Christmas Surprise: The Farmers’ Pounding Party
December 1, 2024 at 12:00 a.m.
...by Joyce Delbridge
Davis, Oklahoma, 1925
One evening at the start of the Christmas season when I was eight years old, Dad sat near the coal stove in the dining room, reading and preparing a sermon.
My brothers, Paul and Elwood, high-schoolers, sat at the dining table doing homework. Dub, my ten-year-old brother, lay on his back reading a Horatio Alger book. Mother cleared the table and put food away while my older sister, Marguerite, and I washed and dried dishes.
I heard a heavy knock at the front door. “Brother Watford, you home?”
When Dad opened the door, a chorus boomed from a porch full of people. “Surprise! We’re giving your family a pounding party."
A pounding! Oh, I loved that kind of party.
Congregations in southern Oklahoma in the 1920’s were made up largely of farmers. These farmers had little cash money to give, but they could support their pastor by sharing what they had—their crops. Each family brought a pound of each thing they raised.
As I watched with growing excitement, members of the congregation carried in 1 to 2- pound bags of cracked wheat, five-pound sacks of corn meal, cloth-wrapped blocks of butter with markings etched on top proudly declaring whose butter it was, dried hominy, butterbeans, pintos, eggs carefully laid in baskets, bushels of apples and winter pears, crocks of sorghum molasses, milk, cream, white and sweet potatoes, pecans and peanuts.
Mrs. Leola Greer placed a yellow pound cake on the table. Not to be outdone by her neighbor, Mrs. Wolf plunked a round chocolate cake beside it. Shy Mrs. Susan Wing slipped a box of fresh-made praline candies nearby. In spite of having just finished dinner, my mouth watered.
When Sam Longnecker and Altus Greer lugged a freezer inside full of strawberry ice cream, the pounding party moved into high gear.
My brothers ran to the church to fetch the serving bowls and spoons from the church kitchen. Sam Longnecker teased me when he scooped pink ice cream into my bowl. “You have to sing for your supper, little lady.”
I sang “Jingle Bells” in a light, embarrassed voice, and grabbed my bowl. Sam’s giggle rang out. He tried to exact some payment from the other children, but most refused.
The dining room quickly filled with chatter, laughter, and the sounds of spoons clacking against bowls. People perched on chairs and benches or scrunched their backs against the walls as they sat on the floor.
Mother received tea towels and quilting pieces. Sister and I were given hand-embroidered aprons and crocheted caps. Dub got a hanky and a full-length rattlesnake hide. Dad was given a billfold filled with hard-earned dollar bills.
I eyed the cakes as slice after slice disappeared. When the plates were empty and the last of the ice cream cleaned from the bottom of the freezer, I knew the party was over.
Husbands stirred, then nodded toward their wives. Dad stood and held out his hand for quiet. People rose, shushed their children and turned his way. His prayer thanked God for his blessings and for sending his family to this neighborhood of generosity.
It was the last pounding party we ever had. The warmth and bounty of that little farm community stayed with me as one of my richest Christmas memories.
This story was originally published in Northwest Prime Time's December 2011 edition. Joyce Delbridge, a former elementary teacher and author with three anthologies about northwest ferry boat riding and one book of fiction for preteens, "Abandoned at Juniper Bay," lived in West Seattle.
The image is courtesy of www.vvprints.com
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