The Mc came to me with a stern look on his face.

“Promise you won’t be mad” he said. That’s never a good start.

“Promise no matter what I tell you, you’re not going to get upset and take it out on anyone.”

I stared at him.

“Grayson was on my chair?”

A chair I’m entirely too protective of in part because the fabric is something that resembles chenille and thought of the combo of chenille and cat claws upsets me. Still, he gets on the chair when we’re asleep, I know he does because the pillows or moved or dented. I’ve accepted it.

He shakes his head.

“What?”

“Your giraffe. His ear is broken.”

I sigh.

Jerry - the giraffe - was purchased in Jamaica for $60. He’s about 4′ tall and was carved out of a single piece of wood. My friend Sarah who lives in Colorado but is currently deployed in Iraq (again) helped me with the price negotiation using skills she learned over seas. He holds special meaning.

“It’s just a piece of wood, we can have him repaired.”

On the way home from that trip, I tried to carry him on. Someone else had a guitar and he was really about the same size, so Jerry should be G2G I figured. They made me check him at the last minute and his leg was broken when I got him home and unwrapped him, which resulted in a visit to a furniture repair store (he’s wood!) and an expenditure of nearly double what he cost originally. We can rebuild him, make him faster, stronger…

“You’re taking this too well.” he says and starts backing away from me.

Last night I took pictures of the crime scene, the suspect and the witness. I also took pictures of The Mc and the interrogation, but they weren’t too flattering so I’ll leave them unpublished.

So yeah, it’s just stuff. It’s stuff I love and it’s stuff with emotional value, but it’s just stuff. Grayson? He’s a cuddle buggy vomit eating back scratching 4 am meowing face kneading mask and goatee wearing clumsy crazy little love machine.

I can forgive him.

I saw Mark today.

It was at the intersection of North Highland and North Avenue - the apex of VideoDrome and Buddy’s and Manuel’s and the cute conversion condos with the amazing windows that no one ever comes out of.

Sitting at the light in the unusually warm November dusk and teetering on the verge of being late for an appointment, I grumbled at the car in front of me for missing the light, took a deep breath, released, reset, and looked out the spot where my side window would have been if it wasn’t rolled down to enjoy the air and the bright blue sky.

Mark was making his way across the intersection from Buddy’s. It was a bad day for Mark, if you knew him, you could tell by his stride and the angle his head was hanging. He had on blue sweat pants and most of one leg was missing. He had a tube sock tied around the dark skin on his exposed thigh for a reason I couldn’t imagine and though he had shoes on today, they didn’t match. He was moving slowly and staring at faces in the cars he passed, desperate to make a connection and be offered relief somehow, some way, from his condition.

I’ve known Mark for about a year, but I’m certain he couldn’t tell you my name.

We met when I was picking up a couple of nights a week at a local coffee shop and wine bar. He’d come by the shop to bum cigarettes from the patrons on the patio, and I’d break the rules by swapping him paper dollars for the change he’d collected over the course of the day or the last few hours. It gave him dignity to hand over cash at the shelter to pay for his bed every night.

Eventually it became a dance with Mark. If he didn’t see me in the window of the shop, he’d keep walking. Sometimes when I’d see him first and I didn’t have the energy to decipher what he needed and get him in an out with the least disruption to the customers, I’d step in the back. I still feel horribly about it, but I know that every life needs balance and those were the nights I couldn’t afford to give any more of myself.

There are several versions of Mark’s history, one is that he’d worked at a local restaurant for several years and developed a crack habit. I don’t know what a crack head looks like except for what I’d seen on the news during the 90’s, but those people didn’t look like Mark.

He has kind, sad and confused eyes. Sometimes he’s animated and you can’t keep up with his words and other times he’s pitiful and shy and ashamed and you can’t keep up with his words. I suspect his is a chemical issue created by his body, not from an outside force.

Tonight when I saw him we locked eyes, and though it’s been six months since I gave him a cut of my tips to cover the cost of a pillow, he recognized my face and asked me to pull over at the gas station. I told him I couldn’t, that I was late for an appointment - which was four minutes and a six minute drive from being true.

He asked another dozen times before the light turned again and knowing that he was a spiritual man, the only comfort I could offer was a glance at the sky and promise that he’d be okay.

The light turned green and I watched him watch me go.

The girls and I had such a wonderful time communing with nature and glowy souls at the Hostel, that we’re already planning our return in June of double ott eight.

To keep our hunger for adventure satiated in the meantime, we’re heading to Helen. Georgia in a few weeks for a couple of nights in a cabin appropriately named the Alpine Tree Haus (you know, because we love tree houses…duh). The town promises to be cold and twinkly with Christmas lights a-plenty and we’re talking about a trip to the Habersham Winery which the girls expect will end something like this…

If you don’t have a bunch of friends to run away with, get stupid, and laugh with until you cry for Depends…I suggest you rush out right this minute and gityewsome.

We’re in Murphy, NC walking into a restaurant with the real estate agent. I hear “Maigh!” just as my hand hits the handle of the door and look to my left to see my old boss, Andy Crowe.

Further proof that the world is shrinking, and I should never leave the house looking like crap because I will bump into someone I know. Even if I’m in Europe.

In Murphy, North Carolina, you can’t buy beer in a store. You can’t order beer in a restaurant. You can, however; go to the local golf course and pick up a 12 pack.

You can’t buy alcohol in restaurants, but there are a few in town that allow you to bring in your own wine. And wine? You can’t buy it in an ABC store because the ABC stores in Murphy only actually sell A & C. You can buy wine from the shop in old downtown that shares space with the Daily Grind and the tiniest and most comprehensive bookstore I’ve ever visited but be sure to plan your trip there carefully. Every other Friday there’s a collection of folks reading and listening to poetry in the lobby and you’ll find yourself lurking outside the windows waiting for a pause. If you don’t, you’ll be the naked guy streaking across the stage. Confused? We were too.

In Murphy, the locals look you in the eye. At the 2000 census, there were 1,568 of them and or random sampling indicates 99% of them smile and say “good morning”. Stop and absorb that. They greet you. In a neighborly fashion, with a genuine sentiment. They actually mean “good morning”. For all the towns we’ve traveled to around the southern United States, and the towns I’ve visited in the rest of the US and abroad, I’ve never experienced and acceptance and welcome like the folks in Murphy give. We weren’t seen as outsiders or intruders or those city folk, we were immediately adopted as one of them.

Putting the people aside for a minute, let’s talk about location and amenities, shall we? It’s an easy two hour drive from Atlanta, two hours from Asheville and two hours from Chattanooga. Downtown is made up of approximately one city block and boasts a drugstore the likes of which America has nearly forgotten, complete with a soda shop inside that we’re told serves the best burgers in the area.

There’s a breakfast spot called the Moose’s something-or-another (I don’t recall, I stopped at “moose” since it reminded me of home and that’s about all I needed) where you can load yourself up on a buffet of biscuits (made with lard, hello!), grits, oatmeal, eggs, bacon, corned beef hash and a bottomless cup of coffee while eavesdropping on the old timers in the back of the room who are dipping themselves in steaming pots of nostalgia. People come in and out, greeting neighbors with a wave of recognition and leaving cash on the table. I loved this spot.

Half the reason we trekked up to Murphy was to fulfill a decade old item on my wish list: to visit the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest. Joyce Kilmer is a 17,394 acre tract of the Natahala National Forest of western North Carolina and the Cherokee National Forest of eastern Tennessee. It’s a short and painfully scenic forty five minute drive from Murphy to the north-east via US 74 (and through Topton, aka Meth-Ville) to reach the Natahala National Forest - which boasts 531,303 acres of land for your nature lovin’ pleasure. Kilmer was killed an action during World War I, on July 30, 1918 at the age of 31 and was perhaps best known for his poem “Trees”. Pictures here, should you be inclined to partake in my view of the forest and the trees.

The forest is also home to the road known as The Tail of the Dragon, for you motorcycle and sports car enthusiasts, and for those of you who aren’t? Pack your Dramamine.

On a ridge near downtown and overlooking the Hiawassee river and just behind the new fire station, you can spot a charcoal spire poking over a hilltop. This is the tip of a pyramid built as a memorial to a loving aunt and uncle by their niece Elizabeth Wyche “Lillie” Hitchcock Coit. Local legend will tell you that Lillie grew up in Murphy and had an amazing knack for showing up at the scene of a fire with cookies and refreshments for local fire fighters. After some time, the IQ was raised to a level where one of the townsfolk was able to detect a pattern to this and a quiet conversation was had with Lillie about her hot hot habit. A young Lillie abruptly moved to San Francisco where her hijinx continued in a modified form leading to her becoming an honorary volunteer in the fire department and a monument was eventually built in her honor: Coit Tower.

Murphy and the surrounding area offer a great deal more than a history rich with legend - the Hiwassee, Appalachia and Cherokee Lakes, parts of the Appalachian and Benton MacKaye Trails, and - are you ready for it? The National Appalachian Jeep Jamboree. Dood.

So, you can’t buy beer…easily. You can’t have beer with dinner in a local restaurant. What you can have is a long walk in the woods or float on a river or ride through the forest with all the silence, fresh air, and friendly faces you can handle. If that’s not enough, try the funnel cakes that the flea market on a Saturday afternoon. That’ll soothe whatever ails you.

My birthday and Christmas (for the next two years?) have apparently arrived prematurely - and just in time for our anniversary in the mountains and an opportunity to capture the magic of the landscape as the foliage changes.

If there was ever a doubt, consider it roasted. The Mc? He rules.

Still struggling to maintain control of my nether bits.

Your “good dishes” or china are quietly sitting in a cabinet. Or maybe they’re on display next to the silver plated salt and pepper shakers Aunt Mimi gave you - that you never use. Maybe they come out on holidays, or your anniversary or not at all because you’re afraid of breaking them.

They’re yours or they were handed down to you and they’re beautiful and shiny and elegant and you wish you entertained more so you could use them. At least six times a year you think to yourself “it’s such a shame I never use those…” while they’re staring back at you and silently screaming “Touch me! Pick me up! Use me! Eat ice cream off my belly!”

Wait. That last one might have been me.

Either way, babies; I’ve solved all your china usage dilemmas with one simple redi-whip slogan:
Brunch with your girlfriends, it’s what china was made for.

What good is beauty if you never embrace it?