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Since moving to Murphy several months ago, I have bumped into several others who are new to town. Like me, they are lonely, I mean bored – no, I really mean lonely – so I thought it would be useful for me to put together a pragmatic list of tips for those of us who find ourselves a stranger in our new home.
First, get to know the names of the people you see in a regular course of your week. For me, it was Joe down at the recycle center. I’ve talked about him before, and for good reason. For one thing, he severely scolded me for calling his place of employment “the dump,” and I like that kind of confidence.
But for another, I actually look forward to dropping off my trash each week because I know Joe will wave a genuine greeting and sometimes even come help me unload my car. He calls me by name and in a new place, in a lonely fresh start, that level of personal recognition feels like a gift.
Second, pace yourself with invitations to socialize among coworkers. This is a rookie mistake and, yes, I’m guilty. When I first arrived, I buzzed around the office like a bee searching for a friendly flower. While everybody was nice, I’m pretty certain they could smell my desperation, and that’s never attractive.
I attached myself to one colleague in particular and was always asking her to go out for a drink with me. She finally crumbled under my intense pursuit and met me at The Crown. Despite sitting outside in astonishing temperatures, with the waiter’s facemask outlined in a sweat ring, she stayed for two cocktails.
I almost had her convinced to stay for a third, but apparently the table we shared was already booked or, perhaps more likely, she snuck up to the hostess and begged for her to ask us to leave. I’ve asked her to do this or that since sweating out our body weight at The Crown, but she declines with that Southern grace locals are so good at.
Third, when I feel particularly lonely, I get fancied up and drive down to Ingles. This tip is best executed during the week, when the store is less crowded. I stand at the end of the freezer aisle and then slowly, as if I am walking down a red carpet, I walk to the other end.
The freezer section is monitored by motion sensor lights, so with each step, the lights on either side of me light up – and for the 30 seconds or so it takes to walk the aisle, I have transformed myself into a celebrity, and all the frozen boxes of pizza and burritos become my adoring fans. It’s heady stuff.
Finally, join a club or church. I have been attending a local church for a few weeks, and while I certainly don’t belong there, I feel included. In a life where I stand on the outside of the party, peering in a window, inclusion is affirming.
Christian women are particularly good at friendliness, and while I sit through the sermons taking notes and shaking my head, the ladies still make a point of inviting me to their Wednesday night group. I attended one and found them discussing the sermon. I whipped out my notebook and expressed some dissatisfaction with a point the pastor made.
One of the women was kind enough to listen and ask questions about my friction. But a man in the room took over and, with boisterous righteousness and great affect, let me know why my view was wrong.
I was grateful he was holding a Bible and not a weapon, although it was sometimes difficult to tell the difference. Thankfully, I was in the wrong room and one of the ladies who had invited me, found me withering in the metal chair and escorted me next door where, with simple, attentive love, they restored my faith in humans.
Building a new life in Murphy is accomplished in inches, not miles, and I’m scared most of the time. But every time I leave my little cabin, I pretend everyone I meet is a close friend. And, one day soon, some of them might just become one.
Abigail Hickman is a special correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email abigailhickman44@gmail.com.