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When my twin sister and I were quite young, and super duper lucky, we’d get to spend the night at Grandma Powell’s house.
Grandpa Powell was a car salesman who drove a giant cream-colored Cadillac with electric windows, which felt fancy and exotic to our no-nonsense VW van with the roll-out ventilators. He was active in a community club that put on minstrel shows to raise money for one thing or another. This meant that their attic was full of old costumes and wigs, which we played with well past our bedtime.
Grandma had a lamp shaped like a covered wagon pulled by a donkey. When we pressed down the donkey’s tail, the light would go off, causing us to giggle hysterically and do it again and again until Grandma, never stern or reproachful, had to cut us off from the donkey, leaving us in the dark but for the tiny circular window under the eaves that lit up with soft light dependent on the moon’s cycle.
Nothing bad ever happened at Grandma’s house. It was a magical place, carved out of a less than magical childhood.
At Grandma’s house, we were served things like fresh peaches and Grandma’s special macaroni and cheese, all creamy and stringy and salty. Grandma would kiss us goodnight and make her way downstairs, closing the door at the bottom we knew would remain closed until we opened it for our Lucky Charms cereal in the morning. It was a safe place, a beautiful respite from a sometimes challenging childhood.
When I limped into Cherokee County two and a half years ago, I needed a safe place, a beautiful respite to incubate. I had suffered an emotional heart attack, meaning my heart had been attacked in a hit and run by my husband and his mistress. The whole thing had been public and noisy and awful, and I wanted quiet anonymity.
One of my first Murphy outings was to the recycling center, where I met Joe Joe. I had been inside my cabin for a few weeks, nourishing myself on sorrow and self-pity, when the pile of garbage bags caught my attention.
It was so bright outside, and I was annoyed by the beauty in a “how dare you” kind of way. I remember feeling that same way when Grandma Powell died.
The funeral was in the middle of a swirling Ohio blizzard so dangerous that we weren’t allowed to enter the cemetery for fear of being snowed in. It was a gorgeous, biting display, snow crystals dancing in violent wind bursts.
I was furious at the beauty of it, the aliveness of the stinging cold on my cheeks. I felt so dead inside and how dare nature beg for attention in such a lively, compelling way. The world should turn gray, food should taste like gruel and happy people should be banished while I mourned my loss. It was in this attitude that I emerged from my little cabin in Murphy and made my way to the recycle center.
But there was Joe Joe, waving me in like an old friend. He helped me unload my bounty and chatted easily with his
radio voice and quirky humor. And that encounter set the tone for my life in Murphy.
Nearly everyone I met, with the exception of a few suspicious church people, had that same warm, interested attitude. I joined the Rotary Club of Murphy to remind myself how to behave like a human by serving others, and that helped immensely. I was becoming a bit selfish in my grief, and Rotary felt like those shock paddles they use in the emergency room. “Charging! Clear!”
I formed some profound friendships. Joni with her wit and warmth, Patricia with her endless generosity and over-exuberant dogs. There were the fancy teas at Joy Lynn’s grand home, the red carpet and a sparkling chandelier complimenting her wicked humor and candid love.
Fellow Cherokee Scout Staff Correspondent Anngee Quinones-Belian and I became unlikely friends. She told me one day, “You are my best friend,” and I melted at the honor.
A couple of days ago, I was at Walmart buying boxes to pack up my house because I am moving toward a new adventure. The greeter was an older woman waving a fold-out fan she had bedazzled with purple beads and glitter. She was fanning it in front of her face, trying to stay cool from the heat blasts every time the doors slid open.
“I like your fan,” I told her. She paused, looking at it like she was seeing it for the first time. “Oh, yes, I love this thing,” she said, resuming her fanning. “It makes the heat bearable.”
That’s what Murphy did for me. It was a bedazzled jewel that made the pain bearable. I learned to fall in love with myself here, and to forgive those who had trespassed against me.
The bucolic landscape, my cautious neighbors, the bartenders who puzzled over my drink orders, (“No, Pimms is the actual name of the alcohol in the drink …”), the layer of cheese on every entree, the fresh fruit and veg stands in the gas station parking lots, the irrepressible joy of Dunkin Donuts workers who treated me like a favorite sister, the endless road construction, the county’s penchant for turning every holiday into a veteran’s memorial, the city commissioners with their private sessions and the waitresses with their “You OK, honeys.” Just the whole wonderful experience felt a lot like going to Grandma’s house and resting in her extravagant love.
Thank you, Cherokee County, for taking a chance on this stranger. I came to you broken and vacant and, in your steady mountain ways, you resuscitated me and taught me the pleasures of slowing down and living a deeper, community-based life. I remain in your debt.
Abigail Blythe Batton was a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout until last week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com.