Of Swimming Holes and Childhood’s Gypsy Summers By Patricia Brown Davis

Pine Creek had one heckuva swimming spot with a crazy name, a stream-crossing cable car, and a spooky wagon that was an irresistible force that spurred a young girl’s imagination.

Is there anyone my age in Tioga County who didn’t have a favorite swimming hole? When I was a kid, swimming in the summer was top of my list of pleasures. I shriveled up like a prune, let my lips turn purple, and denied that my teeth chattered. I only left the water when scolded by a grown-up to do so. And I did have a favorite swimming hole. In fact my entire family was always exuberant about going to the Grubb Hole.

Grubb Hole you say? An odd name for sure, but named after a family with extensive property there many years ago. As a kid I thought it’d been named for those ugly, white, icky bugs in the ground. Nevertheless, the strange name wasn’t keeping me out of the water.

The Grubb Hole is on Pine Creek between Ansonia and Gaines. It was not only a favorite swimming hole for tykes but a great place for fishermen. It is fairly wide with fast- and slow-moving water, ample knee-level walking space to move about, and numerous pockets and holes for fish to hide in or kids to swim in. We were lucky enough to have an aunt and an uncle who owned a camp there for several years. Between the cozy, rustic camp and the swimming hole, it was my favorite summer place. I enjoyed more freedom there, too. I didn’t have to worry about messing the cabin up, because the adults were always having such a good time with each other, kids were hardly noticed—unless we were too noisy.

We weren’t stupid. We learned to be quiet and look like we were engaged in some activity that was acceptable to adults. Then when they weren’t looking, we’d run off to explore the area.

The cabin was set on a very tall bank that overlooked the Grubb Hole and a plateau covered with trees, shrubs, and vines. One side of the camp had a steep, cliff-like bank with giant old trees covered in huge vines. We often played “Tarzan” by swinging out over the cliff, though we had to keep our Tarzan calls at a low level or we might get caught.

From that bank you could see a cable car that spanned Pine Creek, and an old, abandoned wagon leaned on a broken wheel axle on the plateau among some trees and shrubs. It had an arched roof and was entirely enclosed. Both the cable car and the wagon gave us kids cause for wonderment and fantasy.

The small, two-person cable car used a pulley system to cross the creek. I’m not sure why people wanted to cross, because the other side was mostly solid rock at least fifty feet straight up. Perhaps another cabin had been built on that side. My sister Ann and I were too tiny, so our parents never worried that we’d use it. At one point, it ceased to work and was abandoned. One year, high water took out the car, but the cables hung across the creek for years.

The “gypsy” wagon, as we called it, was a bit spookier. Old, faded curtains hung in tatters at the windows and were too dirty for even a kid to touch. Ann and I were always exploring it with our cousins Gene and Joan. At the back was a door, which we’d gingerly open and peer inside before entering. (Who or what were we expecting to see?) Along two walls were side benches and a table in the middle. There were tiny cupboards all around the walls—above and below the windows and in the front of the wagon. Where did they sleep? Gene told me, “Oh, gypsies sleep outdoors around the fire.” That did it; I knew it was a gypsy wagon for sure.

Over the years, raccoons and ants had destroyed some of the wagon’s wood. We’d sit inside and make up stories of vagabonds and gypsies and why they left their wagon behind. This plateau, with its level ground and nearby water, would have made a great place for encampment. Did their horse die and did they have to leave the wagon behind, thinking they might return this way? Did local people “run them off?” Did they leave at mid-night? I’d often heard that gypsies were fond of “carrying off” things.

But the creek’s swimming hole fascinated me most. I didn’t think much about the fishing aspect of it then. But my grandparents, aunts, uncles and dad loved to fish there—and with each other—a three-generational party. I imagine our time to swim was planned around the best times for the adults to go fishing. Nevertheless, when I was there I managed to swim two or three times a day. I have a feeling Mom liked it, too. She could dress me in my swimming suit for the day and just let me run wild. I realize now the freedom my parents gave me then is what now gives me the chance to dream of possibilities, play, and create. Yes, life was great at the Grubb Hole in the summer.

Patricia Brown Davis is a professional musician. These days she spends considerable time in community service and writing her memoirs. You can contact her at patd@mountainhomemag.com.