It was a Sunday and we had decided to take a road trip. My wife Kathie and I both love small towns so we decided to explore some towns we had never visited before. But as we began our journey I just wasn’t feeling it. Exploring small towns just didn’t seem to be the thing to do on this particular Sunday.
Looking back I realize that feeling was a premonition of what was about to take place.
We were traveling on the highway that passed through the tiny town of Clinton that had been my boyhood hometown almost sixty years ago.
Tiny towns all have the same landmarks as they are approached. Although the shapes may vary there is always a water tower containing the town’s name in huge black letters. Also there is usually a massive grain storage facility or elevator with its own distinct architecture
As these two familiar structures became visible on the horizon I mentioned to Kathie that there was a plume of gray smoke rising above the town.
“Something must be burning,” I commented and with a feeble attempt at humor I added. “but I doubt it would be the water tower.”
My wife received that comment in silence. She may have smiled or grimaced but since I was driving and watching the road I wasn’t able to tell. 🙂
As we descended the hill leading into Clinton I gasped and cried, “Why that’s the grain elevator that’s on fire!”
I remember when that wooden structure had been built. It was in the middle 1950’s and since it was a stone’s throw from our public school we were able to watch its construction through our large classroom windows.
Many a student was probably reprimanded during that construction process by a teacher and told to pay attention to the class discussion.
Wooden elevators had to be specially built to withstand the tremendous pressure of the grain that they would hold. So they were constructed of two by six inch planks nailed together flat side upon flat side.
In other words after nearly seventy years that dry, wooden structure was a bonfire waiting to happen.
Twelve different communities sent their fire trucks and water trucks to Clinton that day. Miles of hose carried water from two ponds bordering the town while water trucks rushed to two other outlying ponds to obtain water.
The battle was futile and the huge wooden structure along with an attached office were destroyed. Large steel bins adjacent to the wooden elevator were saved by the heroic efforts of the twelve fire departments.
Today I visited the scene of the disaster. Mounds of smoke damaged wheat was piled off to the side while huge, yellow tractors with scoops were dumping debris into a pile and burning it. The smell of the huge fire still lingered.
I was especially touched by this disaster as I was put through college by an elevator in Clinton. For five summers I worked as an employee for the Peavey Elevator located just a quarter mile south of this burned out structure.
During harvest my workday started at eight a.m. and ended around 10 p.m. The $1 per hour wage allowed me to earn enough money to finish five years of college with very little debt.
As I viewed the chard remains before me I knew from experience what memories that pile of ash held.
Women went to wedding showers, baby showers or Tupperware parties while men went to the elevator!
During harvest the loaded trucks and trailers formed long lines at the elevator. Each farmer waited his turn to unload his grain. But during that sometimes long wait what an opportunity the farmers had to visit.
I’m sure some of the visiting was sharing the latest farming techniques. A few arguments might have arose about which tractor, the red one or the green one, was best. Politics certainly were discussed I’m sure. Probably there was a little catching up on the latest gossip in the community too. After all the little Mrs. would appreciate such information during that evening’s supper hour. 🙂
Once the load of grain finally made it into the elevator and the grain was being dumped farmers often became nervous. As the grain was falling into the pit samples were being taken of the load and tested for moisture and dockage.
If a farmer thought the moisture or dockage was too high he would likely bring the next load to the other elevator and try his luck there.
Gathering around the scale and observing the weighing and grain sampling also provided another opportunity for the farmers to visit with the elevator workers and any other curious onlookers.
The elevator office in the early years was where fellow farmers shared a smoke, a pinch of snuff or on a rainy day a game of dice. It was a place where jokes were told that couldn’t be shared at the church social. A friendly debate might have irrupted when a couple farmers argued whose field of wheat produced the greatest bushels per acre.
But most importantly the grain elevator was the life blood of the small town. It paid the hard working farmers for the grain they delivered. That money sustained the family and also provided revenue for planting another crop in the coming year.
The elevator had employees that depended upon it for their financial survival too.
The grain was shipped out of the elevator and became food and byproducts for the world. What could be more important?
The tragedy could have been worse had it not been for the local fire department and the twelve fire departments from neighboring communities. Also Clinton residents and folks from neighboring towns supplied food and water for the fireman as they battled the blaze.
The loss of that huge wooden structure will likely take its place in history much like the June, 1908 tornado or in the late 30’s when a fire in the theatre caused a packed house of movie goers to scramble for safety.
So our Sunday drive ended a little differently then planned. Only one small town provided the excitement. And as we watched the fire fighters desperately battling to save the elevator and surrounding homes I was filled with pride knowing I could call Clinton, Minnesota my hometown! 🙂
Until next time.
