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BY KIRTLEY BASKETTE
INTRODUCING
THE
KINGSTON TRIO
SEXTETTE
Dave Guard
Gretchen Guard Bob Shane
Louise Shane Nick Reynolds
Joan Reynolds
Friday, the thirteenth of last March, tailed off with a storm over the town of Goshen, Indiana. Late season blasts from Lake Michigan whipped a murky sky and batted a chartered Beechcraft plane around like a badminton bird. Inside, while the pilot fought the controls, three fairly beat rah-rah types, named Dave Guard, Nick Reynolds and Bob Shane, rattled around, among a jumble of guitars, banjos and bongo drums like beans in an over-sized maraca.
The Kingston Trio was fresh from a swing-ding at Notre Dame University, headed for
their next one-nighter, and the situation was normal— which is to say— desperate.
In this clutch, two of the striped-shirted troubadours relaxed : Stubby, needle-nosed Nick ("the Runt of the Litter") closed his baby-blue eyes, curled up and snored peacefully. Brainbusy, stringbean Dave ("Our Acknowledged Leader") fended off flying missiles with one hand and thoughtfully polished a new routine with the other. Only the usually jolly boy, curly mopped Bob ("Our Sex-Symbol") sweated it out.
Every minute or so he leaned
over the pilot, breathing hard down his neck. "How we doin'?'"
"In this weather?" Bob got a glance almost as dirty as the clouds. "Just great— gas low, generator out, visibility zero— and South Bend says we can't come back in !"
"I got to get down," said Bob.
"Doesn't everyone? You took the words right out of my mouth !"
They got down— blind. They ticked power lines, skimmed roofs and clipped trees, finally skidded to a stop in a farmer's pasture, scattering a flock of frozen {Continued on page 52)