Adventures in Travel

I have never seen anything like this, I thought to myself as we drove through the winding, narrow streets of rural Appalachia. There were houses in disrepair, stray dogs roaming the dirt streets, and no signs of the life I came from just a few hours away.

We reached our destination, an abandoned school, and a woman with a welcoming smile greeted us. “How are y’all doing?” Fine, we murmured, wondering what we would be doing during our three days of service work in West Virginia. “We’re glad to have you here. C’mon in.” She hugged each of us as we exited the car. I later found out her nickname was “Mama.”

The school walls told stories—stories of people who lived here and those who helped them. The water line from a major flood, names of people in the community, and paintings depicting local history plastered the walls.

“When the coal mines stopped running, the county shut down,” Mama said. “There are no jobs here now. The schools shut down, and some kids ride the bus over two hours each day from the hollers to the nearest school. You’ll still find the nicest people here, though.”

The music told stories too. On our first night, Mama arranged for a bluegrass band to play for us. The banjo, double bass, fiddle and guitars filled the room with sweet music, sharing stories of local history, and of the hard working, good-natured people. The pride and resilience of this place was infused in that music.

The houses told the saddest stories, though.

One house we helped repair had a gaping hole in the side of it from a small electrical fire the year before. The next house had a mold problem as a result of a water leak, and the young boy who lived there was having respiratory problems. My group worked on the last house installing siding.

On our last day, my group sat on the front porch watching two dogs wander down the unpaved road searching for food, their rib cages sticking out awkwardly as they walked. The elderly man who lived in the house slowly opened the screen door to where we were all sitting. He had five orange sodas cradled in his worn hands. Without saying a word, he walked up to each of us, handed us a soda, and nodded his head. He then walked back into the house, not to be seen again. Our foreman told us that he was a retired army veteran. That can of soda was a small token of his appreciation—perhaps the only way he could offer his thanks.

That gesture told the most poignant story, one that I will never forget.