Roadside Rest

ROADSIDE REST Levi's—The Pants that Won the West

Given that most childhoods lurch from one mortifying but quickly forgotten moment to the next, this embarrassing episode made a lasting impression upon me. More than five decades later, it is as if it happened an hour ago. I begged to take the bus, but Mom insisted on squandering two precious gallons of rationed gasoline to chauffeur me to register as an underclassman at Casa Grande Union High School. Little Lord Fauntleroy would have approved of her selection of my attire: starched white shirt and striped tie, thick wool herringbone suit, burnished wingtips. When the old Plymouth halted near the school's main entrance, I jumped out. And . . . so did she.

"Hey, I can sign up by myself!"

She would not be dissuaded. Together (but, gracias a Dios, not holding hands) we newcomers to Arizona strolled through a gauntlet of smirks on the suntanned faces of boys lolling about the front lawn. Each and every one of them wore Levi's pants. Just as Winchester was the Gun That Won the West, Arbuckle's was the Coffee That Won the West, and Stetson was the Hat That Won the West, Levi's were the Pants That Won the West. That afternoon I rode the school bus. A scuffed knee peeked through a tear in my wool trousers, and the suit coat bore bloodstains from a cut lip. At home, Mom sized up the situation in an instant, and we expended another two gallons Of fuel to shop for a few pairs of Levi's. Miraculously, the fistfights stopped. The Pants That Won the West prevailed, once again.Blue jeans are truly a Western invention.

And Levi's are an enduring legend, that is, “a nonhistorical or unverifiable story handed down by tradition from earlier times and popularly accepted as historical.” In this instance, the legendary Levi Strauss, 20-year-old Bavarian immigrant, went to California in 1850 to pan gold. As his grubstake, he brought by ship around Cape Horn a bundle of canvas to peddle as tents and wagon covers.

Just about the first man Strauss met in San Francisco was a prospector complaining about how “pants don't wear worth a hoot up in the diggin's.” Strauss had a tailor make up two pairs of jeans, one for his miner friend and one for himself. Thereafter, demand for the sturdy britches was always well ahead of the supply.

More legend. The hidden brass rivets in Levi's began with a character named Alkali Ike. Like most prospectors of that day, Ike stuffed his pockets with tools, bullets, and ore samples which no mere stitch could long contain. A Nevada tailor had the idea of reinforcing the pockets with brass rivets.

Strauss acquired a patent for this product and advertised his pockets as rip-proof. They were, but the exposed metal scratched saddle leather and furniture. Strauss began shielding the rivets within the pocket seams.

Tough. That was the characteristic of Levi's that appealed to cowboys, freighters, and railroaders in the rough-and-ready West. In 1889, 10 miles from Flagstaff, Arizona, a wood-burning locomotive was pulling seven log cars when the coupling snapped between the tender and the first car. Fireman Charles C. Ashurst later declared to the press: “Our engineer - wearing Levi's pants as did all men in Arizona at that time took off his Levi's, soused them in the water tank, twisted them into a rope, tied them into a link connecting the engine with the train and proceeded on the journey to Flagstaff . . . negotiating several heavy grades.” End legend.

Closer to truth, Strauss didn't reach San Francisco until 1853. He did bring a stock of dry goods, which helped him establish a series of retail and wholesale operations. One of his customers, Reno tailor Jacob Davis, invited Strauss to patent Davis' line of riveted, heavy denim pants. They gained popularity from the start in 1873, first among the miners and later with railroad builders, loggers, ranch hands, and the Dalton Gang, neatly laid out dead in their Levi's. A switch from original canvas to a sturdy but somewhat more comfortable fabric loomed in Nimes, France, serge de Nimes, gave birth to “denims.” At last count, the classic 501 style had sold 2.5 billion pairs worldwide.

In our high school subcult, owners wore their new denims into a hot shower bath and walked around in them till dry. They shrank to fit like a coat of blue paint. But beware! Don't stand too close to a campfire, else an overheated copper rivet might brand a tender place.

Grade-B Westerns. Big-time rodeo. Dude ranches. World War II's Rosie the Riveter. GIs returning to college. James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. Marlon Brando in The Wild Ones. The '60s Flower Children. Designer jeans. All played a role in making denims the informal dress of choice from the Ginza to Soho, the global vestment expressing freedom and individuality.

But enough of truth. If that engineer had been wearing Dockers, his train would still be stalled 10 miles from Flagstaff.