Old Peachtree
Through the Nantahala National Forest runs the Andrew Jackson, known throughout Murphy, North Carolina and beyond as “The Four-Lane”. This road serves as the artery of this small mountain town and its nearby mountain residents. My family lives near there, in a smaller-yet town called Marble, North Carolina. My wife’s grandmother, Uncle Rick, and their dog Lucy, that is.
Lucy is a mountain mutt. She wandered onto the property some years ago, or so it went to the best of my recollection. Elke checked the shelters, but she was no one’s dog. Now she was theirs. More dogs showed up over time, but there was only so much the family could do for them. They were re-homed and all.
She is a kind dog. There is hound in her blood, no question, and she’ll let you know with clarity where she wants to be. If she’s tired, she’s laying down. If she picks up a scent on the road, we are all going to check it out. If she’s done walking, we all are. She weighs a clean 68lbs, going on 200. Stubborn as a mule and kind as a kitten.
She gets along with Ozzy well. They met young, she had just walked into the family a few weeks before we brought our young dog down into the mountains for his first time. They’ve always been inseparable, and they spend a few days moping around after we part ways each time.
The fog is thick and friendly in the mornings this time of year. I like to spend them on the East-facing porch, watching as the sun comes up over Big Peachtree Bald and battles its way through the dense air. The light is stark white, but soft and diffused. There is a chill in the air from the water, but the day will be warm and the morning cool is refreshing.
On our way through the valley, we came across a Common Snapping Turtle (Chelydra Serpentina) crossing the winding road that passes the Mennonite property. She was around a foot long and real mean. That’s not her fault, it’s her job to snap.
I spent a few minutes baiting her with a stick, helping her to snap her way into the grass, a couple inches at a time. I like to imagine she’s doing well and eating well. She didn’t like me much, but I hope she’s alright.
These signs pop up all over North Carolina and Georgia, and I like to imagine who might have put them up in the first place. Were they legally posted? Is this vandalism? Did they mean well or did they mean to scare? Is there a difference? I think it was the preacher.
Muscadines. The first native North American grape. The tough, bitter skin holds a soft and sweet interior, but look out for the few seeds, they’re bitter too. I didn’t mind them, Genevieve did. These things are all over North Carolina, an unsung hero of the Southeast.
A few miles down the four-lane sits Murphy, a Main Street town with a new roundabout in the middle that came after they were voted one of the better small towns in North Carolina. The Henn shows two movies at a time. You’ll sit in the hallway-style theater, and the popcorn is great.
Deanie owns and runs Marketplace Antiques, the greatest store in all of Murphy (personally). She and her coworkers decorate the whole place for the seasons, and there is always fresh coffee for free at the front door. She’s excited to show you when new goods come in, and Christmas is probably her favorite. I asked her for this photo, to which she replied, “No, let’s all take a picture together!”
This place has a few of anything you could ever imagine, from leather jackets to valet stands, even a Lincoln Derringer pistol if you’re so inclined. They price fair and they’ll cut you a deal without even asking.
Red Brick Deli sits a little further into town, and the owner’s daughter-in-law runs the place. I’m from Chicago, and I have to be honest in saying that this place is the best deli I’ve ever been to. Who’d have thought, tucked down here in the mountains.
Parson’s Pub shut down some time ago, a real shame. The community really liked it. Scott Cleeton reopened the place under the new name “Poor Parson’s Pub” where he cooks each meal himself in a glass cube near the entrance. The menu is small and the food is perfect. Everything is cooked over wood fire. When he’s free, you’ll see him cleaning tables and talking to the locals. Swordfish steaks are on the menu, and he has them flown in from the Florida Keys daily. Great food, great people.
The local dollar bill bar, Chevelle’s. Great burgers, cold beer, and live music some nights. Every night is interesting. G and I ate our burgers and watched the band play while the newlyweds kissed in the back and the older crowd screamed at FSU from the bar.
Back on the mountain, it looked like the well pump broke. A once-in-a-few-decades minor catastrophe, especially to anyone who hadn’t saved for it. She’s an expensive replacement. The well crew were kind people, and made friendly conversation with Elke, Rick, and Linda while they worked. The friendly conversation is a trademark of the Southeast.
The well crew had quite a time backing up to the well, and had to cut a few plants out. The rose bush had to go, and they had to take a few branches off of Elke’s Dogwood. They told her they didn’t like the Dogwood trees, that’s what Jesus was hung on, and that’s why they don’t grow as big anymore.
There are quiet moments everywhere in Nantahala. The Fall Webworms make these beautiful coverages that look like elastic stretched over the greenery. A protective skin.
These Fall Webworms can be destructive in large quantities, but aren’t too bad up here on the mountain by the look of it.
In similar fashion, the spiders build furiously in the night. By morning, the moisture from the fog has decorated their webs in a beaded structure of water droplets. A miniature crystal chandelier at every turn.
Dogwood berries sit in clusters between the leaves.
Cattle sit in the fields. The sun obscured in the overcast daylight, they need not seek shade, but lay in the open. Ivy and Kudzu grow on everything, often for the worse. But the goats eat what they want, and the people do their best to keep the growth at bay.
The night before our time in Murphy was done, we ate well. Rib Country is a chain, and a great one. A full slab of ribs with fries and coleslaw for less than twenty dollars, and those ribs are cooked long and to perfection. The sauce is great. It’s North Carolina.
A lot of our time is spent at the house. We sit around and read, or G works on a puzzle while I work on my photographs and writing. We make sure to sit near the door, where the mountains, trees, and birds say hello through the doorway. There is a constant hum of life that comes from beyond the porch. It is quiet but continuous.
The dogs play until they’re exhausted while G and I sit in rocking chairs and stare at the mountains. Hummingbirds drink from the feeder. The dogs play again. Stop again. Lucy has a thicker coat, and heats up faster than Ozzy when the sun is out.
We spend most of our time with Elke. She loves this place, and knows we love it too. She knows the history, and we appreciate that she shares it with us.
We think of this place a lot. There are few places that we truly belong like Murphy. I think that’s because nobody really belongs here. The land is settled only enough to stand upon, but never flattened. This region has not been bent to the people’s will, but rather has bent it’s people to live accordingly.
The nights are louder, and the insects own the land. Beautifully geometric Harnessed Tiger Moths fly and land and fly and land. Crickets stridulate all around us.
G made this photo of me. I am happy here. The people are kind and it’s mostly nature. I say hello to strangers and wave at the cars passing by. They always wave back. Things move slower, and the pace is just right. The dog is free to search and run, and G doesn’t worry so much. Neither do I. Until next time, Murphy.
Thank you, Elke, for having us. Thank you, Rick, for your stories and sense of humor. Thank you, Lucy, for keeping Ozzy happy. Thank you, Richard, for the camera. Thank you, G.