With a letter in hand, signed by a prominent Jesuit, they arrived at a small mountain cabin occupied by a missionary deep in Appalachia, who needed some assistance, and announced our willingness to serve. The seemingly rabid dog chased us back into the truck. “Better make friends with Beatrice soon or this cold beer I have for you is going to get warm”, offered the old priest from the porch.
The mining companies from up north owned the mineral rights throughout these mountains. This allowed them to strip mine right up to folk’s homes, destroying the land, water quality, and the souls of these mountain people. We were asked to survey a 70 acre parcel that was later to be used to resettle displaced people upon. In addition, along with other college students, there was firewood to split, testing of creek waters, fences to build, and long nights listening to the dulcimer, fiddles, and real mountain music by lantern light. After all, it was spring break.
We had trouble believing the missionary, Hatfields and McCoys, still feuding in the hills just above, so we hiked up the mountain to see what all the fuss was about. All we found was a small homestead that appeared to be abandoned. That was until we heard the cocking of a rifle and saw a crazy eyed old sort step out from behind a tree. “wach ya all doin on my lan?”
As we were starting to explain about our alruistic purposes, he shot off his rifle twice in the air and yelled through broken teeth “Da nex one is fer you fella.” We started scrambling down the side of that hill at warp speed, we were rolling and tumbling, and grabbing for branches, when suddenly we stopped face first in the dirt out back the missionary cabins. “Did you have a little meet and greet with Mr. Hatfield?, the old priest queried.
As we were starting to explain about our alruistic purposes, he shot off his rifle twice in the air and yelled through broken teeth “Da nex one is fer you fella.” We started scrambling down the side of that hill at warp speed, we were rolling and tumbling, and grabbing for branches, when suddenly we stopped face first in the dirt out back the missionary cabins. “Did you have a little meet and greet with Mr. Hatfield?, the old priest queried.
It was a strange paradox. Here we were trying to help, be do-gooders and all, and the local folks took a while, if ever, to get used to us helping. Proud folk, yes, but more importantly we learned that helping others is not about being acknowledged or even appreciated, but rather simply to attempt to right a wrong that we are aware of, or so said the old priest.
