We are to go with Marsha to the Caretta Community Center to see where she works to transform the lives of the people in the hallows. As she gathers up her things for the drive, this social worker without portfolio looks more like an angel -- a heavenly guardian that has been sent to sow seeds of hope in the rugged hills of rural West Virginia. Her powerful story has transformed her in our eyes. We are believers.
Riding with Marsha, we drive into War and then take River Road where living conditions are so appalling they take your breath away. The deeper you venture into the hallows, the worse the living conditions become. It is staggering to think that your fellow Americans could live like this only eight hours outside the nation's capital. The houses are falling down; people look like stricken survivors of a disaster. Perched on rotted porch fronts, they stare blankly into the open hills. Some nod as we pass. Many knew Marsha and their faces break into big smiles as they recognize her. It seems like most have been touched by her in some way. Before heading to the Center, we turn into English Hallow to visit people Marsha cared about greatly. Ms. Connie Akers and her family.
Ms. Connie's home, unfortunately, is not an exception to the squalor permeating the hills. The first thought that comes to mind was that the home and surrounding buildings have been abandoned for years -- like a Walker Evans photograph of the old shacks on the Oklahoma prairies during the height of the Depression. But instead of dust, coal culm covers everything. The yard is littered with remnants of failed attempts to improve their living conditions -- bits and pieces they hoped somehow to apply to the house to make it warmer or more secure. Windows are missing panes of glass, holes pepper the siding, a battered ruin of a front porch has collapsed into weeds.
Pulling into the drive, we can barely find a space to park that is not filled with some sort of rubble. The soothing sounds of a creek running in the back provide the only measure of relief from the overwhelming bleakness pervading the lot. Knowing we are going to need to be stoic, we make sure to rein in our emotions before entering. We intend to honor this struggling family's dignity and courage; not patronize them with misplaced pity. Kimberly and Dalton, two of eight Akers children, come running out to greet us. Covered head to toe in coal dust, no shoes in the mountain winter, they still exude a joy that only children can have in such conditions.
The two children, just in their first decade, are simply beautiful. Kimberly could easily become a model in New York with her striking young face and her brother's laughter and smile could melt the mountain snows. Little Dalton has his Hulk shirt on -- he loves to be called the next Hulk. Both appear to have some developmental and neurological disorders from their malnutrition and it is hard to tell their exact ages. Kimberly has trouble with her verbal skills and struggles to speak. Both have feet roughly calloused and cut from walking without shoes in the winter.
Dalton takes our hands to lead us into the house to meet their mother. Ms. Connie is about 5'7" tall with reddish tinted hair and very bad teeth. She was clearly a beautiful woman in her youth and you can't help but wonder what kind of dreams she must have had back then. Five of the children in the house are hers; the remaining three are step-daughters from her husband.
At one time, we are told, there were twelve people living in the two room house. The prospect seems almost impossible with floors so buckled and walls so precariously fragile that a mere breeze might easily topple the structure. The coal burning stove with its adjoining coal box takes up a great deal of the first room. Scattered about are four ancient chairs and a loveseat, all powered with the ever-present coal dust. Indeed, the black film is so pervasive that it literally covers everything and transfers like a rampant virus to anyone sitting anywhere. There is no septic tank and no sewer; everything runs into the creek behind the house.
In the corner of the cramped living room is a bed that contains Ms. Connie's mother, Ms. Fannie Rose, who, due to the crippling effects of a stroke, has been unable to stand or sit for nearly ten years. She smiles when you talk to her about the old days of the Union and is glad to have someone to tell that she lost two brothers to the mines. She hasn't had adequate healthcare in years. Hard times have turned Ms. Connie's husband into an alcoholic, one of Ms. Connie's stepdaughters has multiple sclerosis. Ms Connie herself has a fourth grade educational and little or no hope of ever finding work. Recovering from breast cancer, she recently was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The constant overwhelming pain forced her into a dependency on the opiate Oxycontin. Under the influence of the drug, she tears mercilessly at her skin; the raw marks are like a roadmap all over her wracked body. She is struggling to get off the drug, but the dealers are relentless, especially with those desperate for relief from the debilitating medical treatments.
Echoing the County Sheriff earlier in the afternoon, Marsha Timpson reiterates that Oxycontin was an especially virulent blight in the hills. "Life just got too hard. It is just an escape from their reality. I think they give up." She shakes her head sadly and sighs. "Fear is the most horrible; it ties you down more than anything else. And if you are tied down with fear, then what comes after that? Hopelessness. And you just don't want to face life. It's easier to be numb. But this thing will take your soul." She leans into us for emphasis and repeats in measured tones, "It will take your soul."
The Akers' have no health insurance, little transport and rarely see a doctor. The promise of America rings especially hollow to them. In a community of so much suffering, this household seems to be burdened with more than its fair share. They are, in truth, a classic case of how the Welfare Reform Act in the mid-nineties has devastated large numbers of people. Their five year span of support mandated by law is now expired and the prospect of a likely job is nil. They run out of food before the end of the month, desperately hoping that one of the local church food banks or the Center will have enough resources to see them through. They feel forgotten by their country and worry constantly about the future of their children in such dire circumstances. Marsha angrily calls it like it is: "If that welfare bill hadn't passed, most likely these children would be getting food and not going to bed hungry. They might even have a chance."
For families like the Akers', the only hope comes from the Caretta Community Center. Marsha describes, for instance, the successes of the student visitation program she runs at the Center. As she gives a tour of the house, she points out the tangible results of the intervention. "The students from Notre Dame helped repair this roof, the ones from Ferrun College and Washington and Lee University helped put a kitchen in the house. The College of Ozarks kids created a Christmas for the Akers family and sent books for the kids. It is the young of America that seems to still care and believe in helping your neighbor." Her eyes narrow at us. "Where are the adults? Do they care anymore?"
The Akers' are among the majority of hill people struggling beyond all reason to not give into despair. "What a family it is," Marsha once movingly wrote about the case, "Poor, neglected, illiterate and a little dirty. Also loving caring, sharing, giving and wonderful. I often wonder how these forces battle against each other but I know which is the most powerful...I can't imagine getting through one day of such a hard life let alone every day, but Connie does, and always with a smile on her face and generosity in her heart."
At the end of the afternoon visit, we get in the car shaken to the core and, in marked silence, head to the Caretta Community Center.