I chose to live in Murphy based on a grid system my twin sister and I created when it became apparent that I needed to wrench myself away from my old life.
We listed my non-negotiables – mountainous, rural, chamber of commerce, local newspaper and local pub types of things, although “local pub” was much higher in the list at the time.
Several Appalachian towns made the final cut on our tidy spreadsheet, including a few charmers in Virginia. And, yes, it felt strange to use cold methodology to completely sever my old life and start a foreign one, but standing sentry over a life that was already dead felt even stranger.
When I drove into Murphy on a reconnaissance mission, I knew immediately that this was the one. Murphy stood peerless among the other mountain towns on my list.
It wasn’t just Smokey the Bear offering friendly warnings to those driving by the firehouse, or the courteous driver who let me into the through lane when mine disappeared into a turn only – a rookie mistake I continue to make, with local residents continuing to offer an eternal wave of forgiveness. And it wasn’t just the laughing neighbors I watched speak with one another in the Ingles parking lot.
Maybe “watched” is the wrong verb. I sat like a voyeur peering at people strolling their unwieldy shopping carts (or are they called buggies?) over to a car with arms beckoning out of its windows.
Southern hospitality is on its finest display in parking lots. No matter how harried or hurried a shopper looked when exiting the market heading for her car, if someone honked or waved a greeting, Murphy folks suddenly seemed unbothered by time or duty. Their response was immediate and just a rung below aggressive.
The shopping cart owner would clickety-clack toward the waving arms and even from a distance too far to actually listen, I could feel their warmth; I understood their laughter. I expected to see a screw top bottle of wine being passed between each side of the window as friends reprioritized their day.
Murphy was to be my chosen home not because of these scraps of singular events, but rather that when all of these observations stitched together in my mind, they revealed a safe and comfortable quilt of invitation and belonging.
Oh, I knew I didn’t belong, not yet. But I felt secure that my little piece of glittery fabric could weave among the others here – if they would have me.
And slowly, in tiny ways, they began to have me. I met a friendly woman at a charity shop and, despite our lives having no clear intersection of experience, she let me call her “friend.” Then another woman wrote in commenting on her fondness for my writing. Fast-forward a few months, and I’ve eaten dinner at her table; I slurped a glorious martini shaken by her husband.
Another townswoman, and she is popular, asked if she could sit next to me at a Murphy Rotary Club meeting. Me? I’m a nobody here. I sat tall and straight the whole meeting, feeling so proud to sit among the cool kids.
And then there was the deeply respected coworker who teased me about my penchant for wig-wearing. “At least that one doesn’t clash with your lipstick,” she had said, and her comment fell like a heart-shaped sticker attaching to my skin. Strangers do not get teased.
I was still traveling far away to visit my more intimate friends on weekends, and sometimes I would slip up and tell them, “I’m coming home for the weekend” because Murphy did not yet feel like home. I was frozen in an in-between.
But this Christmas, I traveled to see my twin, and when I left her place, I felt a little extra beat in my heart, the kind that makes you smile.
As I drove away from her home, a place that felt as much mine as hers, I realized my heart was kicking out those extra beats because I was excited to be going home. Murphy had become my home.
People aren’t calling me over to their cars in the Ingles parking lot yet. These things take time and patience; but I can feel it coming.
And I have screw top bottle of cheap white wine at the ready for when it does.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent and podcaster for the Cherokee Scout. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.