When I grew up on the old family farm, we didn’t have one of those fancy swimming pools like they do in the city. We swam in the creek just up the road a piece.
The creek that ran by our house flowed through a meadow about a half-mile away. It had some deeper holes as it meandered its way along the wood line. That was the gathering place of the kids in the area during the heat of summer. But that water wasn’t 65 or 70 degrees. It was cold. The creek was spring fed, so you didn’t just ease your way in. It was all or nothing.
I guess that’s where I learned to swim. The deepest part of the pool was maybe four feet at the most, but we’d do cannonballs and even dove into the shallow water without hitting the bottom. But when you can only take a couple of strokes in any direction, I really didn’t become the greatest swimmer in the area.
There were times when a dozen kids would gather at the swimming hole. Word got out that this was “the place.” It was just good, clean fun for kids who spent their summers putting hay in the barns. Thinking back nearly 60 years, I realize that those were good times. Parents knew where we were and no one bothered us.
Several times, we even tried to dam up the water to increase the size and depth of the pool. Not being engineers at such a young age, our makeshift dams didn’t work too well and washed out every time we had a heavy thunderstorm.
As I’m writing this, I started to chuckle to myself. It was late in the afternoon one day when we hiked over the hill to the swimming hole. We were sweaty and covered with dirt and hayseed, but that would soon change. Off in the distance we could hear the rumble of thunder, but we didn’t care. The storm got closer, and the rain got harder, but what the heck? Suddenly a car came over the hill, blowing its horn. It was my grandmother. She rolled down the window and yelled, “Come on, you’re going to get wet!” Yea, right! We’d been swimming for a half an hour. I don’t think I ever let her live that down.
One day, the farmer who owned the land told us he was going to put some heifers in the field. We didn’t care. Most of us were around cows every day. The thing he forgot to mention was that he was also going to turn on the electricity to the fence. Do you know what happens when you crawl under an electric fence when your swimsuit is wet. Yup! It was all over except for the shouting. Now, it wasn’t going to electrocute us or anything. The fencer ran on a six-volt battery, but you learn rather quick. That stuff bites.
As the years passed, so did the ol’ swimming hole. The older kids went off to college or into the service. They got married and had kids, but I’m sure that if some of those old friends read this little story, they’ll be reminded of the good times we had at that Harrison Creek swimming hole.