by Debra Dixon
—Janey Stalcross
“She put the whole burden on Amos whether to clean it out or not.”
“She dumped it on him because he was nice to her,” Peggy said. “Makes me glad I’m a curmudgeon.”
She’s not, of course, but she likes to act like she is. “Okay, so where do we start looking?” I asked.
She folded the copy and slid it into my handbag on the seat between us. “I cannot believe anyone would give a tinker’s dam what’s in the box after all these years. It’s a tempest in a teapot.”
“How long have you lived in Mossy Creek?”
“Long enough.”
“Obviously not, if you think no one will care. You do realize we have less than two days to locate it in time for Amos and Ida to sanitize it and deliver it to the dance Saturday night? I don’t know where to start.”
“How about with where it was supposed to be? The original stadium plans have to be filed somewhere. The city assessor’s office, maybe?”
“Do schools pay taxes?”
“No, but they pay utilities, and have plumbing and electricity inspections.”
“Shoot. I just thought of something,” I said. “The bake sale. Town Square is going to be a zoo.”
“I’ll bet you anything the assessor’s office is already shut down today so Felicia can go,” she said, and I knew it was true.
“Pick up where we left off tomorrow?” I asked.
Peggy nodded. “Bright and early.”
Mossy Creek Gazette
Volume VIII, No. Two • Mossy Creek, Georgia
Mum’s the Word!
by Katie Bell
I know a lot of you Creekites out there are too young to remember, but Homecoming Mums are a Southern tradition that began in the 1920s. Fresh Chrysanthemums were originally used with just a few ribbons trailing out beneath.
Enter the super-sized age! Since the 1960s, Homecoming Mums have been made from silk flowers with additional items added to signify different activities the students are involved in. They’re Homecoming Corsages with stories!
The newly formed Football Moms Booster Club has been working hard to bring the tradition back for this year’s Homecoming. They’ve been meeting every Saturday morning in the Fellowship Hall at the Mossy Creek Presbyterian Church to create floral, beribboned and trinketed works of art.
One finished custom corsage seen by this reporter had a yellowish-gold silk bloom the size of a grapefruit that was nestled on a background of dark green leaves. The letters MCHS were prominent in dark green pipe cleaners and peering out from the middle of the mum was a small Ram’s head. Two pounds of trinkets hung from gold and green ribbons that were about 3 feet long. The trinkets included a “Ram” bell to use as a noise maker during the game. This custom mum (I cannot divulge who it will be given to!) included the lucky recipient’s name, the school name and her graduation year. There were also various trinkets describing the extracurricular activities she and her date are involved in.
Many trinkets are available for decorating the mums including charms for band, cheerleading, drama club, various sports, drill team, glee club, and many more.
The Football Moms Mums will have a booth at the bake sale on Thursdays. Prices will vary according to how many flowers, ribbons and trinkets are attached.
If you’d like to order a custom mum to be picked up at the booth, please call one of the Football Moms and place your order. Trinkets will be available at the booth, so you can also decorate your own there.
Pas de Gridiron
Football is not a contact sport. It’s a collision sport.
Dancing is a good example of a contact sport.
—Duffy Daugherty
Argie Rodriguez, Monday
If my fellow dancers at the New York City Ballet could only see me now, up to my rubberized, pink polka-dotted Target rain-booted ankles in cow doo, they’d think their former lead ballerina had vanished to another planet.
“It’s manure. Great for the soil. You’ll see, Argie, you’ll have the prettiest flowers come spring.” Valerie wielded a trident with relish, turning over rich red clods of Georgia clay and smashing them so that the manure could be worked into it. “I’ll come back to stick some ornamental cabbages and chrysanthemums in the dirt for you.” She parked a gloved hand on her hip. “I’ll bet the Mossy Creek Garden Club will take you on as a special project.”
My heart sank at the thought that I was a special project. I know she meant well, but the distressed yard around my ballet studio and the piles of manure seemed to be a rustic analogy of my life.
When I’d asked my Pilates class for gardening help I’d been bombarded with advice, but today Valerie the Valkyrie had shown up with a pickup truck full of manure, tools, some leafy twigs sticking out of wet burlap balls and a plan.
“The ballet studio is too little for wide flower beds,” I said. I didn’t want to discourage her too much, but it was the truth. The former gas station would look like a little gnome hut sprouting from the middle of a huge garden.
“Improved soil never hurt anyone. I figure we can put in a couple of forsythia shrubs—they bloom yellow in the spring, some azaleas, and then we can figure out what else you want. I can stick in a few chrysanthemums here and there for fall color.”
“Okay, I know what chrysanthemums are, but I’m not familiar with forsythia and azaleas.” I made an effort to smile at her. “I really appreciate your help, Valerie. You can tell how helpless I am here.” I checked my watch and carefully stepped out of the smelly black clumps, still fragrant of cow. “Gotta go inside now. My afterschool beginning ballet class will be here soon.”
“Aw, they’re so cute in their little tutus and slippers,” Valerie said. “You go on in.”
I noticed Valerie didn’t disagree with my gardening skill assessment, so I didn’t tell her that the cute little ballerinas would actually be the Mossy Creek High football team. After a string of injuries, Coach Fred Mabry decided that the boys had to work on balance and flexibility. Since it was the Monday before the Homecoming game against Harrington, I made sure he knew there wouldn’t be a lot of improvement by Friday. He assured me that he knew it was an on-going process and that he wanted the lessons to last through football season.
I was excited to get the business, but the boys weren’t thrilled at the idea of ballet class. I hoped that Valerie wouldn’t do or say anything that would encourage them to head back to their cars.
Before entering my little sanctuary, I ran my hand over the raised letters on the small metal sign that hung on the wall next to the doorbell.
Wisteria Cottage Dance Studio. Argelia Rodriguez, Owner
I’d ordered it made from cast-iron for permanence. I’d needed permanence and roots in my life when I moved here. My ballet studio was small, but it boasted a gorgeous and expensive floor, beautiful mirrored walls, smooth hardwood barres, a state-of-the-art sound system, and a cozy apartment home on the other side of the mirrored wall.
Every penny of my savings, as well as a small inheritance, had gone into renovating the old frame building when I’d moved here from New York City. Now all my classes were almost full, but I still wasn’t convinced that I was a success, and adding the football team to my client list was like a vote of confidence for my ballet school. After years of living like a gypsy, of devoting every aspect of my life to dance, it seemed strange to be rooted in one small town. Sometimes it felt totally alien.
The phone rang, and I gingerly toed off my stinky rubber boots. I put them back outside by the stacked stone stairs, then crossed the unblemished wooden floor. The silky feel of the honey-smooth hardwood soothed my battered feet. Car doors slammed outside as I answered the phone.
“Argie, it’s Fred Mabry. Got a minute?” His gravelly voice was unmistakable.
“Of course, Coach. Your play
ers are just coming in.”
“There’s one more who won’t be there today. Jeff Taylor got hurt. Do you have some exercises that he can do so he doesn’t lose time?”
“What kind of injury?”
“Turf toe.”
“Oh.” Turf toe is a ghastly name for a painful mid-foot sprain. Ballet dancers get turf toe all the time, and apparently football players twist their feet jumping and landing badly, just like ballet dancers do. Except they don’t fall off their toe shoes, of course. “There are lots of exercises that he can do to strengthen his core without putting weight on his foot. My Pilates class will be perfect.”
I smiled as the door knob turned and the first of the boys lumbered in, looking around uncomfortably. He was tall enough to reach the ceiling tiles with his knuckles. He noticed my smile, but pretended to be interested in the window.
“Ms. Argie?” Coach’s voice brought me back. “When should Jeff be there?”
I decided to use the coach to get the kid’s attention. “Tell him class starts at three. Hold on, Coach. One of your guys just arrived.”
At the mention of the word “coach” the boy stood straighter, emphasizing his broad shoulders. His hips were narrow, covered in droopy sweats that seemed about to fall off.
“Great. It’ll give one of the guys time to drive Jeff there after school. Call me later and fill me in on how the first class goes.”
“Maybe you should know that the Pilates class is mostly women over thirty.”
He chuckled. “Love it. I’ll let you go. Good luck, Ms. Argie.”
I stared at the receiver a second. Had I noted a little apprehension in his voice? I put the phone down and walked towards the muscular young man hovering by the door.
“Hi, I’m Argie Rodriguez. Welcome to the studio.” I carefully didn’t say the words dance or ballet, in case they made the kid race out the door and down the street.
He nodded, shifting from foot to foot and moving his head around like a steer in a slaughterhouse chute.
As the simile occurred to me, I rolled my eyes. I must still be affected by the manure.
“And your name is…?”
He stopped moving, probably because all the blood in his limbs was now in his face, but he still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “The guys call me Tater. Tater Townsend.”
Tater. I’d been on the wrong side of the farm. “Why don’t you take your shoes off and stretch your legs a bit? Your teammates are on their way.”
The other boys straggled in reluctantly—including Willie Bigelow, the quarterback—and Tater seemed relieved to have company. I greeted them and asked them to take off their shoes to save my floor. I turned the music on, softly. I’d crank up the volume and the beat when we were ready to get to work.
Five minutes later, we were missing only one boy, presumably Jeff. The rest were sitting—some on the long, cushioned bench usually occupied by waiting moms, some on the floor. They were uncomfortably quiet, eyes darting about the studio as if looking for the closest avenue of escape.
I clapped my hands to pull their eyes to me. “Gentlemen, I’m your instructor, Argie Rodriguez. How many of you have taken a dance class?”
Eyes swiveled back and forth, but there were no answers. I hadn’t expected any. “Okay, we’re going to change that this week. As Coach Mabry no doubt told you, football players have used stretching and ballet exercises for decades to strengthen their core muscles to increase timing and prevent injuries.”
Time to show off. I figured a picture would show them that I wasn’t all talk. I pointed the toes of my right foot and lifted my leg slowly until I held it straight to the side and horizontal to the floor, then held it there.
“Even if you don’t dance ballet, the exercises will help your balance and core strength. Dance is not just about fancy leaps and jumps, or standing on your toes,” I continued, keeping my leg extended and moving it toward the front.
Some of the boys were staring, obviously expecting it to start shaking or drop suddenly. That was not going to happen.
“It’s about having the power to maintain a position using your muscles and balance.” I lowered my leg slowly, widening my smile to keep from grimacing because it was starting to hurt. “If you don’t think that’s tough, then I invite you to stand at the barre.” I gestured towards the smooth wooden pole bolted to the wall. “Gentlemen?”
The boys stood reluctantly, then shuffled to the barre. I walked to the doorway as they jostled each other. They made my studio look tiny.
“Please face me and put your right hand on the barre. Don’t look at the mirror beside you. It’s too close. You’ll be able to see yourselves in the mirror across the room, but try not to stare at yourselves. Instead, concentrate on what your body is doing, your muscles, and use your reflection only as a reference to make sure that you are doing the exercises correctly.”
As expected, the boys dragged their feet, but eventually they all stood by the barre. I sighed. At least none of them had refused to do the exercise.
I led them through the foot positions and demi-pliés, then the grande pliés, watching and encouraging as the boys sank to the floor in a deep squat, then rose, maintaining their position on tiptoe. Some wobbled, but no one was even breathing hard.
I braced myself for the inevitable. The exercise squeezed intestines, and there was always some passing of gas. Usually the little girls giggled and blushed until the last little fart had passed. Sure enough, the first blat sounded, and the room exploded with laughter.
Oh, brother.
“Keep going, gentlemen. This is perfectly natural. It won’t be the last one.”
Sure enough, it wasn’t. More laughter and a few jeers this time. That was a good sign. Laughter helps ease tension.
“Let’s do ten more grande pliés, and then we’ll move to center work.”
The raggedy, overgrown ballerinas’ torsos headed south, then up again.
Snorts of laughter drew my attention and I stepped back to the center of the floor so that I could see all of my students. Three of the guys were still grinning.
“Remember to tuck your backsides in, tummies in, heads straight.”
I turned away, giving them the opportunity to repeat whatever they’d done, keeping the mirror in my peripheral vision. I have terrific peripheral vision.
Sure enough. A foot swung out and jammed itself into the posterior of the boy in front, who jumped and turned with a wheelhouse kick worthy of a Jackie Chan movie. The intended target ducked, and the stockinged foot smashed into the barre right by one of the brackets that held it up.
The studio echoed with a loud crack, the splintering of glass, and a giant crash. My chest hurt as the boys leaped away from the wall, where the barre had fallen hard onto the floor.
“Dang, that was close,” one of the boys said. The others clustered around, talking excitedly.
I rushed to Tater, the kicker, who was once more red-faced and this time mortified, too.
“Are you okay?” My vision seemed to stutter as I tried to make sense of what I’d seen. Tater turned to me, shoulders slumped.
“I didn’t mean to, Ms. Argie. I’m so sorry.”
“Your foot’s not cut?”
“No, I’m okay.”
I stared at my barre, its graceful length tilting crazily, one end on the floor, surrounded by shards of broken mirror. I didn’t know what to say. Little girls don’t smash things.
Trying not to think of how much it was going to cost to replace, I turned my mind to adjusting my teaching style. “Everyone, come to the middle of the room. It’s time to do center work.”
I explained how balance was important to football, and about the role that abdominal and back strength played. “Your legs are part of the equation, too.”
This time there was no grumbling an
d no snide laughter. The boys concentrated, eyes on their reflections, as they reached the edges of their endurance in deep pliés, heels lifted, followed by excruciating slow ascents to standing position.
I made them work every bit as hard as I’d worked at their age, and although I’d had years of dance behind me, most of these boys had been playing football since they were toddlers. The training showed in their endurance and the way they all worked together once they got serious.
I only wished that they’d gotten serious without wrecking my wall.
Thirty minutes later, they were gone. Exhaustion and ennui crept over me as I swept up broken glass. At least the floor wasn’t damaged. I could’ve bought a brand new Mercedes Benz for what that floor had cost.
I cleaned up the glass, carefully going over the floor with a dampened paper towel to catch every tiny splinter. As I tossed away the last glittery paper towel, I remembered that I needed to call Fred Mabry with a report.
The phone rang as I was reaching for it. My heart skipped as I noted the 212 area code. New York City. “Hello?”
“Argie?” The soft male voice was familiar, but the tentative tone was strange.
“Peter?”
It was as if my ennui had reached back into my past. Peter Allison had been my partner in the New York City ballet. After I left, he’d changed partners and although he’d promised to keep in touch, he hadn’t.
“Yeah. Do you know how hard it was to track you down? The number you left was disconnected.”
