I've said it before and I'll say it again--I love living in Winston-Salem!  I've lived in some of the biggest cities in North America and I've lived in unincorporated areas where my nearest neighbor was more than a mile away, but I've never  felt more at home than I feel living here.  I enjoy the relatively low cost of living, which allows me a much more comfortable lifestyle than I'd have with the same job and income somewhere else.  Perhaps because of the low rents and cheap consumer goods, my hometown has a flourishing arts district and strong local music scene.  It's a nice feeling to know that I could go to a gallery or concert at almost any given time and witness some creativity on display.  For a city its size, Winston boasts a relatively low crime rate, so I feel secure about the safety of my wife and home when I'm away.  Also, there's so many recreational opportunities with dozens of city and county parks, lakes, greenways and even a dog park!  (The exclamation point comes courtesy of my fun-loving dog, Noble.)  To be sure, it's not perfect.  Reynolds Tobacco and Krispy Kreme are probably not enhancing the world's health with their products, and it costs a bloody fortune to fly out of Piedmont Triad International Airport.  (Still, it's only a couple of hours drive to Raleigh-Durham or Charlotte where much more reasonable fares reside.)



However, It wasn't  any of these factors that made me realize what kind of life I had here.  The incident that really drove things home for me happened last week at what is quickly becoming my second home, The Werehouse.  For those unfamiliar with the Camel City , The Werehouse is an artists' collective (once known as PS 211) fashioned from a former meat packing plant on the fringe of the city's industrial district.  The space includes an art gallery, performance space, recording studio, coffeehouse, residences, garden and farmers' market.  The collective has long been an advocate for the arts and for community outreach.  One of the community activities of which I partake is the weekly movie night.    Last week I attended and enjoyed the film, but I got a late start and after I finished ordering one of the fine coffees available, I had missed a few minutes of the film.  I enjoyed it, and after it was finished, I asked the fellow at the projector what the name of the movie was.  He  told me and then handed the DVD case to me, asking "are you interested?"  That was a stunning gesture to me, since this guy didn't know me from anyone.  He instructed me to return it "whenever I saw him again".  Certainly, it was a simple gesture.  It wasn't like he'd offered to donate a kidney to me, but it left a definite impression on me; it was a small inspiration for me to be a better neighbor.  

Mayberry is a fictitious place.  A town that utopian exists only in the imagination of people like Andy Griffith.  Even Griffith's real-life inspiration for his show's setting , which is only about 30 miles north on US Rt. 52, bears only a superficial resemblance to the idealized Mayberry.  Sure, it has a Mayberry Lunch and a Floyd's Barber Shop, just like Mayberry.  Still, I don't remember an episode with Barney Fife getting injured by a booby trap trying to bust Gomer Pyle's meth lab (although I'd definitely watch that one!)  However, there are shadows of that neighborly Southern Gothicism to be found if one were to look.  After  8 years of living here, I still don't get the whole NASCAR thing and barbecue (or Bar-B-Q, as locals hold it) is just way too pork-y for me. Still, I feel more at home here than anywhere else.  I have a few more miles to go before I can shake all the cynicism and have that complete trust in strangers.  However, it is becoming more and more clear to me that if we all put forth our own small efforts toward those ends, there'd be more of a sense of community in every locale.


Image courtesy of Winston-Salem Convention and Visitors Board (fair use with acknowledgement)