"Mary Jane's Last Dance" • Tom Petty (by Casey Jo Graham Welmers)
- Casey Jo Graham Welmers
- Jun 29
- 2 min read
We were chameleons in our purple and teal insulated Columbia™ winter jackets, worn to protect our teenaged selves from the elements and also judgement. It was the cheapest brand name apparel that could pass as decent on the ski slopes, and we scrimped and saved and begged for this synthetic armor as if it could deflect a nuclear bomb. Every Thursday, December through March, we boarded a yellow school bus that reeked of gasoline and freedom to escape from our rural school district to the glittering slopes of Crystal Mountain. Every Thursday we could be like the kids with money, the kids that didn’t come from farm country and get teased about consorting with pigs. Every Thursday we strapped our feet into battered boots and skis we worked all summer to purchase, changing piles of tourists’ crumb and cum filled sheets just to propel ourselves down the face of the double black diamond slope and justify the fact of our presence among the bourgeoise. We vaulted off of snow packed jumps big and small, crossing the tips of our skis, crossing the backs of our skis, crossing our pounding hearts and hoping not to die. We sauntered ski-boot jaunty through the lodge, heavy heeled cowboy to fixed toe ballerina, cowboy-ballerina, cowboy-ballerina. When night fell and our toes and fingers demanded thawing, we drank hot chocolate composed of equal parts sugar, chocolate, and lava served in styrofoam cups that leached billions of PFAS into our hormone flooded endocrine systems. The molten concoction scorched every last tastebud from our mouths, leaving our tongues rough and dry like a cat’s. We tangled our growing limbs together on chairs in the small lounge and played “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” on repeat from the jukebox. From the windows of this room we could see the south facing slope, the swift and slow chairlifts transporting skiers ever upward, away from any thoughts of summer creeping in. We discussed our next runs, our next tricks, who got the sickest air, Jenny’s frozen hair, Justin’s busted cheek. We flirted and fawned and snuck cold burnt hands onto hot flat bellies. Our pupils dilated, our chapped lips moistened, our chilled feet tingled. We were tired of ourselves and tired of our town, but on Thursday nights at Crystal Mountain oh my could we ever put on that party dress; could wear it like a goddamn first place beauty queen, mascara running like a tiny midnight river. We could be someone else, anyone else, somewhere else. Somewhere distant and exhilarating and just cold enough to briefly, blissfully, numb the pain.
Casey Jo Graham Welmers was named after a Grateful Dead song. She grew up in rural northern lower Michigan and holds a BA in English, Language and Literature from the University of Michigan. Her most recent work is published or forthcoming in Bending Genres, BULL, wildscape. literature journal, The Argyle and others. You can find her practicing written and healing arts from the Great Lakes state and at caseyjo.carrd.co
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