South Mountain was my favorite childhood haunt. My father didn’t know scientific names for flowers and trees. Nomenclature wasn’t necessary to appreciate the beauty.
Creeping among the limestone rocks was the trailing arbutus. Finding this treasure was easy. Just follow the sweet aroma. My father said it was unlawful to pick arbutus. On South Mountain arbutus covered the ground like a carpet, especially near pines. Years later I learned that the trailing arbutus is the state flower of Massachusetts.
Blue and white violets announced the advent of spring and early summer. We found them at the bottom of ravines. Violets attracted bumble bees. State leaders found them attractive. The violet is the state flower of Illinois, Rhode Island, Wisconsin, and New Jersey. Picking them was a sure way to gain a mother’s praise.
May apples are a gregarious flower. They seemed to prefer low-lying marshes and deep decaying leaves. They grew in bunches, their umbrella-like leaves hiding their fruit. My father cautioned us about tasting either leaves or fruit. The locals thought them to be poisonous or irritating to the skin.
At home we enjoyed a swing made of rope tied to a high branch. South Mountain afforded a unique swing. We called them monkey vines. Their tendrils clung tightly to the upper branches of oaks. The lower woody vine coming from the ground often was free from the tree. We climbed like monkeys and swung by pushing ourselves from the tree.
An occasional female deer surprised us. Her ears stood at attention before darting beyond our sight.
Our thirst was quenched by several springs bubbling from the ground. We tried to plug the springs with rocks, but the water always found another exit.
Our outdoor playground lost some of its charm when the first snowless TV came into our home. Kukla, Fran and Ollie consumed our time. My father became addicted to wrestling. Though fascinated by TV, I felt cheated. Trips to South Mountain became few and far between. I found myself taking long walks around the farm, but the family togetherness was missing. My friend, Jimmy, and I fished along the creek that ran through our farm, but it was not the same. South Mountain gradually became a memory.
I suspect that favorite haunts no longer hold the charm for many people. Hand-held devices occupy most of their time. An exploding world of technology has invaded. The perfume of arbutus and violets still graces the air on South Mountain, but motorists whiz by and miss the treat.
Would you like to visit South Mountain? Go to Cornwall, Pennsylvania. Cross the railroad tracks and ascend the hill to Miner’s Village. Beyond the Village is South Mountain. I doubt that the rocky paradise has been developed. It still waits for people who appreciate the chance to meet God in the middle of His creation.