The Great Swamp War.
By Merlin Lessler
The “Great Swamp War” took place in the autumn of 1954. The fur flew in a hidden marsh on the south side of Binghamton. Woody (Sherwood) Walls and I stumbled onto (and almost into) the swamp by accident. We were exploring a dense woodlot in the area where MacArthur School now sits. The stand of trees was so thick that when we broke through we nearly tumbled into the murky, black water that collected in this low spot on its journey from the hills above Denton and Chadwick Roads to the Susquehanna River. For years we played sandlot football and baseball in the “Flats,” as we called this area between Vestal Avenue and the river. Archibald MacArthur donated the plot to the City for public use. He owned The Boston Store at one time; it became Fowlers, and is now Boscovs. An extensive complex of temporary veteran houses was also built on the site, stretching along the north side of Vestal Avenue, from Brookfield to Denton Roads. We never suspected a swamp lay hidden in the middle of the woodlot on the eastern end of the plot.
We were two surprised explorers when we broke through the undergrowth and saw the open expanse of water, hidden from us all our lives, all 11 years. A raft beckoned from the other side, so we worked our way to it along the muddy shoreline and hopped on. Water crept over the surface of the raft, soaking first, our sneakers (PF Flyers, of course) and then the bottom of our pant legs. The raft floated all right, but did it three inches below the surface of the water. If anyone had seen us on our maiden voyage, they might have thought they were witnessing a miracle, two boys walking on water. We maneuvered around the swamp, pushing the raft with poles. The water was only a foot or two deep. It was yet another perfect venue for two kids messing around in the 50’s. All the elements were right: water, woods and no adult supervision. The latter, was a major benefit of growing up in that era. Kids were allowed to explore their world. And we did! Nobody had to yell at us to go out and play. We had to be yelled at to come in.
Binghamton was a boomtown back then, busting at the seams. The veteran houses in the flats were temporary, but it took ten years for the building boom to catch up with the need. The structures weren’t razed until the mid fifties, a few years before Binghamton’s population peaked at 85,000. The boom gave us an endless supply of construction materials. We put them to good use, building tree huts, soapbox racers and now, an armada of rafts. A pile of scrap lumber was all we needed to improve on the seaworthiness of the raft that we’d gotten soaked on. A fresh pile lay next to a new house going up across the street from our partner in crime, Warren Brooks. Two nights later, it lay hidden in the woodlot next to the swamp.
Me (left), Woody (right)
We hammered and sawed and three crude looking rafts emerged. We pushed off from shore and transformed into Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn and Injun Jim. When that got old, we took turns being pirates attacking the Spanish Armada. It was a delightful ten days, but then word got out. Our secret swamp was discovered and confiscated by a gang of older kids from an adjacent neighborhood. But not without a fight. It was a battle to the death on the high seas. That’s what it seemed like. Actually, it was three eleven-year olds getting bumped into the water by some older kids with longer poles and stronger arms. We were banished; the swamp was theirs. We never signed a peace treaty, so every once in a while we snuck back, making sure the bullies were elsewhere. But it was never the same. Eventually, an even bigger bully came along, the State Highway Department. The trees were cut down; the swamp was drained and construction of the Vestal Parkway was started. Lew Caster lost his gas station at the bottom of Pennsylvania Avenue, the Red Robin Diner lost its visibility (eventually moving to Johnson City) and we lost our swamp. The parkway opened in November of 1956, forever changing the landscape and cutting off the Flats from the river. It’s just another reason why old coots like me, hate progress.
