Puddles Ponds and Pools
Somehow there is a fascination for kids and water. Mud puddles are a major drawing power nearly irresistible to children. They enjoy the splashing, wanting to spend as much time as the patient parent will allow. Jumping, dancing, and splashing often leads to the child losing balance falling into the muddy water…unless the parent is near and quick enough to affect a rescue. If rescues don’t happen, the child will most often relish their newfound liquid playground, rolling, kicking, and laughing. The parent stands helplessly by, wondering how in the world they’ll clean them or if they will ever get the mud out of the clothes. If they’re away from home the concern escalates. How can they keep the car seats from being impregnated with the muck? The blissful child only understands the innocent joy of the moment.
With all the backyard swimming pools, does anybody still swim in ponds or dammed up sections of streams? When I was younger…much younger, ponds, and streams were the only places to swim, mostly in the streams. Ponds were often muddy and for cattle to drink, not clean enough for swimming.
One stream where we swam was in Camp Wildwood, a Boy Scout camp abandoned in 1949. I’ve shared many stories other than swimming about things that happened there. Another place was at White Bridge just off Rt. 653 near Rogers Mills, Pennsylvania. It was the first time I’d ever seen the Hellbender salamander and it took me quite by surprise. I’ve also mentioned the swimming hole near Indian Head by the field where we boys played impromptu games of baseball, then would skinny dip in the cool water. Several of my past posts extol the adventures of that dammed up spot on the creek.
The last spot where we swam was the closest to my parent’s place. It was a deep pool beneath a bridge of Route 711 between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania. The water was extremely cold, if not frigid. The water flowed through the hills covered with shade from its beginning as snow melts or from multiple springs that fed the creek. It had little time to warm.
It was a show of bravado to make our first swim before the first of May. Making a fire on the rocky beach was a necessity before taking the plunge, a must to thaw us out between plunges of water torture. To one side of the arched span was the deeper channel of water and on the other was the beach; the spot for the bonfire and salvation. Snitched snacks of toasted saltines and a slather of oleo were shared as we huddled around the warming flames.