The fire broke in the middle of the night—children that we were the sirens and flashing lights not only woke us but kept us up with the excitement of something new happening. On the other side of the coin--the owner of the building probably didn’t share a child’s enthusiasm for sirens, bright lights and our curious attention. The lumber yard across on Whitewater Street was on fire. Crowded in the upstairs bedroom window (which did not face the fire) it was difficult to get a look. Our persistence won out to see all that could cause such a commotion. We were close enough to see the flames licking at the sky and feel the thickness of the night. The next morning it seemed the major fire had burned with the building to the ground. That was the first fire that made a significant impact on me—fire was dangerous—and now I understood looking at the mess it made, black soot and burned air lingering.

I was older the next time I saw it come—the flames licking against the age old building into the blackness of night—we had moved and lived at a higher point in town. The clouds of smoke meant only one thing—Old Main was on fire. Still really only a child I didn’t understand all the accusations and politics of the times—I just new a much loved landmark was fighting to live and losing the battle. It brought sadness along with the ruin. When I come back home now—I look toward the campus where stands a wing of the original building—so many years have passed—but there remains the memory of one night when she cried out against the night—billowing smoke as she breathed her last.

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