And the Mountain Roared

I often heard my wife Cindy’s Mother describing a sound that she heard. Retha Morrison would pause at whatever she was doing; cock her head to the side, and say, “Shush, just listen to the mountain roar.” And indeed the wind in the trees did. She and Bud her husband were groundskeepers at Camp Christian near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. The camp was surrounded by thickly wooded hillsides and graced with a small sparkling stream running through it. When the wind would blow from a certain direction, the sound of the wind did give a low, guttural growl.

Camp Christian once had been a summer retreat for weary people from Pittsburgh and its surrounding communities. They would ride the train to spend a day, a weekend, or even a week in Killarny Park. The park was a place of escape where people could boat, swim, and fish with lodging and meals available for those who were able to afford it.  Many would pack a lunch and for the price of the train fare, they could relax, hike, wade, or swim, away from the smoke and noise of the city.

The camp had a large two storied Millhouse. It was of white clapboard hotel-like bedrooms upstairs. Downstairs was a huge kitchen, a banquet room with multiple tables for eating, and an open, wraparound porch. At one end of the dining room was a large stone fireplace where a fire frequently burned in the cool of the evening. There was a chapel and also a few rental cabins with little more room than to provide shelter and sleeping quarters. The white clapboard shelters were snug and provided refuge from the rain and wind.

A large metal bell perched atop a stone pillar at the front of the Millhouse and summoned diners when the meals were ready to be served.

Eventually Killarny Park was purchased by a consortium of churches in Pittsburgh as a summer camp. Reserved on different weeks, the camp was available for adults, for couples, and for children. One week was set was always aside for the underprivileged kids of Pittsburgh. Although the Millhouse has now been replaced with a more modern dining hall and kitchen, children’s’ shouts of laughter still echo in the camp.

As I was sitting deciding on what to write yesterday I heard the mountain roar. I live near White, Pennsylvania and although the trees aren’t s close to my house as the trees surrounding Camp Christian, my mountain roared. The wind was just right and the growl of the wind entered my home. The memory of Retha blew its familiar song

 

 

With Some Memories Come Sadness

As I tidied my computer room/ office I found several cards, letters, and notes that stirred many wonderful and achingly poignant memories. Most of them were sad with an occasional smile stirred into the mix. I said tidied, because there are stacks of photos, notes, folders, and manuscripts of tales and poetry to go through. Surfaces still lined with dust.

I decided to get rid of old Christmas cards, birthday cards, and thank you cards that will have no meaning for others, but a valentine card signed by my granddaughters Celine and Moriah was reason for a pleasant memories in the stack of cards that I’m keeping. There are cards and letters from loved ones that will stay as well. The oldest was from a fellow corpsman and friend I met in Orlando Florida. Although he was a raging Liberal hippie type, we became friends. He was reassigned to Field Medical Training School to be with Marines, during the Vietnam Conflict. He wrote me with his address and when I wrote back. I used his full name, Charles Felix Scott. His return mail thanked me for letting everyone and God know, including fellow Marines that his middle name was Felix. Sorry Scotty. If you see this, write back. I’ve lost contact with him.

The next card and letter was from Cousin Liz Moore. We were about the same age and always liked to be around each other until her family moved to Ohio. We still kept close with letters and cards. She has since passed away. The hardest thought for me to bear was when I sent a letter at Christmas to her and received a card with her obituary from her husband telling me that she’d died several months before. I get choked up thinking about it.

The last card and letter inside was from a former pastor and dear friend. His birthday and mine were close in March. We would go to lunch and hit places that had annual book sales. He was an avid reader and bibliophile. He’d been a missionary in South Korea and left our church to teach other missionaries at a college in North Carolina. Even after he moved, we would visit at least once a year. I always would find a book that I knew he would enjoy. He was a dedicated servant of God with a desire to the reach the lost people in Madagascar so remote he would need to be flown in by helicopter. On the day before his departure, he died and is sorely missed. Good bye Pastor Norm.

I can’t read any of the letters for now; there is too much sadness there.

Night Driving

There have been some instances in the past where night driving was necessary and not very much fun. The first I can recall other than some instances where my dad Carl Beck was driving was the return trip from summer church camp. The camp was in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, the Bill Rice Ranch. The camp was established for hearing impaired kids giving them a free week of summer camp.

The van was filled with sleeping kids. My usual travelling partner and I were the only ones awake and sharing the chauffeur duties. It was dark, very dark and I don’t recall any moonlight. The highway was newly resurfaced four lanes with a median separating them. The tarmac looked as black as sin. Occasionally in the distance we could a faint light from a house. Traffic was light and often nothing was on the road but us. The scary part was that the yellow lines were bright yellow and freshly painted. As we drove, the dotted lines would almost hypnotize our tired eyes.

When I worked at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania, I was on the afternoon shift and often drove home in the dark. One night I saw a black panther. Another night an owl swooped and nearly crashed through my windshield, but the worst return trip was in the winter. There was fresh snow and no tracks on the roadway. A thick fog blanketed the area making driving hazardous. As I topped a small hill with a turn to the left, my headlights shined high into the air and I could see nothing to tell me where the roadway was.

Tenting out West with the youth from the church families the darkness driving to Yellowstone National Park had funny and some exciting moments. Three vans full of kids and drivers hurtled their way through the dark. Several near misses from antelope, deer, and coyotes occasionally rolled kids onto the floor. The humorous part occurred when one van needed fuel. And in Montana, gas stations can be sparse. We drove off the interstate where signage advised there was fuel. The paved exit ramp ended at a T and unpaved surface. One arm led to a field and the other to a parking lot. The lot gave us an option of turning around. There in the dark was a gas station. Light barely filtered through the dusty windows.

Restroom break was announced and kids spilled out. Inside was a teenage boy and at our invasion had a very surprised “aliens had landed” look on his face. There were other amusing aspects about the restrooms and the inside of the building I’ve shared before.

 

You would Think

You’d think that someone with a college education would be a little more intelligent, but I’m proof that it’s not always so. I’ve mentioned before that I have a wood burner in my basement for added heat. It is especially welcome on frigid and windy days and is also the backup heat when the electricity is interrupted. My water pipes won’t freeze and neither will I. The one thing that I really like is the steady flow of heat and not the sudden bursts of forced heat then cooling with the oil furnace.

I haven’t had to climb on the roof to clean my chimney so far this year, and I am thankful. I’m sure that my kids are too. They don’t think a jolly old fat man in an orange hunting jacket should be on a metal roof, two and a half stories above the ground.

The case for my stupidity happens when I go to the basement and feed firewood into the wood burner. More than once I forget to put on gloves to handle the wood. Most of the firewood has been split, leaving behind sharp shards and splinters. That’s where my brainlessness collides with reality. I return upstairs only to find I have carried pieces of firewood with me and I have to fetch the tweezers to remove those slivers from my fingers and hands. Many of the splinters are too small to be removed without a magnifying glass and a needle. I have several sores that are trying to heal right now.

When I was younger, I would place the stacks of firewood farther away from my house to keep bark and debris at the back of my house or in the side yard. It was hard work lugging the wood into the basement on a plastic sled or rolling it inside on a wheelbarrow. Drifts of snow built barriers between the woodpile and my basement making the trek strenuous. For the past six years I’ve learned enough to stack the firewood at the side of my driveway, just outside the garage door. A short bit of shoveling and the path needed to push the wheelbarrow to the pile, and roll it back is so much easier without the barriers.

Now that I’ve added a few more years to my age, the loads on the wheelbarrow have grown slightly smaller, but it does require that I make an extra trip or two. Even with the smaller loads, I am feeling a slight twinge in my lower back and shoulder; Tylenol and BENGAY anyone?

 

Commercials

I don’t see many advertisements on the pages of magazines, so I am responding to those I see on television. Many are so unbelievably memorable because they are stupid, possibly aimed at mentally challenged people or the barely intelligent. I don’t plan to mention specific names, but a Gecko selling insurance, an emu doing the same, or even a boxer who gets upset. Or how about the kid opening a box of insurance as a Christmas gift and smiling in joy while his brother gets a bicycle kicks the bike and is sad. Another insurance ad is of a woman wearing white in several scenarios often playing many parts. Nothing cute about them and are irritating enough that I’ve worn out several remotes.

There are a few cute ads that stick in my head. A man who has gastrointestinal distress and dehydration opens the refrigerator and sees an electrolyte drink. As he sits on the floor, too weary to find a glass, he begins to chug the contents, His daughter wanders into the kitchen and exclaims, “Hey, that’s mine.” The father responds, “I’ll buy you a pony” A disgusted look and the girl turns away.

One insurance ad that has caught my attention is of the kid wearing a cell phone costume, standing on an ocean dock. There are two ads, both amusing. He is splashed by a large wave and has to hop into a sack of Styrofoam peanuts labeled “Rice.” Anyone whose cell phone has gotten wet understands. The other is of the same kid with a handful of flyers. A buzzing sound and he begins to shake, drop his pamphlets, and shuffle his feet. It becomes obvious what is happening when he states, “I’m on vibrate.”

I am impressed with some of the online colleges offering different deals for those who want to pursue and education. Several haven’t raised their tuition rates, because they expand their college enrollment without having to build new facilities or hire additional staff. Good for them, and now with the Covid virus having schools to mandate on line learning, the public educational system is cutting their own throats. Home schooling is becoming a more viable option for families.