More writing is forthcoming, I promise
Right now I'm busy setting up an online storefront. Heck, that makes for a good story...

When my dad left, we moved in with Grandma (as you may recall from the archives). I think mom sent us to ballet class out of guilt. I know she couldn't afford it. It's possible that her brothers and sisters chipped in. They are those kind of people.
However it came about, my sister and I got to take ballet and tap lessons for almost a year. Every Tuesday we would run home from school, drop off our books, grab our dance bags, and catch the Gravois bus to go to dance class.

The school was on Gravois, between the White Castle and K-Mart. The reception area had pale violet carpeting and dark red chairs. I barely noticed the clashing decor, however; because my eyes were inevitably drawn to the photos on the walls. There were hundreds of framed 5x7 photos of girls in dance costumes. These were the real dancers. The ones who had actually been on stage, in front of an audience. I so my picture on one of those walls. There were more pictures lining the halls to the changing room. Every time I passed beneath them, I'd think, "I'm going to be better than you. They're going to hang my picture right out front.

I worked myself silly learning to shuffle-ball-change. I lost my baby fat doing tedius plie's. Up and down, up and down. Turn out your feet, tuck in your butt. Straighten your back. Up and down.
Our teacher had a cane that she would tap you with if your form was wrong. Her gentle taps never hurt, but it was humiliating to have your positioning corrected in front of the whole class. It didn't matter that she tapped everyone equally. What mattered was that she was tapping you.

And, oh! The pain of those excercises. First the warm-up stretches (no problem), then moving through the 5 positions (pain in the back, pain in the ankles, knees aching, arms turned to jelly, straighten your back, lift your chin and smile!) -followed by a million plie's.

But I was going to be a dancer. I was going to be on stage. My daddy would see my name in lights, and he would be proud of me.

Yeah, that was a nice fantasy.

I loved all that hard work. I loved finally getting my chance to tap dance to a bit of music on stage. I loved the costume that mom had to borrow money to pay for; and I didn't understand when the dance lessons stopped.
My sister and I begged to be allowed to go back. We swore we would scrub floors or work in factories to pay for it. Our pleas must have broken my mom's heart; but the dance lessons were too expensive, and we just couldn't do it anymore.
I wouldn't give up my tap shoes, though.

My first year at Visual and Performing Arts magnet school, I took acting and art. The next year I took acting and dance. I kept up the exercises when I changed schools. In total, I spent 5 years doing ballet exercises for 2 hours a day, 5 days a week.

As a result, I have arthritis in both my knees. I'm 35 years old, and there are days when the only thing that gets me moving is the need to get my son to school. In the winter time, it feels like a dozen icepicks are shoved into my knees. I (sometimes) do physical therapy exercises with 10 lb weights on my ankles to strengthen my legs.
It's funny, in a way. In order to slow the deterioration from too many years of dancing, I have to maintain dancer's muscles.

Which leads me to my store. I make an arthritis salve from shea butter and comfrey, I also make an oil. This stuff keeps me moving on my bad days. It enables me to do my PT, to walk without limping, to drive. Ahhh, comfrey.
As an added benefit, it's shrinking the stretch marks on my belly. (because, I just had to try it everywhere)

I used my friends as guinea-pigs, and put comfrey on everything from tendonitis to gout, and by god-it works! At the urging of my hubby and friends, I've started selling it online.

I hope you enjoyed my story, and I realized I forgot the best part about dance class. We would use our bus fare to buy white castles, and walk the 3 miles home in the dark. I was 8 and my sister was 9.

The Decay Of The Olympic Torch

When I was a kid, I got to see a runner carrying the Olympic torch. We had to get our parents' permission, because it meant leaving school grounds and walking 2 blocks through a crummy neighborhood in order to see a bit of flame for a few seconds. Mom got all excited when I brought the permission form home. She had to tell me all about the history of the carrying of the torch, where it had been, where it was going, and how fortunate out city was to have the flame pass through. My teacher had already covered this; with the same level of enthusiasm, and more historical accuracy.

I was in the 7th grade at the time, and thought that standing on the sidewalk was better than sitting at a desk any day. That was about the extent of my interest.

So the big day came, and after lunch we hiked off to watch the torch go by. Interestingly enough; while my teacher and my mom both thought this was a big deal, they were in the minority. My class was one of the 3 that even bothered to watch.
There were a scattering of people waiting with us. Most had brought lawn chairs. After about 5 minutes of standing there, I started wishing that I had brought a lawn chair too. It was boring, standing around in the hot sun. This was before St. Louis got serious with it's tree-planting program. There was no shade, and nothing to look at beyond a few run-down apartment buildings.

I started thinking about the history class I was missing. My desk was looking better and better to me. I could be learning something, darn it! All my friends were in the other 7th grade class, so I didn't have anyone to talk to. No one was stirring in the apartments, and there wasn't even so much as a pidgeon to stare at. (sigh)

I was terribly bored.

Then the people around me became restless. Word began to spread... The torch was coming. "Finally!" I thought.
I has assumed that all torch bearers were Olympic caliber runners, and I couldn't figure out what was taking so long. I mean, Olympic sprinters ran at least as fast as a car, right? (And that just goes to show you what 7th graders know about physics)
I looked down the street. Nothing.
I listened for the sound of running feet. Nothing.

More people were showing up, so I knew somethingwas happening. By the time the runner got there, the street was crowded. I was being squeezed from all sides, and couldn't see a damned thing. Fortunately, the teachers noticed this and started spreading us kids out. I don't know how it happened; but I wound up right at the curb, with a clear view.
A feeling of awe had spread up the street. I was standing with my toes hanging over the curb, and I was afraid of being pushed into the street. I couldn't fall into the street! It had turned into Holy Ground.
The crowd began clapping, and I could see someone jogging down the road carrying what looked like a short, white, whiffle-ball bat. It was pretty sunny out, and I couldn't see the flame. All that standing around to see a sweaty jogger? What a waste!

And then he ran past.

I had expected someone proud. I had expected the runner to look around self-importantly. Instead, I got the feeling that the runner barely noticed us. His sole focus was that flame. The flame I couldn't see. I couldn't see it, but wow! I could feel it.
And I began to understand. This flame, that had begun as the rays of the sun, was as pure as it was when it began it's trip in Athens. Passed from torch to torch, runner to runner, it was essentially the same fire.
He was followed by a pack of joggers. Some of them were replacement runners, some were everyday people. After them came a van with a police escort. It was carrying a back-up flame; for the flame must never go out.

There was something magical about that little bit if fire, and I'll never forget how it made me feel.

That was then. Nowadays, they have torch bearers in several cities, all running at the same time. That sacred flame is divided, and used to light stupid little cauldrons designed to look just like the big one at the Olympics. The last time the flame went out during a run, it was relit with a propane torch, because the "back-up flame" was in another city!

I personally believe that each time the flame is divided, each time it's used to light a little cauldron; it's strength is diminished.

I hate commercialism.