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Look, I understand that natives are royalty in Murphy. I get it. I’m just a transplant here, with distant origins in the north (gasp!) because my ancestors didn’t have the good sense to scratch out a farm on a piece of Cherokee County dirt a couple of centuries ago. So while natives wear their crown of belonging with pride and grace, I know my place.
However, I recently met a Florida transplant who was regal – queenly, even. We had superficially chatted a few times at the Rotary Club of Murphy, and I always admired her poise. Somehow we broke the barrier between friendly and friendship, and I ended up at her house for a visit.
She moved slowly from the front door to the fancy red-carpeted room at the other end of her sprawling house. But even with her cane, she floated rather than hobbled.
When we arrived to the cheerful room, lined with windows all around and an impressive chandelier hanging above one of the cushy chairs, I had trouble deciding where to sit. She chose a corner of the posh pink sofa (was it covered in satin?) that I had eyed upon entrance.
I didn’t want to appear freakish by sitting next
to her on the sofa; I mean, we barely knew each other, and I wanted her to like
me. Maybe it’s because of
the Queen of England’s Jubilee, but that sofa looked Buckingham Palace fancy, and I really wanted to sit on it.
So, despite social conventions reproaching me, I slowly lowered myself onto the other side of the sofa – and now we were lined up like Campbell soup cans – me, beef broth; her, lobster bisque – on either end of a pantry shelf, facing blankly forward. I began to sweat, my go-to nervous reaction, when she started talking, and I felt the refreshing breeze of friendship.
“When I first moved here 30 years ago, I had trouble making friends,” she said. “The town shut down by 5 every night, and the only options were church on Wednesdays and the racetrack.”
I have some personal experience with that racetrack and had trouble inserting this magnificent lady onto the dusty metal bench, breathing in the grit-filled air and watching cars scream around the track, all the while clutching a chili dog. “I loved going to the track,” she said, smiling at the memories and shattering
my perceptions at the same time.
And so, like most people I’ve met here, I had to abandon any prejudgments and allow her to reveal herself rather than color in the lines I had drawn for her. Jeeze, Abigail, people aren’t a paint-by-number, defined by your paintbrush.
“I was a widow, and single ladies weren’t meant to dine out alone,” she said. “But I did it anyway.” She met many friendly women, especially at church, but said their “let’s have lunch” – oft repeated but never fulfilled – began to ring hollow.
The rest of the visit I sat enamored – no, that isn’t the right word, I think I was developing a girl crush, as she shared bits and pieces of her surprising life. When it was time to go, I reluctantly stood up.
She had been so open with me, sharing her authentic stories of adversity and pluck, that I felt inspired by her generosity. She helped me chip away the glamour I confined her by so I could see the shining gems beneath.
Plus, I secretly hoped she’d invite me for dinner so I could snoop in her kitchen cupboards. I imagined rows of delicate plates and heavy crystal glasses.
So now I’m re-evaluating the social grid system I developed to understand the cliques and clusters of local folks. She moved through town like a royal native, fully understanding her value and connection to the town. She was just an ordinary transplant like me, except she was from Florida (!).
However, she wasn’t a nobody here. She couldn’t be bothered with such superficial assignments. She was gloriously herself and, as such, belonged to everybody.
In a town rich with heritage and family lines sprawled out like twisted country roads, maybe there was a place for me here among the natives. Sure, they’re are all home-cooked soups and secret recipe sauces, but I’m following my friend’s lead. I’m changing my status from transplanted to imported.
I’m a fancy lobster bisque with something unique to share at the town picnics. I’m not bold enough to wear a crown of belonging yet, but I’m eyeing the natives to get some ideas on ornate designs.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.