Burning of Old Main still aflame in memory

Rick Wimer

Last week, I took advantage of almost 70-degree temps and somewhat brisk winds to go on a 21-mile circuitous ride on my recumbent trike from my home in West Lake Estates to Harry Schaller's driveway on the south side of the lake and back. 

The wind from time to time and in certain directions went from brisk to semi-heavy. Riding into the wind can be very exhausting so occasionally I pulled up along the way and took a short breather.

Returning home, one of my breaks found me in front of Schaller Memorial Chapel on the Buena Vista University Campus overlooking the awesomely manicured landscaping of it all and the beauty of the blue, ice-less lake off into the distance. I was out of the wind and the warmth of the afternoon sun was very comforting.

As I sat there contemplating a myriad of thoughts, I recalled the evening in Sept. 27, 1956. (I looked it up). Nevertheless, at age 11, I was sitting, doing my homework, at our kitchen table in our home at 311 W. Third St. (now part of Siebens Auditorium parking lot).

My typical ambulance chasing dad, Leonard Wimer, bursting in through the back door, said “C'mon Rick, follow me.” He was out the front door in a flash and was running east toward Buena Vista College.  As I was running to catch up with him, I noticed that the night sky was flickering and flashing in the darkness.

I caught up with dad stopping momentarily at the corner of West Third and College to catch his breath. I could visibly see over the above the roof of the building on the corner, where the flickering and flashing was coming from. 

Continuing further on West Third off to the left, I saw a site that is still clearly imbedded in my memory bank. Old Main was on fire. It wasn't fully involved but we could see through flames flickering in the window.

We joined others running up the great lawn to the back entrance on the west side of the building. Momentarily, I flashed back to a day in Ute, Iowa, before we moved to Storm Lake in late 1954 that I was running away from a fire I had accidentally started at the Ute Lumber Yard.

We joined in with a group of men, many were college students rushing in and out carrying books, furniture and just about anything we could get our hands on, all of which were scattered over the lawn and sidewalks away from the building. 

Inside on one foray into the building for more books, I recall hearing distant thuds and muted bangs. It was very unnerving. I was to learn later that the noise was from pianos falling through the upper floors. I’m not sure how many trips I made in and out of Old Main that night, but at one point my dad made me stop at stay outside, where all I could do was watch all others, including him continue the task.

Standing there, I could tell the fire was continuing to advance throughout the building, which added great fear and trepidation each time he entered the building. The arduous task of it all and the bravery of those who continued to the point where they couldn't anymore have always been an inspiration to me.

Later, along with others, standing in the middle of West Third, we watched in awe as the fire at full strength consumed Old Main. After a time, my memory of the evening fades away, at least until the next morning.

At 5:30 a.m. the next morning, I arose to deliver the Sioux City Journal throughout all the neighborhoods surrounding Buena Vista College. I remember standing on the south side of West Third Street between Grand and College Avenues staring up at the smoldering ruins of Old Main.

The grand old symbol of BVC was, with its jagged, missing roof line, charred brick front, open doors and blown out windows was nothing more than a mere shell of itself.

As incredible as it was, my biggest worry, however, was how I was going to get to my customers' houses on West Fourth Street between Grand and College Avenues, which was blocked off with no access. I accomplished it by going through the back yards of houses on Iowa Street to the back porches of my customers on West Fourth. It’s amazing what my brief respite in front of the Schaller Memorial Chapel provided. I still had about three more windy miles to go until I got home, so off, I went. That’s all there is.

Rick Wimer lives in Storm Lake.