Threshing, Thrashing
Thresharee, Thrasharee
Sixteen years ago, several of my family members, along with friends,
started buying up old farm machinery. Their purchases included tractors,
binders, blowers, and the most prized possessions of all, the threshing machines. They
knew the year, the make, the model of each one. Old barns, granaries and farm
sheds were scoured for those elusive missing parts that were needed to make the
machinery work. The older of the group was about to show the youngsters what
real farm work was all about. Thus began the start of the Annual Richmond
Thrasharee.
As I researched the correct spelling, I found that threshing is the
modern spelling of thrashing. I had to do the research because I had a shirt
printed with ‘Thrasharee’ on the back, and I was informed that the word was
spelled incorrectly, which technically isn't true. There is no word 'Thrasharee'
or 'Thresharee'. Those are made up words. According to one of the participants
creating this event, it was more like thrashing than threshing anyway.
After the equipment was assembled and the grain fields were planted, we
gathered together to watch those old dinosaurs come to life. How exciting to
see the man who was standing on top of the lumbering machine hold one finger
in the air and twirl it around, signaling another on the tractor to set things
in motion. There was something magical in watching the heavy belts twisting
between the tractor and the threshing machine. The noise was loud, the air
filled with dust. Grain spewed from the chute. The stalks, now considered
straw, dropped from the machine, to be picked up and used for bedding. The man standing
on top watched to make sure the sheaves were going in straight and it wasn’t
plugging up. Others were on the wagons pitching the bundles, or on the ground,
making sure nothing was overheating or causing any problems. During those first
years, the crew was very ambitious. They bindered the oats and set up shocks.
When one of the neighbors saw the shocks dotting the hillside, he called to his
wife and asked her what the year was. He wondered if we had somehow slipped
back in time, when that was how the grain was dried before the threshing took place.
The tradition continued on from year to year; some years bringing
inclement weather and few visitors, while other years found us sweltering under a
hot sun and fighting the swarms of mosquitoes and flies that persisted in
irritating us. The visitors wandered around the equipment, asking questions and
shaking their heads in wonder. Many had never seen such a sight.
We began assembling food, and, as
is often the custom, bringing a dish to pass. Our parents joined us, sharing
tales of long ago, when threshing grain was a way of life and not something to
entertain the neighborhood.
Before the days of combines, the threshing crew would
travel from farm to farm, setting up the equipment and pounding the kernels
from the stalks that had been drying in upright bundles. The farm wife was
responsible for providing the meal for the crew. A full meal would be served at
noon, including a tasty, enticing dessert. For my mother, it was her chocolate
pie, made from scratch and wearing a golden covering of fluffy meringue.
The tradition of the Richmond Thrasharee has continued, the crowds
growing each year. This past weekend saw the sixteenth year, with new faces
and old coming together to share wisdom, knowledge, friendship, and good eats.
What better way to learn a bit a history, savor a few memories, create a
colorful quilt block of life.
