She’s a dancer, baby. Name’s Bermuda, like the triangle. Seems she copped the brand in some shitty little dive up near Cripple Creek where she worked six days a week hauling ass for some creep in black market boots. It had to do with the guys who chased her, greasy stags with gunmetal grins. They came away from Bermuda changed.
They repented. Saw the light. Rued the day, and all that jazz.
When she was real young, Bermuda and her mama drove the west country roads looking for her daddy in the trees. Some days, her mama would pull the car over, take out a blanket, and spread herself before God Almighty, praying for release. It was out near the Mason Reservoir that God sent down a lightening bolt and took her up on the offer.
Bermuda grew up under the weeping eyes of Aunt Susana. Chicken shit bingo Saturday night. Hokey pokey housemates. Musical beds.
Her Ouija board was set on vibrate.
Sixteen was the magic number, and Bermuda hit the highway by thumb. Getting picked up was easy. Putting them down had to be learned.
She tattooed verses along her spine that came in dreams on hard packed clay. Sagebrush lit the night. Rattlesnake bite with a Crotaline chaser, and Bermuda went south long enough to meet the devils eye to eye. Snake dancing charmed her. Gave her gravity. Taught her how to really talk to God.
It may not be the most practical gift, or the most likely topic, but Happy Birthday, Jamie Kratz-Gullickson! This one’s for you.
Yesterday, Jamie answered my plaintive cry for something lively and beautiful to lighten a heavy, gray day with this: I felt especially moved this morning while driving to an out of town meeting- there was an amazing sunrise and I was blasting Ride of the Valkaryes. I could feel my superhero gene twitching with anticipation. How’s that?
Uh, well, Bermuda is a sort of a superhero, right?