ROCKY MOUNTAIN MAMMORIES

First Pair of Levis Were Quite a Prize

It was early in the morning when one of the Spritzer boys arrived at the Forest Queen Mine wearing those beautiful store-bought dungarees that were to cause such a sensation. They were crisp and new and smelled it. Most of the other coal miners wore baggy trousers fashioned from course wool or recycles cotton and some even from disguised drapes and tablecloths, though they’d never admit it.

Fashion was never a major priority underground. Those were the days when the old timers spent their leisure time walking around picking up gold nuggets the size of basketballs right off the ground. They worked the coalmines for the fun of it.

As boredom is a part of any occupation, and young Spritzer was often a fitting target, several of the older miners got onto the lad about his newest acquisition.

“Did your momma spend her butter and egg money on your fancy denim bloomers?” teased Mr. Mecini at lunch break. “Aren’t you scared you’ll get ’em dirty?” asked the redheaded Terence O’Neill. “Momma won’t like that!”

“Not as much as he works!” plugged Emil Roucek, a new arrival from Croatia who was not one to miss a chance at gnawing at a fellow miner.

Well, as one might well imagine, young Spritzer’s attempts to ignore the taunts were getting him in deeper and deeper until he was forced into the squabble.

“Take a good look, boys, because you won’t see me wearin’ these trousers down in this hole no more. This is the last of it,” he spouted. “From now on these pants are for special occasions only. I just wore them today to expose you hillbillies to a little of the finer things of life!”

“Hell, you wouldn’t know the finer things of life if they snuck up and bit you on the butt!” chided Mecini.

“Ain’t he something?” sighed O’Neill.

“Now boys, let’s not take to arguments. We’re all friends here,” barked Roucek.

“Let’s leave the boy be. He’s proud of his new meetin’ duds. They’ll work great when he’s out looking for a new job!” he laughed.

“You’ll be the one hunting a new face if you keep it up!” said an angry Spritzer.

“Now hold on, son,” offered Mecini. “We’re just kidding you. Don’t get all riled.”

“Well, I want it to stop, once and for all,” scowled Spritzer. I”ll take you all on one at a time…”

“Now I don’t think we need go that far,” shrugged O’Neill. “Maybe just we could have a little fun betting on the britches. I always enjoy a wager.

“Back in my native village of Idrija we always settled these matters with a polka,” said Roucek.

“With a polka?” asked Mecini. “Mr. Roucek, you had better be getting a little more sun!”

“A polka contest,” scowled Roucek. “A knock down, drag out dancing marathon that separates the men from the boys! Are you up to the challenge young Spritzer?”

“Against your old bones?” he shot back seeing his chance to escape all their abuse.

“You choose the place!” countered Roucek, now becoming put off by the younger miner’s insolence. “And I”ll bet you a week’s wages against those new pants!”

“The Bucket of Blood Friday night!” snapped Spritzer, since it was his favorite saloon and one that featured an outstanding combo from Irwin. It was the local favorite where miners drank all night and bragged about mining. (They bragged about drinking and woman all day while underground.)

When Friday came around there was no more talk in the mine. Both Roucek and Spritzer were saving their strength and the other miners were saving their comments for later that evening.

Spritzer was the first to arrive at the Bucket of Blood and he quickly became the center of attention in the saloon since many of the other patrons had yet to view the object of this recent discord, the new Levis. He rejected all drink offers, intent on the competition.

Suddenly Roucek vaulted through the swinging doors, in full polka regalia, already dancing. His arrival even caught the attention of several drunks sitting against the wall who had totally missed the coming and goings of the Spanish-American War! Without words, the two grabbed what would be the first of many partners and glaring defiantly through the smoke and ash began to lay down some serious steps.

They danced the Beer Barrel Polka. They danced the She’s Too Fat Polka, changing partners whenever necessary, still glacier-lipped and glaring at each other across a sea of immigrant faces. At one point in the evening after the band began it’s last set most of the ladies did their best to hide from Spritzer and Roucek.

The entire competition threatened to terminate itself for want of eligible partners, but for the late arrival of a wagonload of ladies from Gothic. Nobody quit dancing, and the band, feeling no pain by midnight, and encouraged by the generous amount of money inhabiting a passed hat, agreed to play on.

They played the Grain Elevator Polka. They played the Casmir Pulaski Polka. They played the Get Up You’re Late For Work Polka! After several hours passed, when most of the decent folk might have headed homeward, the contestants took to dancing with other miners. They danced until dawn, often with just one accordion bellowing through the frosty night.

When morning came the two dancers, now looking rather haggard took a break.

“You ready to give up?” taunted Roucek.

“Not on your life!” jabbed Spritzer. “I’ll be touring the dance floor fantastic when you’re passed out in the corner,” he added. “Why I’m not even tired!”

“Tired?” winged Roucek. “Who said anything about tired? Why I’m just getting’ my joints loosened up!”

Well, the polka marathon went on all afternoon on Saturday as the two were hard at it, dancing to the sounds of makeshift polka bands from as far away as Gunnison. Many of these had just heard about the commotion and had wandered in to catch the show. As a matter of fact my great grandfather Winston Tinkleholland, a newly arrived part owner of the Revenue Mine near Ouray was in town on business and happened into the saloon on Saturday night. I got a good bit of the story from him.

“The place was full of miners, gamblers, whores and downtown merchants,” said uncle Winston. “It was said to be a far larger crowd than the one assembled on the previous night. I’ve never seen two people so exhausted and yet still in motion since the pilot fell asleep on the night watch when I was a boy in her majesty’s Navy.”

When the sun came up Sunday morning neither Spritzer nor Roucek would yield right of way. They danced the Three-legged Polka, the Gold-digger Polka and the Sherman’s March to the Sea Polka. At noon they broke for lunch.

“Hey Spritzer,” yelled a man in the crowd. “You’re loosing your pants!”

And sure enough, when the tired young dancer took inventory he found that his beautiful new Levis, that had fit him like a glove, now fit him more like a flour sack.

“Looks like you’re done for,” wailed Roucek. “Nobody can do a genuine, authentic by-the-book polka while holding up their pants!”

He declared himself the winner.

“The hell with that,” countered Spritzer, looking around the room for a friendly face. Soon he caught the glimpse of his teenage brother, who folks regarded as just a little slow and, retreating to the privy, he requisitioned his trousers.

“These fit a lot better,” said Spritzer to himself as he peered into the outhouse mirror. It was a class place with the mirror and all. It was then that it hit him.

“My God! I’m dying!” he shouted. “All this dancing has done me in. I’m nothing but skin and bones!”

Returning to his senses the young man went back into the Bucket of Blood and found his adversary passed out at a table. The competition was declared a draw. Spritzer was too tired to argue. He turned to his younger brother who was standing there adorned in nothing but his skivvies.

“And where are my beautiful denim trousers?” he asked, finding it difficult to force the words out of his mouth.

“Why, still in the crapper, I guess,” cried his brother.

“Oh no!” cried Spritzer, as he careened and stumbled toward the back door of the Bucket of Blood Saloon. When he opened the privy door there was nothing to see but old Mr. Weizer, the postmaster doing his duty.

“Where are my pants?” shouted Spritzer.

“How should I know?” roared Weizer. “Now get on out of here!”

It was then that Spritzer realized his prize possession was now destined for someone else’s hips. His spirits sank. There were so many strangers in town that it could have been anyone who helped themselves to his britches. They were gone for good.

As the two brothers wandered back home to get some sleep the older one didn’t really have the energy to lecture the younger so he just shut up.

As it turns out the pants were never to be found. Spritzer lost 13 pounds that weekend and Roucek looked a little thinner, too. But you know they both made shift the next day at the Forest Queen. Folks were tough back then.

– Sissy Tinkleholland