Indian Creek: Searching for the Past

We were on our way to Charleston after I attended a writing workshop this past Saturday. Our goal was to be at the bookstore to hear some live music, have a glass of wine or beer and perhaps see some friends at the store. But a sudden idea struck me.

"How far is it to where your mother grew up?", I asked my husband.

"Well, if we turn here, it's not too far. We can still get to Charleston in plenty of time, I think." He turned quickly onto WV Route 3. "She grew up in Indian Creek. I haven't been there in years."

Indian Creek, according to his granny Virgie, was so named because Indian women would do their wash there in the creek. Virgie loved to tell ghost stories ("haint tales" she called them), and this was one of her favorites.

"Them Indian wimmen would knee there by the creek and you can still see the places where they'd kneel and the rocks where they'd scrub the clothes. There was another rock, kindly scooped out, and that's where they'd lay their little babies. If you go there at night, you can hear them Indian wimmen singing, hear their little babies cryin'. I ain't never heard it myself, but it's what people say."

As we drove along Route 3 a little park caught our eyes. Drawdy Falls, the sign read. Larry did not remember it being there when last he drove the road, at least 40 years ago. The park is maintained by local residents, and when we were there it was clean as a pin, a testament to their work and attention.

Drawdy Falls are known for the way the falls wrap around the park. I could not get photos of the best part of the falls because the water was very high from recent storms and to get that photo, I would have to walk out into the creek.

But it was beautiful to see, and the grounds were so pretty, shaded over by tall trees and overhung by high rock cliffs.

Someone had put up a lean-to shelter, apparently having spent a night or two there.

Was this the place Granny Virgie referred to in her story? It surely could have been. The falls and the rapids below would be good places to wash clothes and there is probably always a deep water hole in the creek in that area. A sign noted that remains of ancien Indian camps have been found here, with several artifacts recovered. Given its ideal location--sheltered and protected by the cliffs but with good flat areas for camping and plenty of water and fuel for fires (wood and coal both abundant)--it seems very likely. We heard nothing of course, but it was daytime.

We drove a little further and came to a bridge across the Big Coal River. This bridge accessed the community of Indian Creek, a small settlement on the banks of the river and the creek. As far as Larry could remember, there had never been a bridge there, and certainly there was not one when his mother (Dollie May Walls) lived there. Probably there was a ford in the river and perhaps even a stout swinging walking bridge, as there are several of those still in use in the area.

Larry did not know where in the little community his mother might have lived, or how long her family was there. Coal miners followed work--if word came of a new mine opening or better working and living conditions in another coal camp, families often just pulled up stakes and moved. Few actually owned their homes anyway; most of the land was owned by coal and timber companies who rented homes and lots to the miners and their families.

He also does not know how his mother met his father. His father was raised in Cabin Creek, WV, a large coal-mining area. After marrying, his parents settled down briefly in Witcher Creek, WV (so named, the stories go, for witches who once lived there, a story for another post). This was some distance across steep mountains from Indian Creek, so we surmise that his mother's family moved somewhere near Cabin Creek for work, and she met his father there. His oldest brother and sister, I believe, were born on Witcher.

When we left Indian Creek we continued along Route 3 through Bloomingrose (I love that name) and a few other former coal camps, Larry pointing out some places he remembered and the mine where he almost went to work. Thank goodness he did not, or I might never have met him, and his life would have certainly been far different.

As we were turning to go north on WV Route 94, another sign caught my eye--UBB Memorial, it said, the arrow pointing to the road we were already on. "We need to go there," I said.

"We won't get to Charleston in time then," Larry replied. "But I'm game if you are." So instead of turning north, we continued south.

I'll have more about our trip in tomorrow's post. There is a lot more to tell.

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