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July is typically a cruel month, with searing heat, heavy humidity and the expectation to participate in outdoor social events. It’s one of the reasons I love February. Nobody pressures a person to go “do something” outside in the icy rain under threatening clouds. Recluses like me get to hunker down on our sofas, satisfying our endless allure for Little Debbie snack cakes and Netflix shows judgment-free.
However, July is all star-spangled and melting ice cream cones. People love to gather outside in panting clusters, wiping sweaty brows and slapping mosquitos rhythmically. Add the sound of sizzling meat on a grill and happy children squealing, and suddenly small-town America performs its own summer medley every Saturday afternoon.
This July was especially disagreeable because a series of unrelated events required me to travel away from home for over half the month. I was able to land back in Murphy for a day or two between happenings, but time marched unflappably to the next circled date on my calendar – and away I drove in Sassy Pants, my trusty Honda, far away from Murphy once again.
Travel always stretches me. It reshapes my thinking, sometimes making it impossible to fit into the life I left behind, depending on the depth and scope of the journey. I once returned home from a long weekend in Paris and hardly recognized my house or the boyfriend living within it. I left both in short measure, dreaming of baguettes, silk scarves and a language so lovely it felt like a caress just to hear it.
My July journeys lacked the enchantment of Paris, of course, but admittedly, the cities I visited held a few fascinations of their own. Take the neighborhoods lined with giant grandpa trees in Charlotte. Or what about the elegant Wright & Co. restaurant in Detroit?
I sat under a brilliant chandelier hanging from the impossibly high, tin-plated ceiling. They served my gimlet in fragile coupe glass, etched with lacework as fine as a spider’s web. Or, my favorite, Heggy’s chocolate shop, chock-a-block full of hand-wrapped confections enticing me to Canton, Ohio.
What diversions! Such pleasure. But I was unable to experience these adventures without bringing a part of Murphy with me.
In the Charlotte neighborhood, for example, I met a woman walking a one of those enormous pony-looking dogs with long hair and sad eyes. I told her that on my walks in Murphy, I often see deer – and once I saw, not an actual bear, but certainly evidence of the bear’s lunch. She acted unimpressed, but I could tell she was jealous.
At the fancy restaurant in Detroit, I told an attentive manager about the best gimlet I’ve ever had from a place called Murphy’s Chophouse all the way down in far-western North Carolina. I chatted with the counter girl at Heggy’s, choosing my pieces carefully from the joyful bins.
“I’m taking these back to my friends at the local newspaper,” I told her. She had never heard of Murphy, so I guess I left a piece of myself with her as well.
My heart really did grow fonder the longer I was away from home. I even missed some of the annoying things, like the predictable traffic frustrations by McDonald’s, runaway carts in the Ingles parking lot or pickups that emit black smoke and deafening engine growls. I missed the way Cherokee County cashiers say, “Have a nice day,” in way that makes me believe they want me to.
Murphy is a sip of cool water in a world parched from sound bytes masquerading as well-considered thought. Murphy, with its attention-seeking rain, belly-flop contests, steadfast Rotarians and churches with signs like – “Sin bad, Jesus good, details inside” – is comfort food to me.
It’s why, despite the grandeur and frivolity of traveling, I remained hungry for home.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout when she’s not everywhere but Cherokee County. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.