Looking back to my childhood days brings a sense of nostalgia and heartbreaking horror. I came from a small town hidden high in the mountains of West Virginia. It was peaceful and safe there; a great place to raise a family. Kids found an adventure at every turn. The mountains provide enough to satisfy all.

The soda fountain in Pops Drug Store was a favorite hangout for our gang. We would sit at the counter drinking a cold soda pop, swapping stories about the world series and arguing as to who was going to win that year. That generally found us dashing out the door to the baseball field.

The thing we enjoyed most was when the entire gang would get together at Little Creek Dam. It made for a great fishing hole with an abundance of catfish and bass. There was always the unspoken challenge as to who would catch the biggest fish.

A tire had been tied to a tree limb which we used to launch out across the water then dropping down into the cool clear pool below. Even the girls joined in. The guys groused around pretending to be aggravated that they were there, when secretly we were hoping they would come. We would show off our physics, flexing our muscles like Atlas. Truth be told, none of us had muscles larger than a walnut. The girls would pop open their eyes wide and with a hand held over their mouths, muffled giggles could be heard.

The last adventure of the day was crossing over to the other side of the dam. Someone would yell, "OK, who's going to be first?" We would all dash to the dam's ledge pushing and shoving to be first in line. Gingerly we would make our way across to the far bank. We had all received warnings from our parents about the danger, but that only made it more enticing.

None of us will ever forget that day, July seventeen, nineteen-forty-eight. It was a hot, muggy day. We had been swimming when we heard the call, "OK, who's going to be first." The mad dash was on. One by one we began the crossover. No one had noticed that little four-year old Betty Jean had made her way to the dam and was now following in our footsteps. Only after we hear the scream, the whimper, the silence did we realize she was there. No doubt about it, Betty Jean was the first to cross over to the other side.