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I’ve met a couple of other newcomers to town, and it’s not like we’ve formed a club or anything, but we do agree that living in Murphy as an outsider can be tough.
Nobody disputes the friendliness of the locals, that’s not it. It’s more an issue of convenience. There aren’t many convenient ways to meet people.
When I first arrived to town, I tried joining a church, thinking Christians were a pretty safe bet as friends, as they live by a code that requires them to love their neighbor. And I think they tried to love me; they gave it a good go.
However, my theology sometimes scratches up against tradition and, as hard as I tried to hang out with just the womenfolk, there always seemed to be a man lurking, heavily trained in mansplaining. I didn’t officially quit the church – I was more like a snowman slowly melting into a puddle – but I can say nobody seemed to mind nor notice my absence.
I did join the Rotary Club of Murphy, which is something I recommend to fellow newcomers. They meet every Monday at El Manzanillo Mexican Restaurant which has a full bar, so that was an unexpected bonus. Additionally, they are formal people, ringing a bell to commence and following an unwavering agenda, which in a chaotic world feels comforting.
Plus, many of the women are seriously friendly. As if they mean it. But so far, that friendliness has not translated into a “cozy up in pajamas with a vodka martini watching an old 1980s movie” type situation.
Twice now, I’ve been lucky enough to receive an email from a reader, and on both occasions I was invited to spend time with them without a screen and a keyboard replacing human contact. The first occasion resulted in a budding friendship, warm meals, homemade bread, her sharp wit and impressive home bar drawing me in like a cool drink of water after a hike in the dessert. The second invitation, and I always accept when possible, was to join a group of women who meet every Friday at the Rare Bird Emporium.
The Emporium somehow manages to make a massive space – it must be a jillion square feet – into something inviting with a floor plan that reminded me of visiting a wealthy family friend as kid. The hostess gave my twin sister and I free rein to explore her house, which was a bad idea as I have always been a voyeur, feeling no shame for opening drawers nor searching for secret panels in closets.
Walking through the Emporium felt like that kind of adventure. Plus, the barista was friendly and not at all annoyed when I ordered my fussy drink.
I found the ladies in the back, sitting by the little fireplace. They were smiling when I approached. The woman who invited me, Connie, a gorgeous redhead oozing cheerful sophistication, stood up when I approached. She introduced me to the group and they seemed happy I had crashed their little party.
The ladies have been meeting together for over a year and have some loose connections through a church. They laughed together, following a rambling range of topics in that easy way meaningful friendships do. One woman, Lynn, also a first-time visitor and, like me, knew no one in the group was a recent widow whose sparkle could not be dimmed under her cloak of grief.
They were intelligent women, accomplished and rich in experience. Connie told us she used to work for Pan Am as a flight attendant, which explained her protective role in the group. But mainly, they were just happy.
They laughed easily, and picked up each other’s storylines with the speed and skill of Olympic relay racers passing the baton. There was the occasional name tossing across the circle we formed, Rebecca had her baby, Frank was in the hospital, Vickie’s son was working toward his Ph.D. kind of thing, but I didn’t begrudge them their intimacies. Nor did I feel like a spectator watching their show from a balcony seat.
Living alone in a new town can feel lonely, demoralizing even. But sitting in that sunny corner spot by the fireplace, I shook off some of the icy isolation that weights me and warmed myself with the simplicity of sharing a laugh with a group of strangers who made me feel me worthy of their attention and stories.
I feel a slumber party coming on. I’ll bring the Tito’s.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Contact her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.