And the Mountain Roared

 And the Mountain Roared
I often heard my wife’s Mother describing a sound that she would hear. Retha May Morrison would pause at whatever she was doing; cock her head to one 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 thick wooded hillsides and was graced with a small 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 the 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 sat this morning, deciding on what to write I heard the mountain outside of my windows roar. I live near White, Pennsylvania and although the trees aren’t as close to my house as the trees that surrounded Camp Christian, my mountain roared. The wind was just right. The sound of the wind’s roar entered my home, as did the memory of Retha’s once familiar song.