired, make and sell scale-model trucks.

Lloyd Rellim is buried in Quincy’s Greenmount Cemetery. He was first laid to rest in a poorly maintained cemetery in Marion, Ill., his hometown. But, at his widow’s request, he was reburied in Quincy within days. “My mother couldn’t stand the thought of that old cemetery and the shape it was in,” Joyce said. Etched in the granite marker is a picture of his final act, “Cycling in the Sky.”