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Faith Petersen

Mr. Hackney

English 101: Rhetoric

9 September 2014

The Transitive Property of Happiness

The summer after freshman year, as I packed for my week long experience I wondered

what I was really getting myself into. It’s a tradition at my church that high school students travel

to Appalachia and fix the homes of needy families to kick off the summer. I had heard about

ASP from the older kids, who shared pictures and stories, but I lacked confidence in my skills.

Would I really be able to survive with a bunch of people I hardly knew for 8 days hundreds of

miles away from home? Was abandoning my lifestyle in hopes to help others such a good idea? I

sure hoped so. The next morning I would be headed to Andersonville, Tennessee to meet the

woman my team would be spending our days with as we repaired her unlevel floor in the old run

down shack she called home.

The car ride felt endless, all my thoughts were focused on the moment we found out our

job and, being it was my first year, I was nervous about how much help I would be. I didn’t

know much about construction work and had never attempted such a large project before, so I

was dependent upon the guidance of my adult leaders and the more experienced upperclassmen.

When we arrived, we set up our sleeping bags in the classroom we would be staying in, it was

small and we had to situate ourselves around the maze of desks. Then they made the

announcement that it was time for our first meal. We reached the dining hall and I was quite

disappointed by the food. They were serving Salisbury steak with mushrooms and green beans, a

meal I wasn’t too fond of. I forced myself to try what sat on my plate out of respect for the cooks

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who stood by waiting for approval. I prayed this wouldn’t be a pattern among the rest of the

meals, but I ended up not eating much aside from peanut butter and jelly sandwiches during the

week. My first impression of life in Appalachia wasn’t the most positive.

The next day, I was startled awake by music blasting through the halls at the crack of

dawn. I rolled out of bed, my body hating me for doing so. Then my team loaded the van and

headed to the job site. It was about a 40 minute drive through the mountains and required

climbing a massive one-lane hill, during which we often had to back up to avoid cars speeding

past us in the opposite direction. We finally arrived at Ivy’s home and I was shocked by what I

saw. She lived in a one bedroom house with a small kitchen stocked with “just add water” meals

and a bathroom with plumbing that only worked a fraction of the time. She barely had anything,

but she was so excited to meet us and eager to cater to our curiosity. We didn’t know her, but

there was an understanding that she depended on us.

Every day she joined us for lunch and told us about her past, as well as the history of

Appalachia. Her father, along with the other men in the area, once made a living from coal

mining. But with the closing of the coal mines, many faced unemployment and struggled to

maintain without government assistance programs. She used to teach, but old age and hip

problems left her unable to do physical work. I found it interesting to compare her life to mine.

She told us it had always been her dream to live in a home where she could sit on and watch her

grandchildren play. I had an immense desire to help this poor woman who had lived in

underprivileged circumstances all her life. I wanted nothing more than to make her wish come

true.

We worked throughout the week and the relationship we formed with Ivy grew stronger.

The entire time we worked, tearing out her floor, pouring cement, and insulating her home, she

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had the biggest smile on her face. We were making her happy and in return, we were happy with

ourselves. When we completed our project, she was ecstatic. There were so many other things in

need of improvement with her house, but none of that mattered to her. We bought her a rug to

remember us by and she placed it under her rocking chair with a look of gratitude. She would

have been fine even if nothing changed; our company was what she really valued. I remember

her thanking us with all her heart and wishing us the best and saying she would miss us dearly.

By the end of the week, what I was concerned about previously seemed insignificant. I no

longer cared about sleeping on the floor, eating unappetizing food, or waking up early. My trip

wasn’t just about the labor, it served a greater purpose: taking two very different lifestyles and

merging them in a way that both sides benefited. I was completely satisfied with my decision to

take on something overwhelmingly new and couldn’t wait to do it all again for years to come. I

went home with a new sense of appreciation, for the roof over my head, the food I eat, the

clothes I wear, and most importantly a family that loves me. It isn’t necessary to have anything

more to be happy.