Mardi Gras Ball at the Sun Hall
Wearing a Mardi Gras mask, I had to be asked while being ticketed and wrist-banded at the door if I was old enough to be served at the bar.
After being snowed-in and cold for weeks, party-goers turned out in sold-out numbers and showed up in full Mardi Gras regalia, shaking off winter blues on the dance floor.
The event was put on by Republic of Floyd to benefit Blue Mountain School, the alternative school that my sons and many others in the room went to. I got a good laugh when Wild Life bassist John Winniki joked on stage that front man Richie Ursomarso (who was enjoying the set like big kid) went to Blue Mountain, saying something like, "It took a while but Richie (in orange) finally graduated." Winniki and Ursomarso were joined by bandmates Luke and Jake Thomas (Kari and Mike Kovick's nephews).
Between the rocking tunes of Wild Life and the Floyd FunkStars, I don't see why we can't have a ball every month.
I was mesmerized by the belly dancing performances of the Gyroscopic Tribal troupe. At least one dancer (Leia on the right) is a Blue Mountain School alumnus.
The belly dancers weren't the only ones to show their midriff. That's longtime Blue Mountain School supporter and current board member Luke Staengl talking about the accomplishments of past Blue Mountain school kids, including his two sons, an engineer and an artist.
During the live auction with Tom O'Neill, my young friend Mars asked me if I knew what time it was. I held up my arms to show him wasn't wearing a watch and the auctioneer thought I was bidding.
I told my friend Mara (a Blue Mountain School alumnus whose daughter in now enrolled) that she should wear red more often, as she spun me around like a flamenco dancer. I nearly danced my socks off. Well, they kept falling down. (Sorry Mara I missed the shot. This one is of Starroot and Willow, hot in red).
Speaking of red hot, it was my first time drinking beer with capsicum in it (from our local micro-brewery Shooting Creek) and eating Chef Natasha's King cake, which tasted like a marzipan stolen, only sweeter. The night was sweet from beginning to end. Joe agrees!
Post notes: More photos and narrative to come in The Floyd Press this week. Video clips of the wildly entertaining evening are HERE, HERE and HERE. A story on Blue Mountain School is HERE.
Update: Read the Floyd Press story online HERE.
~ The following was published in The Floyd Press on January 28, 2010. 
A Museletter mascot, a 30 year anniversary party, and a monthly crossword puzzle of Floyd County trivia were some of the ideas given at the Consensus Workshop at the library on Saturday. 
In the first hour of being on Facebook (Saturday) 15 friends of the Museletter had signed on. As I type this today (Sunday) 157 have joined the Museletter fan club. 
That's what I said to Joe Christmas morning when we woke up to an ice storm, when the power went out and I wondered how many turkeys wouldn't get cooked for Christmas dinner and how many families wouldn't be able to travel to see relatives that day. "We won't even be able to light the tree!" I was shocked to realize. 
The mother in me can’t help but brag and the documenter in me can’t help but keep track. Last weekend while covering the 2009 Floyd County High School Graduation for the local paper, I discovered something unique. Both the graduating valedictorian and the salutatorian have educational roots in the Blue Mountain School, Floyd’s parent-run cooperative with roots in Waldorf education that was founded in the early 80’s. It’s the school where my sons Josh and Dylan went before enrolling in public school in the 6th and 5th grades and where I taught a creative writing class for nearly a decade in exchange for tuition. 
Being interviewed on WUVT radio reminded me of, but wasn’t as bad as, the time I testified in court. At that time, I had a story to tell and wanted to tell it, but once on the witness stand my mind went blank and I had to count on the lawyer asking me questioning me to ask the right ones. 
This past Saturday I went to the Humane Society’s 
I’ve typed the name Mckibben so many times in the past few days that I can actually spell it now without using a cheat sheet. The environmentalist and 
Special THANKS and GOOD LUCK to Emily Brass (on the right) who has been raising the Floyd vibration with her music for many years and has been an invaluable member of our community newsletter (Museletter) layout staff. Emily, a social/political activist, is moving back to her hometown city of Montreal where she will be attending The School of Community and Public Affairs, majoring in Community and Public Affairs and Policy Studies and journalism. Her goal is to bring about positive world change, to put in action some of the lyrics of her originally written songs. She promises to return to Floyd for her Emily Brass Band gig at The Pine Tavern in August and to keep us posted about her adventures periodically through the pages of the Museletter. 
My neighbor Dolphin lives and teaches in Alaska now. She brought bear meat for the Christmas Eve Yankee Swap. 
“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” Leonardo Da Vinci 
The following is the third and final installment of a story I wrote about our local art scene for a Floyd Press special insert. Part I is 
Outdoor wood sculptures by Charlie Brouwer and Lanny Bean can be found around town. The main desk at the Jessie Peterman Library was carved by Ernest Bryant, whose 
A Flourishing of Arts in Floyd, Part I is
Today at the Jacksonville Center you can take a class on blacksmithing, glass works, pot throwing, paper making and more. Their Hayloft Gallery is a popular venue that regularly features exciting exhibits of contemporary and folk art of local, national, and international artists. Winterfest, still going strong at the Jacksonville Center, will be hosting their 13th annual fair this coming winter.
This is the first installment of a three part reprint from a story that originally appeared in a Floyd Press special insert on March 27, 2008. A post about the process I went through writing this retrospective on Floyd arts can be found 
Johanna is my son 
The following was published in The Floyd Press on January 3, 2008. 
Upstairs is home to
There were seven us, all authors, on a Dickens of a night. We were invited by our local independent bookstore, noteBooks, to sign books as part of the evening festivities, which included late night shopping, Christmas caroling, musical acts, and visits with Santa. I wore my leather Victorian lace-up granny boots, a long black skirt, white blouse with a gold laced vest, and a fur trimmed hat shaped like Santa’s. The funny part was that I wasn’t in costume because those are my real clothes. 
I had thought her falcon was named “Seajay” because it squawked like sea gull, but Lee told me CJ was short for Crow Jo, a variation of Mo Jo, which had been the name his original owners had given him. Back then he hunted ducks, now he hunts crows. CJ had his eye on the decorative sequined fruit in a bowl between David and me, and in particular the red apple, because it looks like blood, Lee told us. 
I was drawn in by Christmas red in the window. While trying not to buy a little girls Santa dress for the granddaughter I don’t have (yet), I caught some impromptu Christmas caroling. If Santa wasn’t enough to get me in the holiday spirit, this was. Dr. Sue Osborne and her son Mars were joined by singer Kari Kovik. Judy Weinzenfeld accompanied them on violin as the woman behind the check-out counter in bright red prairie hats hummed along. 
The following was published in The Floyd Press on December 6, 2007. 
My favorite part of the
Josh and Anna were on the dance floor waltzing. I ran into the Country Store owner, Woody Crenshaw, who was wearing denim bib overalls and a baseball cap over his sandy brown longish hair. As we talked, I checked out his shoes, more flatfoot worthy than mine, I decided. 
It was a final Farewell Memorial for Elliot, the poet and one of the founding members of the Floyd Writer’s Circle who passed away in November two years ago. The tribute was expressed through spontaneous performance art involving his T-shirt collection. 
He liked to wear a beret and a daisy behind his ear. He also wore and collected T-shirts, mostly whimsical and comical ones, or those related to his love of contra dancing. 
A group of investors purchased an abandoned building in downtown Floyd because they didn’t want to see a McDonalds there, Woody Crenshaw, one of the investors told the crowd at the ribbon cutting ceremony this past Saturday morning. What was most recently Farmers Food Grocery Store has been renovated into “The Village Green,” a timber-framed style complex of offices and businesses. 
This room is an artistic blend of old and new. An antique desk recalls images of writers from days gone by. The uncluttered classic furnishings in the study inspire introspection and calm, while the light infused olive colored walls throughout the suite offer an openness and brightness that stirs a calling to creativity and quietude … from the Hotel Floyd’s Writer’s Room 
It was the cumulative effect of it being
Joe orderd stuffed scallops and I got the tuna steak. I asked Julie for butter because I don’t like to dip my bread in olive oil. I write a note to Natalie before putting my notebook away so Joe and I can hold hands as we listen to the live music while our dinners are being prepared: 
I hovered over the table, across from Emily, the hip hop singer and saxophone player who was the lead singer for 
The first item purchased for the Hotel Floyd Writer’s Suite came from Daniel Bower’s antique shop. An 
Writer’s Circle member and Blue Heron potter, 
Stamps, pieces of crossword puzzles, found images, and travel momentums give her collages a romantic old-world flavor. 
Or, they might be inspired to pen their own thoughts. At a Hotel Floyd Open House private party on Sunday, Writer’s Circle member, 
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 
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. 
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.” 
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. 
The morning of the Virginia Tech school shootings I was putting the finishing touches on a 
It 
From the first day, I wanted to go to Blacksburg and see the faces of the people I felt solidarity with. I wanted to walk familiar streets to convince myself that they were still there. But another part of me wanted to avoid facing the added sorrow that would create. My husband, Joe, a counselor, was called to work with some of those most directly affected by the shootings, and so the aftereffects of the violence loomed large in our home. 
A sense of intimacy hovered inside the tent, where wall-to-wall message boards that mourners were writing on leaned against tables. Although the tables covered with keepsakes, conveying the once vibrant lives of those who had been killed, were hard to look at, I also felt privileged to be a witness to them. The air was stifling. People were sniffling and wiping there eyes. 
It was Cho’s stone covered with flowers and a poem that ended with the words, “We miss you.” But now the poem was gone and an angry one was in its place. 
AKA: What goes up must come down
From what I could tell she was on call to perform a wedding in the garden in front of the Harvest Moon, and the bride and groom were ready. 
Maybe age is a clock to wake us from dreaming … or maybe it is the dream … like counting the number of pages in a book … when we should be reading the story … Colleen
The following originally appeared in The Floyd Press on January 18, 2007 
Note: Halfa is a Middle Eastern word that refers to a celebration. 
A step stool draped in a bright red cloth led to the microphone where poets read and women took turns introducing each other. 
Not only did Ilima and Deb balance large silver swords on their heads, but they shimmied and shook while they did so. Ilima, the show’s producer who came to Floyd via Hawaii, is an accomplished dancer who directs the
Although her performance had a comedic flair, the subject she spoke of, affordable housing for single mothers, was serious. Her bio in the program read: Shamama is available for babysitting. 
Every town needs a poet or two, just as it needs an auto mechanic, a grocery shop owner, and an “in house” band. Every town is a microcosm of the whole world. If we stay where we are and invest in our own community, the whole world eventually comes to us. ~ Colleen from 
Last month there was greenhouse for sale, free tree root seedlings were offered, and a Jewish film festival in Blacksburg was announced. 
Once I get up to dance, I don’t sit down again until the band leaves the stage. The waitress, thinking my unfinished mug of Sam Adams was abandoned, swiped it off the table before I could stop her. I made do. In between songs, I sipped what was left in the bottle, until a second waitress came and took that. 
According to the American Dumpster 
My husband is a counselor, a soccer coach, a hunter. He practices martial arts and yoga and has just completed a last class for his Master’s Degree. Sometimes during the week, we hardly really see each other. We’re both independent and involved in our pursuits and passions (in my case, sometimes obsessively), which is why I love the weekends. On weekends he saves me from myself. 
It was “standing room only” at 
People stood and cheered; some waved “Webb for Senate” signs. A few shouted encouraging remarks to Warner. Many had thought that he would run for President in 2008, but he recently announced that he would not. Former Virginia State Senator and World War II Vet, Madison Mayre, took to the stage to warm the crowd up, and boy, did he ever. With his stories about Uncle Billy, whose ashes are supposedly kept in a mason jar, just like the one that held the moonshine he enjoyed while he was living, Mayre had the crowd hooting and laughing out loud. He introduced Warner by reminding the crowd that Warner was the first in his family to go to college. “And I’m the first in my family not to,” he joked. 
Following in the family’s military tradition, his son is a Marine Lance Corporal serving in Iraq. Webb didn’t mention that fact, but he did say this about his son: “When I was 24 corporate CEOs made 20 times more than the company workers. Now my son is 24 and they make 400 times more.” He made other references to corporation tax loopholes and the growing large gap between the rich and the struggling working and middle classes. 
It was probably the last time this year that I or my husband will mow the two acres of grass that surround our log home off the Blue Ridge Parkway. But that wasn’t the best part of mowing the lawn this past weekend. The best part was the perspective it gave me. 
The burgundy shirt that hung on the post in front of Amy’s new apartment let me know I was at the right place. A Woman’s Clothing Exchange, a long time tradition in Floyd, was about to begin. "Late afternoon tea served, bring a simple snack or sweet to share. Leftover clothing given to Angel’s in the Attic" (thrift shop), the invitation in the October
Piles of clothes were strewn all over the living room floor, or were stacked in cardboard boxes that a few women were rummaging through. 
Soon, the shy blogger in me, who up until this point had only taken pictures of piles of clothes and people’s feet, couldn’t hold back any longer. 
“Having something to say is more important than guessing what people want to hear.” ~ Barbara Kingsolver, spoken at the Floyd County High School auditorium, September 16, 2006
Downtown Floyd was abuzz with the sound of weed-whacking and lawn mowing. As I made my way through town yesterday hanging flyers for our next Spoken Word event, I couldn’t help but notice the smell of freshly mowed grass wafting through the air. Everywhere I went, up and down Locust and Main Streets, people were sprucing up their businesses, getting ready for the first annual “Floyd Homecoming and Harvest Festival” the following day. 
The vows were exchanged under a fruit filled apple tree, alongside a small creek. The bride wore a silk sheath gown with a white rose behind her ear. Draped in a shawl, she was escorted by her father, who had arrived the day before from Spain. They walked past the gardens and the pottery studio, to be united with the groom, standing under the grape-vine archway that was adorned with flowers and bunches of grapes. His bright orange tie and lapel flower matched the bride’s bouquet. 
The tapas were served by friends in sun-colored aprons, and they kept coming. There was serano ham with manchego tetilla, idiazabul cheeses and roasted red peppers; tequila lime shrimp; saffron rice with chicken skewers and chipolte sauce; and more. I sat next to young woman who inspired me to decorate my glasses with the ribbons that had been tied around our cloth napkins. There was salsa dancing, and the red wine flowed, so did the laughter (and a few tears as well). It was hard to resist a second helping of that cake.
I have a three acre piece of sky. It mirrors our three acres of green earth. It’s a good size for looking at the stars at night, but because our property is nestled in by trees, big firs and tulip poplars, I can’t see the sun when it sets. 
Many of the best moments in my life have happened spontaneously. Last weekend at 
Floyd Fest, our town’s yearly world music festival, is a people watchers paradise. My favorite part of the weekend festival - just six miles from my driveway on The Blue Ridge Parkway - is the cross section of people who attend it. Once on the sprawling grounds of open fields and wooded pathways, roles and differences tend to fall away, as people of all walks of life and ages speak the same language of “fun.” 
The “
Floyd Fest is different this year. There is no mud. No rain or fog. No hurricane skirted the site, as it has in the past, and festival goers have had to drop the nickname “Fog Fest,” because there is none.
They don’t come to hear poetry. They do not stand on the soapbox to complain about President Bush, read their own poems, or organize a revolt against public school. They like the Poetree because there are apples in it! 
On the way to the
Dance is my sport. Either that or my art. When I go to the monthly “Dance Free” in Floyd, it’s a cross between going to the gym and a rave party. Endorphins are released. Contagious smiles get exchanged. Some dancers spin like dervishes 
If this was my husband’s blog, he’d probably have lots of entries about Ba gua, the martial art he’s been practicing for a number years. Like him, many of our friend’s study Ba gua, mostly because they recognize the mastery of the man who teaches it, and they understand what an opportunity it is to learn from him. 
The fact that the attendance of our 4th monthly regional Blogger Meet-up at the 
Not only that, the picture I thought I took of Doug and David (and 
When I first moved to Floyd, 21 years ago, it didn’t take me long to look around and say to myself, “I have to learn to make something.” Here in Floyd, what one can 
Meet David St. Lawrence, author, blogger, woodworker, husband of Loose Leaf reader Gretchen, and one of the most upbeat people I know. 
And I am stuffed with facts…overweight with the nightly news…Poetry is the bell …that saves me from being…all-consumed ~ From “Political Prose is Hard Labor” ~ by Colleen
Two summers ago A'Court (the artist, musician, and recluse who I wrote about
Alina’s in the market for a new laptop. She perused the table full of them at our recent Blogger meet-up, asking pertinent questions about their performance and convenience, before settling down to take mine for a test run. Behind her, Fred was signing some of his newly published books, 
Even though 
My poet friend, 
Like the Sufi mystic poets of old who did not see themselves as separate from God and who met in secret to protect themselves from fanatical fundamentalists who thought otherwise, a group of women friends gathered around a table for tea and something more…talk of the Dharma, the Tao, the 
And so, the flavors of hot apricot tea, lemon cake with boysenberry jam, scones, cream, and fresh strawberries and grapes mixed with the words of Rumi, Hafiz, Li Po, Gary Snyder, and John O’Donahue, for a lusciously fulfilling exchange that fed more than one kind of hunger.
A day spent in Floyd – the one stoplight rural town I live in – can be as exciting as time spent in any big city, as far as I’m concerned.
In the beginning I misunderstood… But now I've got it, the word is good. ~ The Word by Lennon/McCartney 
The class of 1998 at 
Girls in brightly colored wigs posing for poets in a clash of culture when live-bands performed at the 
A support group? A union? A class or convention? There was talk of track backs, permalinks, and spam. Mostly, we enjoyed meeting each other, some for the first time. We were old bloggers, new bloggers, wanna-be bloggers, and blog readers. The lap tops were lit up and the stats were compared. I learned that bloggers are an enthusiastic bunch, happy to find each other.
On this day, Joe and I walked a stone path lined with emerald green moss against the backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Appalachian Mountain Range, one of the oldest in the world, is a gently rolling scene of overlapping mountains for as far as the eye can see. It looks prehistoric, and I always expect to see pterodactyls. Today I saw turkeys instead. ~ Excerpt from 
All my friends would like to know…how I can sleep so late…well, I have a gene for it…the wine of words is mostly partaken…in the wee hours of the morning…I write alone. ~ Colleen, From The Zen of Winter Poetry, 
AKA: The Bride and Big Foot 
The Appalachian Mountains…ran like shivers up my spine…they rose in my dreams… Was I always destined for Virginia? How did I go from a small coastal town in the South Shore of Boston to living a rural life in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Southwest Virginia? Was the fact that I grew up infatuated with Annie Oakley, Daniel Boone, and Davy Crockett a sign of what my future held? 
Dance: Poetry of the foot. ~ John Dyden ~
On Friday, my whole day revolved around fish. It had nothing to do with the fact that I was raised Catholic and it was considered a sin to eat meat on Fridays back then, and so my family usually ate fish. It had everything to do with a local Floyd business that consists of two women who travel to the coast each week and bring back fresh seafood that they sell out of the back of their truck. Their fish business is called “Indigo Farms,” but I call them “The Indigo Girls.”
We didn’t wear the right shoes. We were dressed in too many clothes for what would ensue. By the end of the first set, we had escaped from our seats and were dancing in the aisle. By the beginning of the second set, we had kicked off our shoes and were dancing up by the stage. I still have the ink on my hand from being stamped at the door (at least I did when I wrote this). I can’t tell what it’s an image of, but it’s definitely Irish green, and so I’m thinking it’s a smudged shamrock, a fitting symbol for a foot stomping band named “
It was a busy weekend. I attended a Dance Free, a Celtic Music Concert in downtown Floyd, worked on a poem in preparation for my Writers’ Workshop Monday evening, and put 
Break into the peace within...hold your attention in silence...and in the world outside...you will ably master the ten thousand things... 
If you have an apple and I have an apple and we exchange apples, then you and I will still each have one apple. But, if you have an idea and I have an idea and we exchange these ideas, then each of us will have two ideas. - George Bernard Shaw
When my first husband and our two young children moved from Texas to Virginia to homestead nearly 20 years ago, we drove through Riner, the next town over from Floyd, took one deep whiff of the cow manure that was wafting down the road, rolled up our car windows and began to question our plans. 
Saturday night: A wedding reception was taking place in the back of 
“ “Wherever you are is the entry point.” Kabir
I used to go down the mountain regularly to restock my handmade jewelry at 
You’re golden…I’m red delicious…basking in the sun’s October glory…You’re Adam…I’m Eve… ~ Colleen 
It seems like we go right from butterflies to spider webs, reminding me that Halloween isn’t too far off. This is the time of year that harvested garlic wafts from my pantry, and I’m startled by the sound of nuts dropping from the paws of squirrels onto our shed’s tin roof. Garden plants are wilting and dying, revealing ripened orange pumpkins underneath, still clinging to their winding and shriveling vines. Lawn mowing is slowly being replaced by wood cutting. The cooler days seem penetrating and brighter, as the loom of summer humidity lifts. Putting aside my sandals, I look for shoes. This morning I put on socks. 
Lately, I’ve been spending more time with vegetables than I have with people. Braiding onions – the tangled hair on the little girls I never had… Lining up Yukon Gold potatoes – more than an Irish Catholic mother’s brood… Babying the volunteer turnip plants that have sprouted up, as though they were orphans needing adoption... And squishing gangs of squash bugs with my bare hands, like a mother fending off bullies to protect her darling baby butternuts…
Welcome in the word… Have you heard? Mara Robbins
It has become clear to me that one of the most deep-rooted causes of our problems is the way we treat children and above all babies. I am equally convinced that no program of social and political change that does not include and begin with changes in the ways in which we bear and rear children has any chance of making things better. ~ John Holt, education reform author
Righteous – Meeting the standards of what is right and just; morally right. ~ The American Heritage Dictionary 
