Restaurant Review: Rocky’s Grill and Soda Shop

Posted on November 24, 2014 by mreilova

By Katherine Makepeace – 2014

Rocky’s “Carolina Burger” topped with chili, slaw, and onions.

Rocky’s Grill and Soda Shop, a town staple since 1942, is among the most aesthetically vivacious attractions that one notices while browsing Brevard’s downtown district. Its retro signs lure visitors inside for a nostalgic return to what many consider a “simpler time” in America. Massive black and white portraits of stars from Hollywood’s Golden Era smiled down at me, inviting me to stay and revel in the comfort of a more wholesome and pure perspective of an America that I have never experienced first-hand.

The nostalgic image of post-WWII America is a familiar narrative that has been perpetuated to millennials by their baby-boomer parents. Although I myself cannot identify with the old days of 40’s and 50’s American idealism, I still felt palatable warmth envelop my heart that made me feel like I was home safe after a long, hard day. My group and I decided to seat ourselves at the bar, and I couldn’t help but imagine us all coming there 60 years ago in our poodle-skirts and bouncy ponytails to talk about boys over malts and milkshakes. The restaurant describes itself as an old-school “soda fountain” so I ordered a conventional root beer float to sip along with my “Carolina Cheeseburger” – an irresistible heart attack stacked with cheese, chili, slaw, and onions – and a side of fries with a dill pickle spear. I wanted to complete the American diner experience with the most “American” fare possible. And if a burger slathered in chili and slaw isn’t it, I don’t know what is.

The burger was astounding in size, but also in every other aspect. After cutting it in half so I could manage to shovel it into my mouth, I decided just to “go for it”. Taking my first bite was difficult given all the chili exploding out of the burger’s sides, but I developed a strategy as I munched along on my merry way to achieve ultimate fullness. I learned to let a lot of the chili fall onto my plate before attempting to take a bite; the lost toppings from my burger were just recycled as toppings for my fries later in my meal.

The buns were buttery and soft, but sturdy enough to keep my burger generally intact. The patty itself was hearty, thick, and cooked medium, so it still retained its natural flavors. It was not overly greasy like one might expect from a diner burger. The moist, smoky chili gave the sandwich plenty of juiciness without the excess grease that I expected. On the other hand, the sweet, crunchy onions and slaw layered the burger with many nuanced textures.

The root beer float was a true “float” in that the ice cream sat prettily amidst a thick layer of foam near the top of the glass. The generous cooks at Rocky’s must also have been physicists because the scoop of ice cream was simply too ginormous not to sink to the bottom. I suppose this is evidence of their use of fresh products – particularly their bubbly, uber-carbonated root beer soda. The Edy’s vanilla ice cream was thick, creamy, and smooth – a huge departure from the frost-burned varieties littering my freezer.

Overall, I would rate Rocky’s Grill and Soda Shop “excellent” in terms of their food, beverages, and atmosphere. From what I saw of my peers’ menu choices, everything looked massively appealing and nothing disappointed. I could tell from the expressions on my peers’ faces that they were as awash with the same nostalgia that I was.

Fields of the Wood Bible Park

Posted on November 24, 2014 by mreilova

By Katherine Makepeace – 2014

The world’s largest Ten Commandments at Fields of the Wood Bible Park – Murphy, NC

“And all things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing ye shall receive,” [Matt. 21:22]. This was just one of the many biblical quotes embedded in the infrastructure of the Fields of the Wood Bible Park, home of the world’s largest Ten Commandments. This quote and the others like it set the tone for a day of self-reflection. Gentle, early morning rains kissed the open grounds of the park, including the giant Ten Commandments that sprawled across a tall hill and displayed itself open-faced toward the sky. There were no other visitors on this weekday morning. I was tired from the 6-hour drive the previous night, but my spirits were still high.

I am not a religious person by any means, but I am spiritual. I believe that all religions have different ways of representing fundamental truths about the universe and the meaning of our existence. Still, I was unsure of what this place would hold for me as a non-Christian visitor. I wondered if I would appear noticeably out of place or unknowledgeable about the contents of the park. What I found was an ideal space for personal reflection, set amidst a field enclosed by a gorgeous wood, a warm and welcoming staff, and a perfect start to my morning.

What surprised me about the park were its many multi-purpose buildings and features. The property’s highlight is, of course, the world’s largest Ten Commandments. The park also has a baptismal pool, outdoor and indoor chapels, a picturesque duck pond, replicas of Jesus’ tomb and Golgotha, picnic areas, nature trails, a gift shop and café, as well as my personal favorite – Prayer Mountain.

The Ten Commandments can be viewed best from a hill opposite, from some steps at the bottom of Prayer Mountain. The archway that marks the beginning of this path features quotes from the Bible, such as the one mentioned at the start of this article. Beyond the archway is a long path of steps that leads to a concrete courtyard. The path is lined with signs, sponsored by Churches of Christ from all 50 states, that address popular religious topics like the seven deadly sins, the importance of observing the Sabbath, or the dangers of drug abuse. These signs refer specifically to morphine and opium, and the significance that temperance held in the early-to-mid 20^th century. The dated references were not unwelcome to me, as they reflect the fascinating historical significance of this park, and reveal it as a snapshot of American Christian values over time. The path also features a burnt tree that was struck by lightning, which many understand to be a message from God. At the summit, the Lord’s Prayer is displayed on a plaque. There is also an altar for prayer, where hundreds of visitors have left a myriad of notes in different colors, outlining their hopes and dreams, which they hope “shall be received.” As I peered down at this soggy rainbow pile of people’s deepest worries and desires, I somehow felt closer to humanity.

A Courthouse Wedding

Posted on November 24, 2014 by mreilova

By Katherine Makepeace – 2014

The Murphy Courthouse, an unexpected venue for romance – Murphy, NC

Love was the last thing I expected to witness as I walked through the cold, vacuous marble halls of the courthouse, expecting instead to interview the magistrate about local crime in Murphy.

A young couple approached us, “Hey girls, would you be witnesses for our wedding?” Shrill with excitement, we followed them to the magistrate’s office where he performed the marriage; his desk was the altar, littered with rose petal paperwork. Leaning against the wall, I accidentally bumped the light switch and the room went dark for just a moment.

We were over-enthusiastic about the wedding. We asked how they met, expecting a romantic or quirky story. Their response: “we’ve known each other a while and been friends.” The couple is from West Virginia and the bride (like many Murphy visitors) has Cherokee family roots in the area. Also, unlike in West Virginia, North Carolina does not require a waiting period for a marriage to process.

As they were on their way out, we were shown a glimmer of their quiet and reserved relationship: matching tattoos, with each other’s names wrapped around their ring fingers.

The Cherokee Matriarch: Rediscovering Roots

Posted on November 24, 2014 by mreilova

By Katherine Makepeace – 2014

Cherokee County Historical Museum with 3 generations tracing their lineage – Murphy, NC

Fate is a funny thing. We never know when a great coincidence will occur, nor can we foretell the extent to which an event will alter the course of history – in ways that are both tremendous and innocuous.

One of the great ironies of our trip began in Murphy, the night of our arrival at the Days Inn. After our long drive, I began to wonder how our interactions with locals would shape our travels. Now that we’re here, how will our itinerary work out? Will we have any significant leads? Will we have enough time in each town to hunt down some good stories? With a million questions running through my mind about how we should pursue our research, we entered the hotel lobby and approached the woman running the front desk for check-in.

Like most people we met in Murphy, she asked what the heck we were visiting for. She was suddenly excited when we described our research to her, and told us she had a great lead for us. An elderly woman and her family had just arrived at the same hotel, she said. The woman, from Oregon, has Cherokee roots in the area, and is doing some research of her own about her family’s origins. Unaware of the deep significance that Cherokee history held in this particular town, I was ecstatic about this lead because I grew up next to the other prominent Cherokee reservation near Maggie Valley, NC. Some of my old friends live on the reservation, and many more have at least some amount of Cherokee blood in their veins. I would argue, however, that 1/16 Cherokee blood does not a Cherokee make. Rather, the cultural significance of Cherokee traditions in one’s life is a more appropriate measure. This elderly Cherokee woman, I thought, was bound to have experienced Cherokee culture first-hand in her childhood. We left one of our cell phone numbers at the front desk for the woman, and I hoped that she would call.

The next day, we loaded ourselves in my car for a trip to the Murphy courthouse and the Cherokee County Historical Museum. After we made an appointment with the magistrate, we went next door to the museum whereupon a family informed us that it had just closed. We were dismayed, but we stood there and talked with this amicable family for a few minutes before the great irony surfaced. “Are you that research group?” they asked. Stunned, I thought, wow. Our reputation precedes us! How do they know? It turned out that this family of four – a grandmother, a mother, a son and a daughter – were the ones researching the matriarch’s Cherokee family origins. And we had simply bumped into them on the street, like fate.

Stunned at the coincidence, we gathered and spoke for a while in front of this large, colorful bear statue. It was painted in the colors and imagery of the 7 Cherokee clans: the Bird, Wolf, Deer, Wild Cat, Wind, Paint, and Wild Potato clans. Cherokee clanship was passed down in a matrilineal fashion, and people always married outside of their clan since their fellow clan members were perceived as their family. The family matriarch stood in front of me, a gentle, quiet, and supremely kind individual, and I wondered about how her mother – keeper of her clan’s language and traditions – influenced her upbringing. She told me that she remembers her mother singing Cherokee songs to her in their traditional language, and she recalled being told a particular story about a rabbit that she loved as a child. Her ancestors, held captive by the American government in Murphy’s Fort Butler for the Trail of Tears, had survived the trek west and passed their traditions down to her.

And now, although she does not recall much of the language anymore, she is able to share this knowledge with her own descendants. Two generations of her own family had the opportunity to bear witness to their own matriarch’s journey of identity and self-discovery, so that the Cherokee legacy will never be forgotten. The immediate fate of those subjected to the Trail of Tears was atrocious, ripped from the lands that they loved, cherished, and protected by imperial forces. But – fate is a funny thing. Without fate, we never would have stumbled across this warm and fascinating family, or bore witness to the continuation of Cherokee history and culture – an act that gives me great hope for the future. Without fate, we never would have been a part of her journey, and she never would have been a part of ours.

John C. Campbell Folk School’s Fall Festival

Posted on November 24, 2014 by mreilova

By Alexa Dysch – 2014

The entrance to the Folk School Fall Festival.

From the small, quiet village of Brasstown comes a most spectacular and unexpected event at the John C. Campbell Folk School. For one weekend a year, the community gathers to celebrate the artisan culture of the area, and showcases the town at their Folk School Fall Festival. Welcoming over 30,000 visitors, the festival is an enthralling event for locals and passersby alike. Over 200 artisans participate in this one of a kind time, which should mark the calendars of all those interested in learning more about Appalachian culture and Western North Carolina artisans.

What strikes you immediately is the close-knit feeling of this festival, despite the number of attendees looking for a snack or a souvenir. Compared to other Fall Festivals within North Carolina, this one felt particularly calm and almost like visiting a neighbor’s backyard (albeit a large, vendor filled yard). There was no need to shove through a line for a delicious bite of fried food; there was enough to go around, and while the intoxicating smells surrounding you, there was a friendly neighbor waiting nearby who you just had to get to know.

In the days leading up to the Folk School Fall Festival, we met many locals who mentioned the upcoming event. Initially, it wasn’t in our schedule, but we quickly learned that it had to be. As it turned out, many of our new friends were artisans showcasing their skills. We were delighted to see one another, and fascinated by their live artistic demonstrations.

By far, the art of the festival was the star. From handcrafted pottery and canvas paintings, to homemade soaps and locally crafted honey, each product was presented with the utmost pride and love. Classic folk and bluegrass music sounded throughout the campgrounds. It was evident to my visiting self that the love of this artistic community was embodied in this event.

Of all the exhibits at the Festival, I was stunned by the quilt display. Satiated on classic fair cuisine, I wandered into a nearby barn and looked up to find a ceiling emblazoned with brightly dyed fabrics, woven into beautiful quilts. Each year, a quilt is created to commemorate the Festival. 40 years’ worth of fabric filled the area. I could only imagine taking one on a cold, mountainous night and wrapping up next to a warm, blazing fire.

The Mountain ladies take on the Folk School Fall Festival!

A few of the quilts displayed at the Folk School Fall Festival.

The Time Traveling Town

Posted on November 23, 2014 by mreilova

By Alexa Dysch – 2014

A gem nestled in the mountains along Highway 64, Murphy is full of rich history and distinct artisan culture. Beyond its unique people and traditions, Murphy is all the more special for holding a Guinness World Record! Murphy is closer to six other state capitals than to its own. In the 350 miles it takes to get to Raleigh, a driver can reach the capitals of Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee, South Carolina, Kentucky and West Virginia. This capacity provides for a unique mix of visitors and locals alike, who contribute to a culture that is particularly Murphian.

MurphySnapshot — The start of eastbound Highway 64, outside of Murphy.

Oranges and Pimento Peppers

Posted on November 23, 2014 by mreilova

By Alexa Dysch – 2014

In the strangest of places and in the most unexpected of ways, a bit of Florida followed me to the mountains of North Carolina.

It started innocently, and crept up slowly. Like a guardian angel sitting on my shoulder, comfort strangely enveloped me in what I expected to be unfamiliar surroundings. Through my initial research, our destinations appeared so different to the town that I grew up in, yet here and there, I found my roots following along. This phenomenon began at our most Western point, Murphy. We met single retirees and young couples alike who visited and fell in love with the mountainous area. I was amused by this coincidence, but when it started happening frequently, I knew there had to be something more.

This blend of cultures continued when we reached Franklin. It was about 3:30PM and we were famished- the nearby shops were closing, and we had a drive ahead of us to Highlands.

We quickly ran into the first place we saw: Life’s Bounty Cafe. Glancing at the menu, I decided to go with a traditional Western barbecue sandwich. Yet, I was surprised as I glanced into the bakery boxes that they had fresh, homemade Cuban bread. I decided to take a chance and try a North Carolinian classic with a Floridian staple. Needless to say, the combination was perfect. The juicy, slightly sweet pork melted into the crunchy, dense dough. I immediately felt transported to a sunny, warm beach, despite the frost that gathered on the window outside.

I was surprised, yet felt an instant connection when I walked into the shop. As I conversed with the shop owners, they had a sense about them that felt familiar but not North Carolinian.

To accompany my sandwich, I had the perfect taste of home — a guava and cheese pastry. This South Floridian sweet treat usually gifted me after a long day of school. Needless to say, it was the first Cuban pastry I had come across in North Carolina. The dough was perfectly flaky and buttery, as the tang of fresh guava and a salty bite of creamy cheese brightened my mouth.

As I took my first bite, I looked at the shop owners with wide eyes. They simply smiled, in a wry, South Floridian way. Suddenly, I knew. I asked them what part of Florida they were from, and we continued to have a lengthy conversation about our favorite Southern spots and the traffic that incensed us.

This experience continued through each town we visited; we ran into more Floridians than we did North Carolinians! In equal parts, I was in awe, delight and slight annoyance that my hometown seemed to follow wherever I went. Despite the massive cultural differences between small, mountainous towns in North Carolina and my sprawling, urban hometown in Florida, the two felt oddly comfortable to me. Yet, in my array of emotions, I was thankful above all that I had the opportunity to explore two completely different regions and be able to reflect upon the similarities that struck me. Driving along the twists and turns of mountain roads made my heart flutter in more ways than one.

Oranges — A guava cheese pastry, enjoyed in the town of Franklin.

The Apple & Burnese Dog Festival

Posted on November 23, 2014 by mreilova

By Emilia Azar – 2014

The Apple Festival that took place in Cashiers, NC was one of those events that was not on our initial itinerary. We had no prior knowledge of the festival, no set plans. Upon arrival to this upscale mountain town, the four of us walked out of Katie’s car, stepped into the parking lot, and looked around at each other. The decision about where to head to first was unanimous – the nearest coffee shop. Throughout our travels we had learned that a coffee shop was great for three reasons: a warm drink, a dose of the local culture, and advice on where we should head next to see something unique the town had to offer.

Buck’s Coffee Café catered to all three of our needs. Drinks in hand, we observed the mix of southern locals in camouflage jackets and out-of-towners in expensive designer coats. We then asked the barista: “So what’s going on here today?” “It would be a shame if you missed the Apple Festival about two miles from here,” he responded. “It should be nice.”

We then found ourselves at the High Hampton Inn. The Inn itself is a beautiful sight – a completely wooded structure nestled among the Blue Ridge Mountains. It serves as both a resort and country club and is surrounded by tall hemlocks and a privately owned lake. While the Inn is normally the perfect spot for an early autumn wedding, that particular Sunday the outside space was reserved for the Apple Festival – or what I now think of as the Apple & Burnese Mountain Dog Festival. Why? Because apples and Burnese Mountain Dogs were the co-spectacles of the festival. In a tented area, shaded under the strong October sun, around ten vendors were selling their apple products. Whole apples, apple cider, apple pastries, apple jam… the possibilities were both endless and absolutely mouth-watering. In the open field, giant, gorgeous Burnese Mountain Dogs were scattered throughout, wagging their tails in a friendly welcome to all people they encountered. It turns out that there was a small competition occurring for these furry creatures. An obstacle course was designed for the dogs to navigate around, with or without carts attached to their backs. Historically, they are trained to haul heavy supplies, which has resulted in a proclivity for strength and loyalty. The astounding size of the dogs (about 25-28 inches in height) would lead to a specific assumption – that they must be dangerous, powerful creatures. This could not be farther from the truth. Though they may be powerful, they are one of the friendliest species known to man.

After taking in the sun on the grass beside my new furry companions, I decided to explore the inside of the Inn. What I found was a luxurious indoor restaurant with an adjoining lounge area. The lounge had two fireplaces, numerous comfy couches, and – what immediately drew my attention – a freestanding bar. Here the bartender was making the most tempting looking Bloody Marys I had ever seen… I’m talking that red, spicy mixture topped with limes, lemons, celery, olives and even bacon. I scurried outside to find my group members, lounging in the sun with apples in hand. “You guys have never tried Bloody Marys, right? Now’s the time.” All looked eager and screeched with excitement, then proceeded to follow me inside to the bar.

Unfortunately, the $8.00 Bloody Marys were just too spicy for us to finish. I spent most of my time chomping down on celery, masking the peppery taste of the blood-red drink I was attempting to enjoy. Despite the disappointing taste of the drinks, sipping on them in front of a fire, while sitting cross-legged on the velvet-colored carpet was an ideal reflection time for the four of us. We had only one more city to tackle on the HWY 64 Mountain route – Brevard. I truly do not remember ever feeling so exhausted, exhilarated, and straight up sad after a four day trip. I didn’t want to leave – none of us did. Returning back to Elon University after Brevard would be like prodding someone awake from a perfect dream. The fact that I had just spent two hours surrounded by fluffy, happy dogs and more apples than I could ever dream of was a harsh reminder of the pseudo-reality we were experiencing at the time. Truthfully, the mountain life was someone’s life. But it was not ours, as desperately as we wanted it to be. I remember borrowing Katie’s keys to walk out to her car to grab some gum (the Bloody Mary aftertaste was really starting to affect my taste buds), and I sat on the hood of her car alone for a few minutes. I looked both up and around me; all I could see were trees, mountains, and blue sky. I breathed a small sigh, and thanked the universe for this trip, and this moment. College students rarely get that time alone in nature to truly appreciate what surrounds them, whether or not they can see it on a daily basis.

Nantahala

Posted on November 23, 2014 by mreilova

By Emilia Azar – 2014

Nantahala’s direct Cherokee translation is “Land of the Noonday Sun.” What I saw of Nantahala was not the town in the light of noonday sun, but rather in the darkness of a midnight moon. It is a picturesque, Hollywood-worthy version of a small, cozy mountain town. The population is just over 1,700 people and this astounding notion is echoed by the town’s general store, single gas station, and single restaurant. This is no exaggeration. There is one place to get gas, and one place to pay for a meal. Though according to Ronny Sanders, you will not find a tastier home-cooked meal than in Nantahala’s own restaurant.

Ronny is a 24-year old Nantahalan whom we met at Chevelle’s Restaurant and Bar that second night of our trip. He stood out that night with his highlighter yellow shirt. I first noticed him sitting alone near the stage of Chevelle’s, where his friend – Andrew Chastain – was playing a show for a few hours. Andrew had that scruffy, pleasant country voice that makes you want to prop your elbow on a table, cup your chin in your hand, and listen to him sing and play the guitar in almost a lullaby-like trance. Ronny was shouting out his support, cutting into my trance with a “Yeah Andrew!” here and there in-between songs. The few glances I snuck at him proved that he had a kind face, and was a full supporter of the man in front of me singing and strumming along on his guitar. After an hour or so, Katie and I decided to get some fresh air and step out into the cold.

Ronny came out a few minutes later and introduced himself. He then asked us what we were doing in town. This was not an uncommon occurrence; the four of us stood out in Murphy and we had many people curiously ask us who we were and what we were doing in Murphy of all places. Ronny kept up a conversation with us after we told him that we were writers here doing research. What kind of research? What was this website? Why Murphy? As we continued to answer his various questions, Ronny did something funny. As people walked into or out of Chevelle’s, he opened the door for them. Every single one of them: male, female, old, young. He would continue looking at us intently, grab the door handle, and tell whoever was passing through the door “to have a nice night.” I had never seen someone with such honest southern manners, and a keen desire to greet as many people as possible. Most 20-something men just don’t do that.

“Can I show you guys something that might be cool for your writing?” He looked at both Katie and I with a gleam in his eyes, and we were intrigued. He continued on, telling us that he wanted to show us a lookout point in his own town of Nantahala. It would involve driving up a mountain with several twists and turns for awhile. According to Ronny, the whole trip would take close to forty-five minutes. But he guaranteed that when we got to the top, the view would be worth it. The landmark, he said, is called Wayah Bald Lookout Tower and has a vantage point of 5,342 feet in elevation surrounded by the Nantahala National Forest. If we went soon, the full moon would hopefully provide enough light to see north to the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee and south to the rolling hills of Georgia. While going to a faraway lookout point with someone you had met just a few hours before sounds questionable, something about Ronny allowed us to trust him. He was open and kind, and had a child-like sense of humor. The allure of the lookout point was just too tempting… so why not? We went.

After almost an hour of driving, half of which was around bendy twists of mountainous terrain that left me feeling light-headed, we reached Wayan Bald. It was just what Ronny had described it be, and more. We walked a few minutes from his Jeep to the stone structure that was built in 1937 to be Wayah Bald Fire Tower. When we climbed the stairs to the top, I felt my breath catch in my throat. The lights of several cities glittered beneath us, embedded in the dark moonlit shadows of mountains and hills. Ronny pointed out Franklin to our far left, where we would be traveling to the next day. He described the different sections of the beautifully lit dots that were houses and landmarks, but to me it all felt like a sub-reality anyway. The dots were just a part of a dream. As we looked at the mix of man-made beauty and nature below us, I couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet, hard-to-pinpoint emotion. “You really love this place don’t you?” I asked Ronny rather out-of-the-blue. He looked at me and shrugged, with a playful smile. “Don’t you? It’s so hard to think of ever leaving this place. Just look around you.” I continued to, and had to admit that I agreed with part of his sentiment.

This is where the differences between the young man from Nantahala and the young woman from New York City/Durham really set in. He was happy to remain in this mountain paradise that he called home. But I am a world traveler by nature and by heart. The view that surrounded me was so beautiful that it made me want to stay, but simultaneously crave to find new views that would again give me this peaceful feeling. And when you are truly torn like this, that is when you know you are experiencing something worth writing a piece about one day soon.

Murphy through the Eyes of Cliff Owl

Posted on November 23, 2014 by mreilova

By Emilia Azar – 2014

“You’re going to change the world,” Alexa announced to me on our car ride to the mountainous terrain of North Carolina. Who knew the same concept would come up the next day with a complete stranger? And from a man named Cliff Owl, no less.

Cliff Owl is the kind of name you imagine for a fictional character in an old western movie. The good guy, the solid man, and the strong presence that keeps you feeling both safe and intrigued. Cliff Owl is not a fictional character – he is a real-life magistrate. He resides in Murphy and works both in and out of the courthouse, which is situated in the heart of downtown. My heavy interest in law and courthouses initially drew me to his place of work, and I had walked inside without a set of questions or even an idea of whom I would like to talk to. The young security guard who checked our purses upon entrance to the building was friendly, and he advised us to talk to the magistrate. “He’s been here a long time,” he said. “He can help with anything you want to know about Murphy.”

Cliff proved to be much more than a source of information about the crime in his town. Upon meeting him, I was struck by his unique, mountain-man/military veteran/police officer kind of look. He initially observed all of us kindly over his black rimmed glasses, but with a reserved look. His salt-and-pepper streaked hair and mustache was combed to perfection. I was almost embarrassed to be walking in with a messy French braid. He was also tan – very, very tan. His skin tone could be attributed to two things: the tendency to be out in the mountain sun, and the Cherokee heritage that coursed through his blood. We soon found out this was a common occurrence in the townspeople, as Native American heritage was strongly evident in both the Murphians and the land. “Do you live on Native American land?” Rachel asked Cliff. He looked at her with a small smile. “We all do.”

Many current residents have Cherokee blood within them. The Cherokee Museum was located right next door to the courthouse, but the day we met Cliff it was closed. It almost felt like this was meant to be – avoiding this touristy building instead allowed us to have a more authentic Murphian experience. We were able to chat with people like Cliff who could share both facts and opinions about the Cherokee influence in the area.

As interesting as the Cherokee information was, I found myself wanting to know more about Cliff, the man. He had a sad look about him and for some reason I just had to understand why. “How did you end up as a magistrate here?” I inquired. Cliff sat back in his seat and thought about his answer. This is how he responded to each question. He would first give the question some time to sink in, then ponder it in his head, and lastly articulate his response with both extreme intellect and careful word choice. This was a man who thought first, and acted later. Always. “I was born in Swain County on a Cherokee reservation,” he began. “I left the area for college, and while in school was drafted into the military.” This was during the time of the Vietnam War. Cliff spent about four years in Vietnam, and then was reassigned with other fellow marines to Hong Kong. After that, he returned to the United States, began working in the police department, and moved back to the town where his family had originated from – Murphy.

Now as a magistrate, he has seen several sides of the town. Most of his family is still here – almost all ten brothers and sisters. He raised three children with his wife in the area, and his mother is still close by. “My father just died very recently at the age of 94,” he said quietly. My heart broke. Here was a part of the reason I saw a grief-burdened man sitting across the desk from me. Yet, this man was both reserved and careful with his words. He had just shared with us a very personal bit of information, and I could not help but feel touched by his trust in four college students, four strangers essentially. He moved on from the subject of his father to his children. “My son graduated from Stanford and is now working on his doctorate. My youngest daughter just got in there.” The pride in his voice was just as powerful as the grief that had been evident only moments before. Looks like Cliff had picked a great town to raise his family in– homicides were not a top worry in the area. The most prominent crime is self-inflicted — prescription drug abuse. Later that night at a bar and restaurant, I would see firsthand what prescription drug abuse had done to a beautiful, 20-something woman I met. Despite the prominence of drug abuse in the town, Cliff seemed to be generally positive about Murphians and the future of their community.

As we were getting ready to thank him for his time, he turned the questioning on us.

“What year in college are you all?”

“We’re seniors.”

Cliff gave us his small, careful smile again. “You’re going to try to change the world, aren’t you? It’s not going to happen.”

Please do not misinterpret this statement. Cliff was not doubting our intelligence or drive. He was making an observation about the state of our world in the year 2014 – essentially saying it is a big, complicated mess. He advised us to not use our precious time on Earth attempting to force huge changes on those around us, because most of what we want to do will be out of our control. I will never forget his words, and they will continue to haunt me. And this is because, as Alexa noted, I am going to attempt to do just what he advised me not to.