There’s a 97-year old lady who works (well, more volunteers than works since she said she retired at 82) at my daughter’s ballet school. Yesterday, while my daughter was getting fitted for her costume for the Nutcracker, I spent a half hour talking to her. She said she first danced on the stage at the age of 6 in 1918 and then danced when she was older in Hollywood. Her professional career ended when she tore her achilles tendon during a performance, and she said she had to wear lifts for that heel for 3 years before she recovered. But she never lost her love of dancing, and she still attends dances classes at the school. I had been hesitant to speak to her before because I was too in awe of her age when I heard how old she was, but my dad had spoken to her a bit when he had to pick up A one time (he found out her grandfather had converted to the LDS church and moved from England to Utah in the 1800s, and that she spent her summers as a child in Ogden), and I thought I would be missing a rare opportunity to learn about the experiences of someone who’s been around for almost 100 years. Her diction and memories were so clear, even compared to someone my age, and I look forward to seeing her, the school, and her friends celebrate her 100-year birthday.