I moved to Murphy one month ago, landing here from a charmed life in Asheville. My old life played very well on social media. Happy people, a pretty house, a garden that produced enough bounty to share at potlucks hosted at our pretty house. Lots of pictures, lots of smiles and lots of tomatoes.
I stopped posting when my selfies transformed from something one might covet to something one might find on the post office wall for America’s most wanted. Except that I wasn’t wanted. I had been rejected, then ejected from my life, a life soured in a most unwelcomed way. In the shock of an interrupted life, I sought solace in a move to small town.
I drove to Murphy on a recognizance tour and immediately recognized it as a place to call home. First, the sky decided to show off with that bright North Carolina blue, and the sun wanted to compete for attention, shining down on charming main street between perfect clouds all puffy and sugary.
Secondly, when I stopped at Main Street Diner to get a feel for what locals were like, the waitress called me “hon,” which I loved, and then tried very hard to accommodate my hot tea request. She pulled out one of those giant Lipton bags used to brew gallons of iced tea, and even though we both knew it was a lost cause, she really tried.
Once I officially moved here, the good stuff just kept coming. I met Joe out at the dump. He walked over with his long, lean frame and helped me unload my rubbish into the skip. My radio was blasting Crosby, Stills & Nash; he said he loved that song and this shared affiliation felt like a warm hug.
Because I didn’t know anyone in town, I began to look forward to greeting Joe once a week. He always seemed happy to see me and made me feel like I belonged in Murphy, like I was wanted here.
Part of my new life transformation involved splitting property, so when I arrived to set up my new house, along with bravery, I needed furniture and dishes. Somehow, in the chaotic split from my previous life, I ended up with one with a solitary fork. No spoons, no other cutlery, just that one fork.
I had already sussed out that Murphy boasted multiple thrift shops, and randomly selected one called Reach because the name mirrored my own life. I needed to reach something – people, peace, positivity. I wasn’t an inch across their threshold when an energetic woman greeted me.
“Good morning!” she boomed. When I followed the sound to its source, I found a tiny woman standing behind the counter, her size incongruent to her personality. She seemed to be all the things that I wasn’t: friendly, peaceful, positive.
I bought the home goods I needed and when I opened the door to leave, Tiffany shouted, “see you next time.” While she probably says this everyone, at that particular intersection in my life I took it as a serious invitation.
Slowly, I am getting to know my neighbors. Like me, they are timid toward new people, but I make a point of walking through the neighborhood every day and this constancy seemed enough to wrestle them from their cozy homes (everybody seems to have a fireplace here, the swirling columns of smoke making the whole landscape look more like a postcard than a neighborhood).
A few of the neighbors don’t return my enthusiastic wave, but I understand their protectiveness. Murphy is creeping up to its 200-year-old birthday, and some of my neighbors have ancestors attached to this land for just as long. I have invaded their territory and am viewed as an outsider.
I imagine I will remain “other” for some time, but that’s OK with me. In this gentle, new town, I feel like a stranger to myself some of the time, so I can’t fault my neighbors for feeling the same way.
Abigail Hickman is a special correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email her at savvygirlsavvygirl@gmail.com or leave a message in the office at 837-5122.