It was a hot August evening in the late 1950s that began in the same way as all the other hot evenings that summer. No one in our small Idaho town of 400 expected it to be any different, with the exception of the one person who was responsible for making that night live on in the memories of everyone else. It was later determined there had been no accident, but rather an intentional act by the town drunk.
Around 10 p.m., the entire town was abruptly jolted into a surrealistic awareness by the blaring of the town siren. There were only two possible reasons for that siren to be wailing. Every day at noon it prompted people to cease work and eat lunch. Other than that, I had never heard the siren sound off. This could mean only one thing: fire!
“Let’s go, son,” my father yelled in a fearful voice. “We’ve got to find out where the fire is.” I was right behind him as he ran out of the house. Mom hollered after us, “Let me know what’s happening, and be careful.”
We ran the two blocks to Main Street. Neighbors were dashing out of their houses, heading in the same direction. At the far end of Main Street we could see a fire engine waiting for the volunteer firefighters as they gathered their gear and jumped aboard. In an amazingly short time, the engine with men hanging onto the sides whizzed past us.
We could see huge towers of red and yellow flames leaping toward the sky. People could feel the intense heat from the fire even though it was several hundred feet away. The fire was consuming a warehouse that stored local farmers’ beans and potatoes.
“The fire has spread fast,” hollered my father. “They are never going to be able to save it.”
Nearly every able-bodied person in town had gathered along Main Street, crowding as near as they dared to the burning structure.
Cinders were rising into the air. The intensity of the fire was creating its own vacuum and sucking air into the flames, which in turn created a wind torrent that carried embers out across the town. Then they started settling on dry grass, shrubbery and rooftops, causing smoldering fires in hundreds of locations.
One of the volunteer firefighters was yelling something. We could not hear him, but the message soon spread through the crowd: “They’re telling everyone to take a gunnysack over by the other warehouse and soak them in the puddles left by the hoses.”
The crowd burst apart and scattered in every direction like water from a ruptured hose. Everyone started grabbing whatever could be soaked in water and spreading around the town, stamping out any hot ashes or small fires they came across. Many grabbed those gunnysacks while others returned home to grab towels, pillowcases or clothing and soak them in whatever water they could find. People scurried about in what appeared to be ultimate chaos — but it wasn’t.
They not only snuffed out small ember fires around their own homes, but made certain that their neighbors’ homes were safe, as well. People understood that there were not enough volunteer firefighters to save the town from falling embers. Everyone knew they must fight the fires with as much resolve as the firefighters.
Throughout the night, people kept rushing about stamping out hot spots before they became uncontrollable fires. People of all ages, young and old, were doing what they could to assure no new fires ignited.
As the morning sun rose over the hill east of town, everyone was bone weary. Mothers with young children had gone home by 3 in the morning, but the men and teenage boys had stayed throughout the night beating back small fires throughout the town.
The warehouse was still smoldering, but the flames had been subdued. A few volunteer firefighters continued to pour water on the remains of the warehouse, while others moved about town to assess any further damage.
Even though there were hundreds of burned spots on lawns, in vacant lots and on rooftops, not a single house had caught fire and not a single vacant lot had burned. The folks of this village had come together to save their home from destruction.
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