I am remembering a Pumphrey family ritual that took place the last week of October. The whole family would head out to the farming area east of Pueblo. It was time to pick out our family pumpkin, which would be transformed into a Jack-o’-lantern on our dining room table. This ritual was sort of a warm up for when we all went to find our yearly Christmas tree.
There were dozens of truck farms along the old Highway 96. Each sold fall produce. In Pueblo at that time, you would never consider buying your prize pumpkin from Safeway. We got them from the source. When your last name is Pumphrey, pumpkins have a special place in your heart—we are sort of like family. If we were really lucky my parents might let us buy two pumpkins—one for each corner of the porch.
When we got home the ritual began. First, we would cover the table with newspaper. My mom would scrub all the mud off the large orbs. My dad would then show us the proper way to make a lid that would not fall into the pumpkin. It was all about the angles. The familiar smell of fresh pumpkin would permeate the room, and the digging and scraping would begin. I very much remember that being hard and messy work. Out would come the wet slimy seeds and pulp, all of which were carefully placed in a large bowl along side the soon to be carved pumpkins.
I remember my mom taking the seeds, and washing them, and putting them in salt brine. It was amazing the amount of seeds that could be contained in a 15 pound pumpkin. When the pumpkin shell met my dad’s high scrape—out standards, we would then debate as to the kind of face our Jack-o’-lantern would sport. Back in those days we were not very creative. It was pretty much triangle eyes and a nose. The smile was always large with about six teeth.
The lighted Jack-o’-lantern only made the front porch on Halloween. In the late 50’s and early 60’s hundreds, and I do mean hundreds, of trick-or-treaters hit the streets of Belmont at dusk. Nearly every house also displayed their jack-o’-lanterns. The smell of burnt pumpkins would fill the air as the lids began to slowly turn black—as the result of the flaming candles inside.
The candy was copious. It was usually a couple days later that my mom roasted the pumpkin seeds. She was a big fan of real butter which she basted on the seeds with modest salt. We each got our own small bag, and my dad got a big bowl that we were never to touch.
Those seeds seemed huge to me, at least in my memories. A really good roasted pumpkin seed beats a peanut any day. When had our own kids the tradition continued with one variation. We would make sure that we bought extra pumpkins just for the seeds. We would get a yearly phone call from my dad. “Don’t forget my pumpkin seeds”. The drive from Alamosa to Pueblo was 120 miles each way. I am sure that my mom could have bought and roasted her own. The smile on my dad’s face was worth the trip every time.
There is a bowl of roasted seeds on our counter. They taste like my childhood…
Onward and Upward,
Mark
Lyfting Me Up 