Learning to Swim
When summer's warm days drifted into the month of July, Buffalo Creek and
swimming became a synonymous term to children. Finding it's way through
the northern hills of West Virginia, Buffalo Creek was a playground to
hundreds of children over the years.
Barrackville began as a farming settlement and later was joined by several
hundred coal miners and their families. Bethlehem Mines had widen a place
in the creek and deepened the channel to retrieve water for mining
operations; constructed a block building called the pump house. This
provided a perfect swimming hole--three to five feet in depth, 30 feet
across, and 80 feet in length.
The miners had built a four by six feet platform over the edge of the water
to assist them in pumping operations. This also provided the children with
a diving board, sunning and fishing platform. To put it simply, this was a
paradise to the less well-to-do children in our community.
My neighbor Rod and I did not have the money nor were we old enough to
hitchhike to Fairmont, three miles away, and swim in the Twelveth Street
swimming pool which was still segregated. We elected to go where our
friends played--the pump house. Being only eight years old, we were unaware
of racial prejudice.
We were too small to swim with the big boys in the larger, deep body of
water. By trial and error, we found a place in the creek just below the
pump house riffles which contained a large flat rock bottom with water
approximately thirty inches in depth, eight feet wide and ten feet long.
The creek bank contained a large slightly slanted five by six feet flat rock
for sunning and a place for changing our clothes. It was perfect for two
young boys who loved the water and wanted to learn to swim.
Day after day we watched the older boys and tried to mimic them in our
shallow pool. One day in our enthusiasm we slipped and knocked each other
down. We both went under the water for the first time and found our selves
kicking and holding on to each other. I yelled, "Rod, I'm drowning!" Then
Rod yelled, "Me too!" About that time, we both opened our eyes, and found
we had merely got water in our eyes and we were standing in water up to our
bellies. We began to laugh at each other and soon we learned how to dog
paddle. It was not long before we were doing the long stroke and swimming
with the big boys. I forgot one detail, no one wore nor could afford
swimming trunks.
During the latter days of July and August we had a great time swimming at
the pump house and became good friends with all the children, whether they
be African Americans or Immigrant Americans. They were a great group and
when schools were integrated in the late 50's, we fit together like a
puzzle. We had great sports teams and were state champs on more than just a
few occasions.
April 4th, was the first day of swimming at the pump house. Rod and I
walked the old street car tracks to the pump house and always jumped off a
newly constructed diving board. Rebuilding the diving board structure
always seemed to be our job. No matter how high the water had risen, or what
weather conditions prevailed, we jumped into the water and swam back to
shore.
Until you have jumped into forty degree water, you can't imagine the shock.
Kids used to gather on both sides of the bank to watch our polar bear dive.
There were times when your muscles got so cold you could hardly pull your
arms over to make a stroke. How we never drowned or died of hypothermia on
one of those April days is beyond me. One thing is for sure, we gained
bragging rights as the first to swim at the pump house each year and we were
never challenged.
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