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I grew up as an identical twin. There has never been a moment in my life, even in the womb, where I was completely alone.
My first day of school, we entered the cold, scary schoolhouse hand in hand. First apartment? We shared not only a bedroom, but also a bed due to budgetary considerations. When she got married and moved to Atlanta, I moved into their guest room until they needed it for the baby, when I moved to the apartment across the hall.
However, when my life shattered from catastrophe and I moved to Murphy, I came here completely alone. No dog, barely any silverware and, the biggest vacancy, no person. The only acquaintance I had in town was David Brown at the Cherokee Scout, and even that relationship was based entirely upon a cautious handshake.
My sister and I still talked daily, but everybody knows that a shared screen will never replace a proper hug, preparing a meal together or drinking her mimosas made with an eye-dropper full of orange juice. So I felt especially lost and profoundly alone.
Like most newcomers, I struggled to find my way at first. I felt the disparity between the natives and the rest of us. Frequently, my weeks passed with my only human contact comprising of Joe down at the recycling center, offering me a wave and a smile.
Since then, I’ve spoken with many transplants here, and they advise patience. “It will take awhile for the natives to warm to you, but once they do, you’re in for good,” they would say in the secret meeting places newcomers gather to discuss the town and people within. And, for the most part, they were right.
I spent a good deal of time in Murphy’s bars and pubs slurping down vodka and, sure enough, some of the regulars began calling me by name. Like dandelion seeds in the wind, my bar buddies blew me toward so, and so “whom you’ll just love” and my friendship circle began to grow like a garden.
It helped when I started using the local lingo, peppering my conversations with words like “bless” and “sweet tea,” or, if I’m really pressed, any talk about road construction or parking downtown. I started imitating locals when I gave directions to someone by always referencing McDonald’s as the epicenter for any location within 20 miles. “You know where the McDonald’s is …” I’d say and, just like that, instant rapport.
Intelligent ladies began inviting me to their friendship clubs and, suddenly, my calendar filled with actual activities rather than the usual entries of “get up, work, go to bed.” I was invited to fancy bars and quirky coffee shops, then into people’s homes, which is a daring invitation to offer a stranger these days. But my neighbors, apparently, are less skeptical than I am, or probably watch way less crime documentaries.
On March 11, I will celebrate one full year living in Murphy. It’s not that I feel like a native, as I’ve learned that’s impossible. But I certainly feel accepted, cared for and welcomed, and maybe that’s even better.
Families are always on their best behavior when a guest sits at their table. That’s how Murphy treats me today, which means I get to experience the best of what they offer without the residue and subtext found at family dinner tables.
So, happy anniversary to me. But Murphy, you should know that I’m loyal. Since you’ve invited me in, you’re stuck, and good luck trying to unstick me. I know where the McDonald’s is.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.