Spring in West Virginia comes cold to the runs and valleys and warm to the low mountain hills, when the sun heats them in the afternoon. My time there was brief. The boy, his name reserved so that even as this time has passed, he won't be embarrassed by what I am about to tell ... The boy intrigued me. Thin. Not tall. His high cheekbones flushed often when outdoors. Just out of high school, we were on a mission to help the desperately poor mountain people.
We were building a dormitory so there was no place to sleep except the floor. The girls took turns on the two sofas. There was no privacy. 14 young people huddled together in the evening, playing spoons after dinner. Playing guitar and singing. Nights were cold. The boys competed in the outhouse Olympics. How fast can you run outside and go. No one was alone except the outhouse and that was timed.
In time I would realize, that it was hard for the boys. Most young men at around this age, we were 19 or so, masturbated daily. As the week went on their poor cocks must have been bursting. For myself, the close quarters, the messy work with the chickens, in the garden, in the kitchen and helping out in the new construction, never really put me in mind of sex. Perhaps my Catholic upbringing helped condition me in that way.
Father Dave kept us busy. We went into town twice that week, to visit his flock. How they loved him. These poor desperate dirty people; three and four generations living in the same few rooms greeted him lovingly when he showed up. And why not. He was a fine carpenter and a good shepherd. Generous with both food and money.
There's a deeply satisfying feeling that you get when you selflessly give. There were moments that I knew that soul satisfaction, or glimpsed it anyway. I could see as I watched him, that the boy gained a satisfaction from his efforts with the poor.
