Children raised on farms in the 1950s, and probably many decades earlier, were much like beavers. If they found running water, they wanted to dam it up. And July was the perfect time for dam building. 

We had many ways to entertain ourselves back when the 20th century had run half its course. There were trees to climb, tree houses and forts to build, peanut vine stacks through which we could dig tunnels and barn lofts that became youthful hangouts, but those pleasures generally required the cooler temperatures of fall, winter and spring.

What does one do on a hot July day? We didn’t have swimming pools. Not even a wading pool under a shade tree. The closest we came on sweltering and dry days like those we’ve had recently was a 55-gallon steel drum with the top cut out. We would fill it with well water, climb in and cool off. 

That took a lot of precious well water, though. An alternative was to dam up a stream. There was one back in those days that generally had flowing water even when things were getting dry. It was located below a usually wet field under which had been installed drain tile. That area, just east of the sandy Suffolk Scarp, was an underground lagoon in those days. During a rainy spell, it would mire a bullfrog. But much to our advantage, it would also provide a trickle of running water even when crops were suffering. 

Robert Cox, a contemporary (meaning he’s also old), recalled his childhood experiences in comments to me years ago. Among them was, naturally, building stream dams. Robert recalled that with a nice ravine and spring-fed flowing water, he and his friends impounded enough water to actually swim in the pond. That must have been the dam-building project of the era for kids. Robert said the pool they created had a bonus. It became home for lizards, which gave the kids something else to play with. 

Ours were never that impressive. Try as we may, we never could dam up enough water to do more than get our feet wet unless we simply lay down in the water, which we did on super-hot days.

Childhood dams, for the most part, were poorly engineered, and thus short-lived. We didn’t know or care much about the finer points of engineering, such as spillways, and most dams lasted only until they had filled with water and the overflow washed away the dirt we’d managed to pile up. And even those that made it beyond that first test couldn’t withstand a really good rain, which sent torrents of water pouring over the fragile earthen dams.

But while they lasted, they were special. They were just right for wading and launching fleets of boats made of tree bark slabs. These temporary vessels, equipped with stick masts and sails of cardboard or even large leaves, sailed pretty much at will across these miniature oceans and fetched up on shoals or in tiny coves among tree roots.

There were also restrictions on our dam building. Hogs were free range on most farms back then, and woods lots as well as fields were fenced into sections. Hogs would be moved from one location to another as food and water were available. We weren’t allowed to dam streams in hog lots or downstream of them — and wouldn’t have wanted to.

We often went to Morgart’s Beach, where an aunt lived. In those days, a stream flowed into the James River there.  Shaded by a cypress tree and flanked by sandy banks, it was easily dammed and provided hours of cool, refreshing wading. And during midsummer, it was a relief from the tepid water of the river as well as the stinging nettles.

Building dams could be a lot of work, but in a kid’s mind, work related to play is always more fun than work related to — well, work. Most of us moaned and groaned about chopping peanuts or doing the numerous chores that were expected of us, but we’d work all day building a dam, or a tree house or a fort. And we’d call it fun. 

 

John Edwards is publisher emeritus of The Smithfield Times. His email address is j.branchedwards@gmail.com.