Coming home

Rick Wimer

Also, in our high school days, my buddies and I would swim at Belair Beach and live up to its — even to today — nickname.”

At the age of nine when we moved to Storm Lake, it seems the fun of growing up got a supercharged lift. Yes, there were fun times in Ute, Iowa, where I was born, but here I never would have imagined that it would be as great as it got.

But, then again, Ute just didn’t have the lake. Ahhh! Storm Lake, the hours of fun and adventure you had in store for me were unimaginable. We moved into a house on the south side of West Third about three or four houses east of Scout Park. While it’s nowpart of the Sieben’s Fieldhouse parking lot, it was the launching ramp of all the fun to come. On the southeast side of the front porch was a porch swing where I spent hours a daydreaming about what I would be when I grew up and all about how I was going to write about stuff when I grew up, including this small narrative.

Just the sight of the lake from the porch conjured up all kinds of things I was going to do on it. The first thing I did, at the west end of Scout Park, across the street from the Hadenfeldt’s on a small sliver of shoreline was to begin my rock-skipping journey. I spent many a day there perfecting both my technique along with the number and distance of the skips. 

And as I explored almost the total shorelines, where allowable, around the lake, I never hesitated to find the best flat rocks available, getting into my right side-arm position and as hard as I could, whip a flat rock as smoothly as I could across the surface of the lake. While I’m sure I wasn’t Storm Lake’s all time GOAT at rock-skipping, I know I was one of the best. In addition, it helped me to perfect my pitching skill in Jim Reese’s Little League Majors that used to frustrate and strike out many a batter and subsequently pitch and win at 12 years of age, on the Cubs team, the championship game. I was really good and owed it all to my rock-skipping days.

Then there were the “Indian Trails” along the shoreline in many locations around the lake.  My favorite was on the undulating banks from the east end of Chautauqua Park sporadically to Scout Park. As I gingerly climbed on them, I was never Rick Wimer. I could have been a variety of childhood heroes, like Daniel Boone, Kit Carson, Davy Crockett, Wyatt Earp, even Roy Rogers, all on an important quest, oft times wearing a coonskin cap.

Fishing fun and making a buck

Fishing with my dad was fun. I loved the feeling of a fish tugging on the hook, watching the bobber disappear from the lake's surface, the reeling in of a struggling fish regardless of its size; then ultimately landing it on shore. However, I didn’t enjoy putting the night crawler on the hook, unhooking the fish from it, or sitting there, seemingly for hours and not catching anything.

I often, if there was a nearby Indian Trail, would abandon dad and go on another time-consuming adventure until it was time to go home.  And then there was always the threat, that if I caught a bunch of them, I would be required to skin them. No thank you!

I did like the night crawler catching aspect of it however, especially the part of it where I would put a sign in the front yard “NIGHT CRAWLERS FOR SALE- 25 CENTS A DOZEN.” Me thinks this to be the beginning of my business career! I recall many a night, especially if there was some rainfall during the day, with my trusty flashlight and coffee can, stealthily out in my back yard picking up night crawlers as they lay unmoving in the moisture of the dirt. It actually became an art form, especially if two were laying side by side to be able to pick them both up with one hand. I would store them in a barrel out back filled with a mixture of coffee grounds and dirt until a fisherman would knock on the door to buy a dozen or two.

Swimming or inner tubing off the Sunset Park steps was second to none, late spring, summer and early fall. I would either race laps with my friends or have inner tube races.  During the hot summer months, it was one of the first places I headed for. Also, in our high school days, my buddies and I would swim at Belair Beach and live up to its, even to today, nickname.

Winter snowballs, right on the mark

In the winter at Chautauqua Park, the tennis courts were flooded to ice skate on. And while I was not Scott Hamilton and it took me about three years to finally catch on, I enjoyed my camaraderie with my friend Mike Bauer, who had all the moves. The winters often provided ample opportunities for having snowball fights with friends that oft times were quite spontaneous. In addition, while great fun, but probably somewhat dangerous was to hide behind a tree and hit a passing car with a good snowball throw and not get caught.

My friend, Mike Bauer lived in a house on East Second Street, right next door to a big three-story apartment house. One winter, Mike managed to get access to the vacant third-floor unit that had a decent sized balcony facing the street.  We would hide in the apartment until we saw a car passing by, then grab a snowball from our pile of those that we had prepared beforehand, step out on the balcony and hurl one or two, then would step back into the apartment. 

Occasionally, someone we hit would stop, get out of their car and look around for us in disgust, never looking up.  I’m sure they were quite upset with us as they sped off down the street.

Yesterday in one long, long sentence

In addition, there were pickup football games on Saturday mornings at Bradford Field; Cub and Boy Scouting, summers at Boy Scout Camp at Lake Okoboji, Minor and Major Little League baseball, attending and graduating from St. Mary’s, selling “World’s Finest Chocolate Bars, altar boying, playing a role or two in Sr. Dominica’s musicals, singing in the choir and boys double quartet, raising chickens in my back yard with Al Steinkamp, going to the Shrine Circus in Sioux City with Jim Knebel, play ping pong at the Des Moines Register office with Dick Connelly, Sock Hops at the Cobb, Scooping the loop in my first car, a Dodge Dart and second, ’55 Chevy Belair, for that matter, taking Judy Wolff to the prom in a borrowed 1963 red Corvette convertible, drag racing on the black top paralleling the lake’s south side, resolving from an experience, thanks to Mike Bauer, in high school to ultimately buy a shiny red Corvette convertible in 2006, high school sports; baseball, basketball and track, mowing lawns, raking leaves, shoveling snow, paper boying all over town, eating cinnamon rolls and working at Paige’s Bakery, Buster Bars at DQ, checking out the carhops at A&W, drinking my first underage beer.. err beers, messing around with the Dirkx twins, working at the Bradford and finally as a deck hand on the dredge where I created and named the big island “Rick’s Island.”

I could write about it all, if I hadn’t already done so. How could I grow up, move away, live my life and not want to move back to the town that set me up for a lifetime full of memorable mentors, professional and marvelous people, events and exciting experiences. And I did it all without Facebook, Yahoo, Tik Tok, Twitter, Truth Social, the internet, cell phones, laptop, X and now AI. And back, I am! Hallelujah!

Rick Wimer writes from Storm Lake.