Slingin’ Drinks on Montana’s Biggest Weekend
A revisit of college days and working as a bartender over Labor Day weekend. Can I get a good YEEHAW?!!!! What ya drinkin'?!
This is my 50TH POST since launching To Be Livin’ Poetry and Prose in June!
Glad you are here for this milestone moment! Enjoy my 50th post! YAY!
Hello all and sundry!
Won’t ya come on in! Let me pour ya a icy mug of beer; everyone loves a pint of Moose Drool! Or, I can mix you up my famous Bloody Mary—SPICY!
It was just Labor Day weekend and I thought I’d give you a taste of what that meant (and still means, I imagine) in my old college haunt: Dillon, Montana! The folks in Dillon have boasted for decades that this is the place of Montana’s Biggest Weekend! A little research tells me it STILL is!! I know it was when I lived there 30 odd years ago!
While in college, I had to hold many jobs to pay for much of my education, and bartending was one of them. I did the majority of tending bar at two establishments: Moose Bar and The Metlen (the main bar and the private “Back Bar”). I was damn good at it; I could sling some drinks! Often my services were even lent to other bars in town: The Club, The Office, The Longhorn Saloon, and PaPa T’s, mostly for big events. So, I have been behind the bars of Dillon! Did my share of frequenting a few, too!
My start to Fall Semester ALWAYS began Labor Day demonstrating a masterclass in the “Cowboy” version of ‘Cocktail’; eat your heart out, Tom Cruise!
First, a photo tour, (reminder—this was before cell phones and such, so the quality of my pics are, well, from a little snapshot 35mm—one shot originals, so not the best in photo excellence!) and a couple local advertisements from the local Dillonite Daily to set the ambiance! Then, my poem Slingin’ Drinks on Montana’s Biggest Weekend follows; one of several poems I’d written detailing just one day and night of serving up the crowds during Montana’s Biggest Weekend. Have a read or a listen and ENJOY!
Slingin’ Drinks on Montana’s Biggest Weekend
Montana’s Biggest Weekend and I’m straight runnin,’ twelve hours plus, slingin’ drinks! Clockin' in at noon, already four hours of beer sippin,’ down and done, by the hardcores; since 8 am they’ve been primin’ their livers and veins before the shakes set in. Around 2 pm, next wave of drinkers are hittin' it for beer cooled and cleansed throats; rushin’ in with their dry coated tongues tastin’ arena dust or mouths still hangin’ on the grit of chewed dirt kicked up while livestock preppin’ for the evening's Ranch Rodeo start. Just the beginning buzz needed to relax before the gussy up— shower, Stetson splash, pearl snap shirts, Wranglers, belted tight by any previous years polished buckle win, or often, handed down heritage. The heals of their boots shuffle and stomp their excitement to tromp again ‘cross shit mixed clods of tractor dragged arena. Non-participants swing in the door fresh for full night of fun gettin' their primin’ done by makin’ the 4-6 Happy Hour; a cheaper jumpstart to get to 2 am. Their arrival, a tricklin’ in, at first, for ticklin’ their inklin’ for bar bouncin' hops. The custom is— in the front door, palm the $1 mug beer deal and chug, chug two without taking seat. Then, out the back for alleyway short cuts; grabbin’ the next bar's draw-'em-in deal. The revolving door of celebrators all given thanks to God for Labor and prayin' their drinkin’ budget makes it through the whole weekend! The ‘bar loop’ racin’ has its start at the Moose Bar, goes out the back to The Office and in by way of its back door, then out the main entrance to boomerang back into alley, quick trip through The Longhorn’s rear and exit the front with a shot one door over to PaPa T’s, maybe grab their famous pizza, and here crowds split in decision. College crews take their sprint to The Club, the rest, born and bred locals, cross the never-a-train-comin tracks to the white storied bed and bar, The Metlen. Every hour the switch is made again, and again, and again. Cordoned off North Montana Street makes allowance for burstin’ bars’ overflow to streets and avoids pedestrian stumbles into movin' lifted 4x4s, refurbished classic parade cars, Harleys, or the poor man's jalopy. Happy Hour ends and half the crowd head to concert venue to see someone famous. Others stay to continue the hoppin' or take ownership of a stool; they've paid their $5 cover, happy to hang and hear the local bands— playin' in every bar. Front and back doors, now propped open, allow air flow and blow out the roll and coil, a thick swirl of grey-white mist, rising from every other hand in two finger holdin,’ glowin’ Marlboros or Lucky Strikes. Clothes and lungs just can't absorb it all, but do their best. Inside volume reaches MAX and does its own filterin’ to the streets; electric and base beats bounce off walls challengin’ lyrics to be heard or rather, understood. Dancin’ is pressed chest to chest, shoulder to shoulder pulses and pushes— but everyone is smilin’ as sloshin’ drinks, held high, keep somethin’ in their Red Dixie cups. Capacity beyond met, dancefloor extends out onto aged, cracked sidewalks, flooding feet cover pavement of the no-traffic-light streets. Only time law of ‘no open container’ gets lifted in this partially lawful town. At the midnight hour the dancin’ sways become more feet steps and stumbles. Still, pressin’ crowds hold bodies up; no dancin’ stops as not a stool to sit because those with ownership haven’t moved an inch. With unannounced cue, one bar’s clientele makes rotational shift, and all are once again Oozin’ in and out to and from another bar, takin’ their flow out the back; in the front a new set of glassy eyed faces spills in. Each polluted patron presses to the bar, leanin’ in to high-holler their preferred, “What-ya-drinkin’?” Just loud enough over the music and 100 plus raised voices, that the tender, with side cocked ear, gets in a ‘whisper,’ only getting’ slurred request right by way of loose lips read. Even if they didn't, a wrong drink wasn't about to matter; just put alcohol in their hand. Green Gold has filled the triple tills ten times over. And gallon tip jars, once holdin’ pickled pig’s feet or tinted eggs, have long passed full; privy partiers know better and faster thirst quenching is a given when gratuity is GREAT! It's the A.M. and late is gettin' close. First announced “LAST CALL!” rises when bell is rung. First, is at 1 am and clangs loud, “Just ONE more hour!” One hour to take One more tour of One more bar hoppin’, stumblin’, or arms out, runnin' loop-de-loop before lights come up, floodin’ bloodshot eyes and revealin’ long, long gone ‘fresh’ of dress. Again, the bell ring dings, It’s 1:30! Bout to be The Law comin’ through givin’ whistles and no messin’ around warnin’ calls— “Bar time!” and “You don’t have to go home, But you can’t stay here!” The last bell tolls the waterin' hole's end. It’s 1:45. Slurred shrills and whoops announce the after-hour parties; desires to keep the inebriated thrill going. Soused statements decide to meet-up and sober-up at an all-night eatery; greasy burgers and smothered, gravy fries the best soak-up for sloshin’ guts. The big hand ticks to two o'clock, bar time, and the herders become the herded as fellow tenders push the stragglers out the door. They stampede into the night making their way by the stars and moon of streetlight’s; one by one neon signs have gone out, no longer casting color on buildings or faces. Laughter and echoing voices go to fade while doors swung closed and locks secured; there is necessity to keep out the beer-brained, who can no longer tell time, or have hope of just one, just one more sip. Cleanup crews, some, half sober, ease in quietly through alley door and our ears, still in volume vibration, hum and buzzing ring; so slow to adjust to silence— 3 am and the tender to swamper torch is passed. With sorry glance to the AM crew eyes span across cup filled, drink spilled, vomit in the corner, brown squashed butts put out and pressed into the wooden floor, 'Is that piss?! under that bar stool the local lush kept with do-or-die determination?! Eyes roll the egad exclamation. Got his $5 cover's worth! We drink slingers do our own stagger, exhausted and aching feet, out the front to near empty streets. Find our cars and In disbelieving exhale say, “See ya, to do it again, tomorrow.” Hours until noon shift will be swift; one night down, 3 more to GO! It’s Labor Day, Montana's Biggest Weekend, after all! Wendy Gray 1994
When I graduated college, we did have a little party at the Moose Bar. Folks joked that I was graduating from both college and bartending…HAAHAA!...I still came back that fall to sling drinks for Montana’s Biggest Weekend 1996! In these pics I’m tendin’ bar and servin’ my family. First, is me behind the bar. Then, second pic, I’m on the other side of the bar with Grandparents, Mom, and brother-in-law.
WELL!!! If that wasn’t a fun trip down memory lane! I know there are other poems I’d written about those famous Montana Biggest Weekends and some do entail the rough and rowdy and the near murder that occurred just outside the Moose Bar! Yep, the weekend always started our very celebratory and chill, but as the days wore on, there was NO TELLIN’ what could happen! I’ll keep diggin’ through my stacks of poems and when I find them, I’ll be sure to post!
Hope your Labor Day celebrations were memorable! This 3 day weekend has such a wide range of ways people observe it, anymore we do a little grilling and stick close to home. That’s what gettin’ long in the tooth does for us these days! No weekend of hoppin’ bars at this stage in life! Enjoy the rest of your September and the cooler breezes that blow in! I’ll be sharing some more “bar” poetry this month (sticking with a theme, I suppose), but will have some other surprises thrown in the mix! Hope you enjoy!
So glad all y’all were here for my 50th post!!! I appreciate all of you for reading, subscribing, and engaging me in the comments and through Chat! Your love and support means more than you know!
Many blessings and MUCH LOVE,
~Wendy 💜
Here’s to the NEXT 50 posts!!
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🎉Super Congratulations 👏👏👏✍️ - looking forward to your next 50 😁