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“If you want so much to be in Vietnam just wait a bit and perhaps in your next reincarnation you will be born Vietnamese.” – Vietnamese scholar to Frenchman, 1879.
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
Good Advice
By Rev. Phillip Pharisee
Hello friends and special patrons. Welcome to Cousin Phil’s Sanctimonious Salvation Parlor and Halfway Lunch Counter.
We are pleased to see that so many of you negotiated the little windshield flyers and found us in the right strip mall so “Come on in for a cup of java and a rap at the hip quick-way-to-paradise church and progressive pyramid accounting temple.
But never you mind the details. We’ll take care of everything whether its your eternal soul or the souls of those worn out penny loafers.
Today I’d like to remind the faithful that we must honor and protect His gifts that I am bestowing on the deserving among you. We must be in awe of His universe and not take these wonderful handouts for granted. The entire Creation is yours to enjoy at the top of the pecking order. The pagans and the other species can have what is left when you are done with it.
Now, friends have asked: “Rev. Pharisee, how can I protect the vast universe when I can’t even see it?”
The answers to that and a lot of other pertinent questions about faith and hope can be answered in my newest self-published paperback “The Heathen and Heaven” where I lay it down so that anyone can grasp the keen relationships between God and man. It can be purchased right along with your lunch today.
We all spend far too much time chasing the almighty dollar when we should be chasing the Almighty Himself. We ignore His gifts and place them as secondary in our unbalanced set of priorities. A blade of grass for instance: have you ever really looked closely at one? It is perfectly proportioned. Did it come from a monkey too? Certainly not!
Only He and His wisdom could offer this fine congregation something on such a grand scale. It’s a virtual miracle.
Ice Sales to Mexico Leaves Chilly Legacy
Canadian and American relations, already strained by a colander of diplomatic discrepancies, has dipped farther still with the confirmation that Canada will go ahead with controversial ice sales to Mexico.
The undocumented, yet frozen, water will be delivered Friday in time for tourist season. The flow of visitors has diminished do to drug violence near the borders. It is hoped that serious efforts to improve the situation will end a message that everything is safe in Mexico.
If all goes according to plan the ice will be air-dropped to a remote mountain location next week. Residents in the landing zone have been warned to vacate the premises immediately. Transportation to safe havens has been arranged.
“After all of the bad press and animosity over immigration the last thing we want to do is run out of ice,” said a spokesperson for the travel industry in Guadalajara. “When the United States got weird and started the hesitate we called up Canada.”
Canada has more ice in reserve than any nation on earth including Russia. The arrival of an undisclosed amount of Mexican pesos could keep the Canadian lights on this winter. The legitimate sale is still pending in the Canadian parliament but is expected to pass easily on Monday.
There is still little word on what conflicts precipitated the arrangement. Mexico and the US have been buying and selling ice since the Mexican War in 1848.
Insiders say the neighbor to the south has become edgy when dealing with The Iceman across the Rio Grande. Rumors continue to fly regarding three new hockey rinks on the drawing board in Veracruz, Durango and Mexico City.
– Rocky Flats
“Dress suitably in short skirts and strong boots. Leave your jewels in the bank and buy a revolver.”
– Countess Markievicz, 20th Century Irish Revolutionary
Man Not Baker But Ross
(Continued from page 445)
many long tedious years later. To his friends Bonzo Stiltze had always thought he was Josephine Baker, even from the beginning he accepted, and some say reveled, in the fact that he was the sultry Black American dancer who had taken Paris by storm in the 30s. Films of the snaky moves and seductive trances common to Baker scattered his shabby flat. Song and dance routines were second nature to Stilze.
“It was fun to be Josephine,” said Stiltze, an undertaker by trade who lives with his mother in someone’s suburbs.
Then one day he woke up and realized that he was not Josephine Baker at all but rather Dianna Ross.
“After all these years it’s quite a relief to know the truth no matter how painful,” said Stilze in a television interview. “I’ve always liked Detroit and I can’t wait to meet the other Supremes.”
– Quartney Pettifogger