Something Fishy in Floyd

The following was published in The Floyd Press on September 6, 2007 with the title “They Specialize in the Catch of the Day.”

I’ve nicknamed them the Indigo Girls, after the female singing duo from Atlanta. But this Floyd County duo goes by the name of Indigo Farms. Indigo Farms owners, Teresa Nester and Susan Handy, don’t sing. They don’t make CD’s. They sell fish.

From the back of their white refrigerated truck, they sell everything from Artic Char to Wahoo; from salmon, scallops, and snapper to catfish, crabmeat, and cod. But it all started with shrimp.

On a warm day in late August in front of the Harvest Moon Food Store, a popular stop on their fish truck route, I learned the history of Indigo Farms. What began with recreational trips to the North Carolina coast to visit Teresa’s sister became Indigo Farms in 1993 when Teresa and Susan began supplying fresh seafood to the Pine Tavern Restaurant, back when Michael Gucciardo was the chef.

Now they make weekly treks to the coast, bringing back seafood for restaurants from the Château Morrisette to those in Mountain Lake and a few in Roanoke. They also sell to the public. Besides the Harvest Moon and other Floyd locations, they make retails stops in Riner and Blacksburg. Their schedule is outlined in detail on their website, where they also share seafood recipes and photos of their trips, complete with ocean sound effects.

As the Pine Tavern began incorporating fresh seafood into their menu and receiving positive feedback for it, others started making requests, Susan, the former Floyd recreational department director explained.

“In the beginning it was only shrimp. Now we’re into octopus and squid,” Teresa joked. The best part of running their own business has been the people they come in contact with, she told me.

“We’ve become part of their lives and they’ve become part of ours. We’ve watched their kids grow up,” remarked Teresa, who was previously employed as a technical writer at the Radford Arsenal.

“Even the customers get to know one another,” I responded. “I’ve met some new people and caught up with old friends while standing in line waiting for fish. I’ve been in a line of as many as four people. Do you ever get lines longer than that?” I asked.

Teresa’s answer surprised me. “Oh, at least twenty and we’ve probably served as many as two hundred in Blacksburg in one stop.”

“Blacksburg people love fish!” she said.

Their Blacksburg connection started when a woman asked them to make her house one of the stops on their route. “If you come, I’ll tell my friends,” the woman told Susan.

Susan and Teresa know many of their customers by name and some are on nickname basis, like “Salmon Man,” who I met soon after Susan mentioned his name when he pulled up for his weekly purchase of salmon. Earlier, a customer shared details of her recent fishing vacation; another one remarked that she started buying fish from of the back of the Indigo Farms’ truck when her now teenager was a baby in diapers.

In the winter the women wear insulated jumpsuits to keep warm as they work. In the summer they carry extra ice and pack it in with customer orders.

“I’m like the family butcher,” Teresa said, referring to the fact that she knows what their regular customers like. Some order ahead. Others mosey over to the truck and check out the list on the Indigo Farms dry erase board before making their menu decisions.

It was late in the afternoon on Saturday, so many of their most popular offerings had sold out, as evidenced by their names being crossed out on the board. The blue flag on top of their truck flapped in the breeze as I settled on a pound of catfish for my order. I snapped a photo of Susan in her Indigo Farms blue T-shirt talking to “Salmon Man,” as Teresa bagged up my fresh fish. She packed it with extra ice.

Post Notes: Visit www.indigofarmsseafood.com for more information. This entry was originally posted on looseleafnotes.com on September 11, 2007.

Waiting on the World to Change: Mayer and Matthews Play Virginia Tech

I’ve never paid much attention to football. It took two big names, John Mayer and the Dave Matthews Band in concert together to finally get me into Virginia Tech’s Lane stadium. This free concert was conceived by Matthews, the Grammy award winning musician from Charlottesville, Virginia, as a way to show support for Tech after the deadly shootings of last April. Showing their Hokie spirit by wearing school colors, Tech students, staff, faculty, and friends filled the stadium with wall-to-wall maroon and orange.

Mayer, an avid blogger with school boy good looks, plays the guitar as if it was an extension of his body. Just seeing him appear on stage wearing a maroon Hokie T-shirt caused the crowd to erupt in ear piercing applause. Hearing him belt out his Grammy winning hit, “Waiting on the World to Change,” so close to home was a thrill.

“This is my prayer for you,” he told the Tech crowd before letting the lyrics of his song “Gravity” speak for him. Oh gravity … Stay the hell away from me … Oh gravity … Has taken better men than me … Now how can that be? … Just keep me where the light is … Just keep me where the light is … The blues that oozed from his red electric guitar were matched by the soulful facial expressions that Mayer made as he played.

I’m a dancer who needs a big space to move around in, but our seats were set up for watching football. I’m sure I stepped on my neighbor’s toes a time or two, and I might have knocked over someone’s drink while dancing. During the intermission between bands, I looked around and saw a few familiar faces, but I had never seen so many Hokies in one place. It was my first time witnessing the coordinated effort of Hokie fans as they rippled like dominoes from one end of the stadium to another doing their signature cheer. Let's go ... Hokies ... Let's go ... Hokies ...

Even though I knew that South African born Dave Matthews was from Virginia, I was surprised to hear the twang of his accent when he said things like, “”Thanks ya’ll … and all of that stuff.” Admittedly shy, Matthews sings better than he talks on his feet into the mic.Although, he did manage to speak about coming down from Charlottesville in a red van to play at much smaller Blacksburg venues many years ago. And his words were especially appreciated and met with applause when he said, “These are some dark times and the dark side, but I can’t think of anywhere else in the world I’d rather be than with y’all.”

The song that Dave Matthews Band chose to open with, “Two Step," related well to the reason we had all come together. Celebrate we will … Cause life is short but sweet for certain … Hey, we climb on two by two … To be sure these days continue … Things we cannot change …

I have a lot of respect for Matthews, who has weathered the premature deaths of close family members, and has lent his support for farm aid, rebuilding New Orleans, and other worthy causes. But who knew that he could dance like James Brown flat footing at the local jamboree?

The fact that my husband and I didn’t stay till the end wasn’t a reflection on the show. As performances go, it was one with a big impact, a spectacular light show, and the big brass and rousing fiddle jam sound that the Dave Matthews Band is famous for. But after three hours of high volume music and crowded dancing, I was tired and hungry.

We had taken our bikes to the concert to avoid the stadium traffic. As we pedaled off into the warm night, the band was well into their second hour of playing. We could hear them singing the familiar refrain from Bob Marley’s "Three Little Birds." ... Don’t worry about a thing … Every little thing gonna be all right … Singing: don’t worry about a thing … cause every little thing gonna be all right.

The song trailed off as we glided downhill in search of good pizza and a cold beer.

~ Originally posted on looseleafnotes.com on September 7, 2007. Watch the Hokie wave cheer HERE.

Say it Loud and Proud OUTLOUD!

The following was published in the Floyd Press on August 9, 2007.

Local poets stepped up their presence at FloydFest this year by way of a stage in the Global Village. We moved from our soapbox stand under the Poetree at the festival entrance because with continuous bands playing on two near-by stages, we could hardly hear our own alliterations. At the village stage, under the shade of a brightly striped orange tent, we had mics and room to stomp around. Our group was also featured in the Floyd Fest program, which guaranteed some festival goers would make the trek off the beaten path to attend. And they did.

The theme of the collective performance, OUTLOUD, was on woman’s issues, and there were six of us representing a variety of related subjects. Besides me, other FloydFest Poetree Players featured were Tabitha Humphrey, Bekah Parker, and fellow Floyd Writer’s Circle members Mara Robbins, Rima Sultzen, and Rosemary Wyman.

Mara, FloydFest Poetree organizer since the festival’s inception in 2002, began by welcoming the audience, introducing the collective, and giving a little background on the history of the spoken word at FloydFest.

Wearing a long hot pink scarf, I opened the show with an original poem titled “Woman: a Definition.” I’m fire and magenta … Tahitian red magma …I announced as I flipped my scarf for effect. Rosemary, adorned in another shade of pink answered from her mic, I’m murmurs and contours … I’m cradles and curbs …

Magnetic … I’m Venus … compass and radius ... I countered. Our poetic conversation continued as momentum built.

Several poems were presented in this two way conversational style, others were read as a group, and a few were done solo. The most theatrical performance piece was one on perfectionism, titled “For What I’m Worth.” Written by Rosemary Wyman, mother of a blended family with eight children, it was like an abbreviated one act play.

“Where is it written that I must measure each breath I take? Why am I driven to strive for perfection? And if I am not determined to have the perfect body, make perfect grades, keep a perfect house, raise a perfect family, why am I considered a slouch … or worst of all a selfish woman?” Rosemary pondered out loud. Her performance rose to an empowering conclusion and was accompanied by the rest of the troupe who recited chorus lines and improvised movement, complete with measuring tapes and rulers as props.

The poets took on some controversial issues, but it wasn’t about dividing working mothers from stay at home ones, woman on opposite ends of the political spectrum, of different ages or lifestyles. ffwomanstage2.jpgThe spirit of the performance was upbeat, meant to encourage diversity and remind us that we are all more alike than we are different.

Bekah, who works at the Women’s Resource Center in Radford shared her rousing signature poem “Rebelution” with a B. “Declaration of Independence,” a manifesto written by a 15 year old girl recovering from anorexia, was read by the group.

Tabitha Humphrey, an award winning poetry slammer gave a moving delivery of an original prose piece called “Will I be pretty?” It was a serious look with a humorous undertone at our culture’s focus on outer beauty. You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist; you sucked you thumb that’s why your teeth look like that; you were hit with a Frisbee when you were six; otherwise your nose would be just fine. Don’t worry we’ll get it all fixed.

The poets didn’t completely abandon the soap box. It was used throughout the four day festival at a variety of venues, as Mara and other poets hopped up on it, spouting poetry like FloydFest town criers and encouraging others to do the same.

One impromptu soapbox reading took place Saturday evening at the coffee bus and was a round robin dialogue of poetic interpretations on the story of Peter Pan. Mara revived her poem, “Wendy Fallen” from the OUTLOUD performance. … Here on the island where we all wear pajamas, I’m the only one with a dress and an apron … Rosemary’s poem described Wendy sewing Peter Pan’s shadow on at his death bed. Arden Hill, an MFA Creative Writing graduate from Hollins University shared several Peter Pan poems.

From the soapbox, I shouted out to the crowd … Before I knew that a grown woman named Mary Martin was playing Peter’s part … I already didn’t want to wear a tie ... Festival goers coming from a main stage musical performance stopped to listen. I was girl determined … not to be tied to a 9 to 5 … wearing panty hose and stilettos … in the middle of July … As I concluded my poem and jumped off the soap box to make room for the next poet, I imagined I was jumping off Captain Hook’s plank.

Lezlie, a poet who traveled from Charlottesville closed the soap box set with some improvised stream of consciousness poetics urging passersby to get involved in making the world a better place.

Note: originally posted on looseleafnotes.com on August 13, 2007.

Have Weddings Will Travel

~ The following was published in The Floyd Press on May 10, 2007 and on looseleafnotes.com on May 21, 2007.
On a warm Valentine’s Day in 2005, while shopping at the Harvest Moon Food Store, something unusual caught my eye. I was making my way down a store aisle, filling my basket when I noticed a woman who looked overdressed for grocery shopping. Her short white dress swished as she passed by me. She was wearing jewelry and lipstick. Her pump heels clicked as she walked, and her long curly hair was pulled back with barrettes. I watched curiously as she spoke to Harvest Moon staff member, Katherine Chantal.

I don’t remember if I invited myself or if an invitation was offered, but I ended up taking wedding photos that day. The woman in white was joined by her groom in the front of the Harvest Moon where Katherine pronounced them husband and wife as their young child in a baby carriage looked on.

Most people who know Katherine Chantal know her as an herbalist and the mother of five sons, many of whose names were frequently seen in the sports section of the Floyd Press during their high school years. A lesser known fact about Katherine is that she’s been guiding life passages and ceremonies for the past twenty-five years and that she performs a considerable number of our county’s weddings.

Although Valentine’s Day of 2005 wasn’t the first or last time she took a break from her Harvest Moon duties to marry someone impromptu, the majority of weddings Katherine performs are planned in advance and some happen well beyond the borders of Floyd County. After being flown to Utah to marry one couple, and then later to the coast of Rhode Island to marry Willis residents Ryan Turman and Heather Gordon, she joked about having a business card printed up announcing “have wedding will travel.”

Katherine, who is legally certified in the state of Virginia to perform weddings, has a background in sociology, psychology, philosophy and world religions. As a Rites of Passage Ceremonialist and ordained Priestess, the life events she has facilitated have ranged from those of birth to death. The weddings she has done have drawn from a variety of traditions, including Celtic, Christian, Sufi, Judaic, and Native American (North and South). “Y ofrezco las bodas Espanol tambien,” her website says, which I believe means that she can do weddings in Spanish.

Besides the Harvest Moon garden weddings, she has married couples in trailer parks and national parks. Ten years ago she officiated at my wedding, which took place at the Blue Ridge Parkway Saddle overlook on a blue moon in June. Under her guidance my husband and I were supported to design a meaningful and custom fit ceremony. Wearing a flowing blue velvet dress, she pronounced us united as the setting sun and the rising moon faced each other like a bride and groom in the sky.

“You should write a book!” I recently told her, as we were remembering one wedding she did in a big red barn. Another one, which took place at the Daddy Rabbit’s Campground, had a Scottish theme. “Men wore kilts and a haggis (sheep dish) was cooking over an open fire,” she said.

Her talents have been appreciated in her own family. She has presided over two of her sons weddings, one of which was done twice, once in Spain and then on the Zephyr farm grounds where she lives. Another in Pennsylvania was attended by dozens of Floydians who traveled to be part of the celebration. How did you keep from crying?” I asked her.

She laughed as she answered, “I made a promise I wouldn’t.” She did cry after and before those ceremonies, she admitted.

The wedding season is gearing up and Katherine has been busy. In the last two weeks, she’s performed two weddings on the Harvest Moon lawn. The first was for a couple who were both in their 80’s. More recently, a dozen friends and family members of a young military couple gathered together to witness their marriage. The couple, a marine and a naval servicewoman, graciously allowed me to take photos. “Are you the father?” I asked the man standing next to me who was also snapping photos and appeared to be emotional. “Yes,” he answered, slightly teary-eyed.

Every wedding is unique and the stories so colorful. Katherine recently told me, “I’m working with a couple who are planning a June wedding. They’re thinking of doing it on horseback.”

Post Notes: Photos number 1 &2 are of the April 14th wedding of the military couple mentioned above, performed in front of the Harvest Moon. The final photo is of Katherine officiating at her son Rahim and his bride Gema’s wedding at Zephyr Farm in Floyd this past September. It was taken by her youngest son, Rowan. For more information go to Katherine’s website lifeceremoniesbykatherine.com

For Mother’s Day

The following was originally a WVTF radio essay. It appeared in The Floyd Press yesterday, May 10th, titled "It's Never Too Late to Get to Know Your Mother."

Last December a co-worker came to our home on the Blue Ridge Parkway bearing a festive basket of Christmas fruit. Our tree was up and Christmas lights hung from the windows. Upon stepping through the door, she glanced around once before settling her eyes on the white-painted bookcase where a collection of framed photographs was displayed.

“Who’s that beautiful woman?!” she gasped. Picking up a photo of my mother as a young woman, she said, “She looks likes a movie star. Is it Natalie Wood?”

The image my friend held in her hand was similar to one in my mother’s high school yearbook, which my siblings and I leafed through as children while giggling at the “old fashioned” graduating class of 1944. And when we found the boy my mother had a crush on whose name was Jake, someone, although no one ever confessed to it, wrote “Jake the Snake” next to his picture in loyalty to our father.

My mother, Barbara, the oldest of three children, came from a family of divorce, which was uncommon during the time she grew up. She was raised by her father in a repressed German Lutheran home in Squantum, Massachusetts, and from an early age she carried a heavy weight of responsibility, which became a theme in her life. First, as the hardworking eldest child in her father’s home, and then as the mother of nine children and the wife of a man who struggled with alcoholism for most of their married life.

My mother was the physical center from which everything happened in our family. To use her own manner of speaking, she “doesn’t miss a trick.” Although it wasn’t easy as a child to get one-on-one time with my mother, when I look at an elementary school picture of myself, I see now that it was her hands that buttoned up my dress, brushed my hair, and hung a string of pearls around my neck so that I would feel special for school picture day. And she cared for each of us that way.

The trait I admire most about my mother is that she continues to learn and can admit her own past mistakes. I also admire what she does for others, such as driving my uncle Vinnie back and forth to his cancer treatments years ago, planting flowers in other people’s gardens to cheer them up, and taking care of her last two grandsons so my sister could go back to work. It was because of the bond forged with her youngest grandsons that she was able to express regret for some missed opportunities of quality time spent with her own children when they were young, probably because there were so many of us.

This year my mother turned 80. She’s still a stunningly beautiful woman, even though when I asked her why she doesn’t go to the beach, 4 houses down from her house, she told me she won’t put on a bathing suit because, “Who wants to look at these old legs?”

Now that my own children are grown, I have more time to spend with my mother. She likes to travel and in the past few years we’ve taken short trips together, short because she hasn’t wanted to leave my dad home alone for too long. This past summer, my sister, my mother, and I drove to New Hampshire to visit an aunt. It was then, while driving through New Hampshire’s White Mountains that I was surprised to find out that my mother had been skiing before. “I’ll try anything once,” I remember her saying.

Four months after our New Hampshire trip and two months before my parent’s 60th wedding anniversary, my father died unexpectedly. We were all heartbroken, and our grief was complicated by the previous loss of two of my brothers, just 4 years before.

It was hard to imagine my mother without my father, but as the months passed by; her new life began to emerge. In the midst of loneliness, she carries on, and after caring for others all her life, her time now is her own.

I recently called her to see how she was. Her news was exciting. After reporting that she now knows how to use the TV remote, VCR, and copy machine, all things that my father wouldn’t allow anyone to touch, I learned that has a new kitten, is planning a trip south with girlfriends, and to attend my youngest son’s wedding here in Virginia in July. I was most surprised to find out that she’s thinking about getting a computer. I didn’t know my mother cared for cats or was interested in learning to use a computer.

I told her I loved her and hung up the phone, knowing that her “try anything once” attitude was seeing her through. I smiled as I relished the thought that it’s never too late to get to know my mother better and to learn something new about her.

Note: Originally posted on looseleafnotes.com on May 11, 2007.

A Floyd Writer's Room

The following was originally published in The Floyd Press newspaper on 3/29/07 as "Hotel rooms to showcase aspects of Floyd's talent."

It’s official. The first item for the Floyd Writer's Room, one of the themed guest rooms planned for the Hotel Floyd, has been purchased. It’s an antique writing desk with lots of interesting drawers, slots for letters, and a hinged work space that opens and closes.

After our Scrabble game at the café last week, Kathleen Ingoldsby and I walked over to the hotel building site, located downtown and just behind the Old Jacksonville Cemetery. There, we met with Katherine Chantal, who took a break from her job at the Harvest Moon to join us. We, all members of the Floyd Writer’s Circle, hoped to see the location and size of the actual room. Because of the unfinished construction, we soon discovered that wouldn’t be possible, unless we wanted to climb up one of the long metal ladders. So, we headed over to the nearest antique dealer and picked out the desk.

The Hotel Floyd, contracted by Jack Wall and Kamala Bauers, is scheduled for completion in the summer of 2007. Jack and Kamala are the directors of Wall Residences, an agency based in Floyd that provides foster care options for adults with developmental disabilities.

Besides the Local Writers Room, other themed rooms planned for the hotel include: The Crooked Road Room, The Blue Ridge Parkway Room, The Country Store Room, The Jacksonville Center Room, Floyd Fest Room, Harvest Moon Room, Winter Sun Room, Jeanie O’Neill Room, Malawi Room, Bell Gallery Room, Old Church Gallery Room, Floyd Figures Drawing Room, and the Chateau Morrisette Bridal Suite. All the rooms are being designed to showcase Floyd talent. Everything from what will hang on the walls to the furniture, most of which will be locally made, will highlight what our county and region have to offer. With environmental sustainability in mind, the hotel is being built using green technology. Eco-solutions, a small business that sells environmentally friendly building supplies in the Copper Hill part of Floyd County, will be providing much of the construction materials.

When Jack contacted me in February, inviting me to get involved in the themed room project, I immediately had ideas. “It should look like a study, done in warm earth tones. We’ll need bookcases, a desk, an old typewriter and Scrabble board displayed,” I told him as I jotted down the beginnings of a list. Soon after our conversation, I spoke with other members of the Floyd Writer’s Circle, contacted a couple of other local writers, and a small brainstorming group was formed.

With the input of others, my list of ideas grew longer. Kathleen, archivist for the Floyd Historical Society, envisioned a collection of books by Floydians and about Floyd that would span the past 100 years. Fred First, author of Slow Road Home suggested the room have audio capability on a computer for guests to hear local writers reading.

Simple, classic, warm, and uncluttered were some of the words we used to convey our vision to Jeanie O’Neill, interior decorator working on the hotel project. Jeanie, artist and owner of “The O’Neill Gallery and Boutique” agreed to hold our first brainstorming session at her house.

By the end of that first meeting, the long list of ideas I had been collecting had shortened, as we divided up tasks among us. Katherine had a tip for fair trade oriental rugs in Buchanan that she agreed to check into. Kathleen would begin looking for books for the bookcase. I would research the purchase of an antique typewriter, and Jeanie offered to bring swatches of paint colors and samples of tiles to our next meeting.

We hope as the creation of Floyd Writer’s Room unfolds other local writers will come forth with ideas and historic resources. Those who have something to share can contact me at credman@swva.net.

Note: Originally posted on looseleafnotes.com on April 3, 2007.

Say Green!

The following originally appeared in "The Floyd Press" newspaper on March 22nd.

“Say Green!” someone called out as Max Charnley snapped a photo of spoken word performers at the Café Del Sol this past Saturday night. Because the Open Mic, scheduled every third Saturday, was on St. Patrick’s Day this month many in attendance were donned in green clothing.

“I want you all to know that I take reading poetry on St. Patrick’s Day very serious,” I announced to the audience as I began my 10 minute reading slot. I was wearing a sage green sweater that was purchased in Ireland and had the word “Blarney” sewed in the tag. “I don’t know whether blarney refers to a bunch of baloney or the gift of eloquence. It’s probably something in between,” I joked.

Earlier that day I had been reading from Thomas Cahill’s bestseller book, “How the Irish Saved Civilization.” The title is a reference to the Irish monks who, at the fall of the Roman Empire when literature and artifacts were being burned by barbarians, hand copied the Greek, Roman, Judeo-Christian classics, which would have otherwise been lost to us.

Said to have invented rhyme, the Irish tradition was an oral one in which their history was preserved by way of spoken verse. Literacy came late to the out-of-way island, but once it did, the Irish made up for lost time. In one generation they learned Greek, Latin, and some Hebrew; they devised Irish grammars, and copied the whole of their native oral history. But they didn’t just copy. The Irish are credited with inventing the codex, the first prototype of a book (before that scrolls were used), and they produced the most magically illustrated manuscripts the world has ever seen. The Book of Kells, which includes four gospels and the Bible in Latin, is one such example.

I read a few excerpts from Cahill’s book about the Irish, their playful love of the alphabet, and their reverence for language. “The Irish enshrined literacy as their central religious act,” Cahill wrote. Even at the earliest stage of their development, “the Irish were intoxicated by the power of words. Every noble Irish family maintained a family of ancestral poets,” I shared with the café crowd.

I knew from other reading that in the old Irish tradition the only position more noble than a poet was a king. In the spirit of the Irish poets, I introduced myself. “I am Colleen, which means “girl” in Irish Gaelic. I’m the granddaughter of Ellen Bergin of Youghal, County Cork, great granddaughter of Mary Murray, Margaret Keating, and Theresa Dineen from Cork, Tipperary, and Offaly,” I said before beginning my poem titled “My Grandmother’s Brogue” (which I read, in part, with a brogue).

The Irish theme continued when Katherine Chantal read a poem that wove two trips to Ireland together. In the early 70’s she traveled through the country with a backpack. Then, while on a more recent trip, she navigated the narrow country roads there while driving with her sister on the left side. … When wind is ever present in a land … How then to be still? ... Those emerald hills … The constancy of the ocean’s voice … Presents its own quiet … And projected us back to … Our ancestors who once walked the same … She read.

Four of the nine members of the Floyd Writer’s Circle, including myself, were in attendance. Most of us were already warmed up from reading two nights earlier at the Jessie Peterman Library where Friends of the Library hosted us as part of their Floyd Naturally! program. Our writer’s group is dedicated to promoting the spoken word in the community and has been co-hosting the Spoken Word Night with the café once a month since October 2005.

Writer’s Circle founding member Mara Robbins is a Hollins University student and a recent finalist in the undergraduate poetry competition at the 47th annual Lex Allen Literary Festival. She read several poems, one of which was about writing poetry forms, such as pantoums, haikus, sonnets, and villanelles. Jayn Avery, just back in town from selling her pottery on the Roanoke Market, read a hopeful poem about the coming of spring. Rosemary Wyman was inspired to write the poem she shared when she saw an acquaintance and his caregiver walking down the street.

Sally Walker, Café Del Sol owner and master ad libber, introduced readers and helped to make them comfortable by adjusting the mic when needed. There were two first timers. Young Mars read and essay about losing his beloved cat, and Martha Taylor shared the words of a poet she admired. Greg returned to the mic to read a poem that explained his recent haircut.
joecolleenspokenword.jpg
Poetry wasn’t the only evening’s offering of entertainment. Some in the crowd hummed along to a ballad that Chris Youngblood crooned a capella. Foot tapping and handclapping could be heard when Joe Klein belted out “The Star of County Down” (which I hummed then and continued to for the entire next day)

As Joe sang, I closed my eyes. Sitting on the café’s comfy couch and sipping my cold amber brew, I imagined us all in an Irish pub. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate and fulfilling way to spend a St. Patrick’s Day evening.


Reading of My Grandmother's Brouge is HERE.