August 1971

They were both big men and the muscles vibrated in the forearms above the clublike hands. One had just called the other a water witch and I backed up to the honeysuckled fence row. A boy didn't belong too close at that moment.

A kid raised in the country learns some words the city kids never hear. A clodhopper or just a plain clod; a briar jumper or a hick; a hawg jaw or an apple knocker; a slew foot or a hay seed. I knew 'em all and could take each one from the bigger kids who had walked a furrow or jumped a black berry patch while chasing a rabbit. It was routine to slop the pigs and easy to use a long stick to shake the apples off the tree.

You don't mind being a hay seed when you have mowed, raked, loaded, forked and worked hay into the mow of the old barracks. Still fresh in memory are the wheat shocks, the pitch forks, the bundles pitched up to the top of the wagon, and the "first and last snake" tossed up with the last bundle. Tass Carter sailed off that topped out load and was running before he hit the ground. He said something about k-k-killin' the next boy who did that trick. But, he was kidding, or was he?

Anyway, this was country talk and farm boys understood. There was always work and time for fun. The oversized, old felt hat was a trademark. The ever present hound could handle the rabbits, quail, squirrels and even a skunk. The collie brought the cows in for milking and there was always a horse to ride or work as the occasion might demand. There was no real need for parks, golf courses, organized recreation, and planned activities by associations and organizations.

Most of us lived in the country and knew what those folks who drove out to see us on Sunday were called. We whispered about city-slickers with fancy suits and tourin' cars. They needed watching a little but they didn't have the real smarts a county kid comes by kinda natural.

We showed 'em the birds and bees and the stock and the chickens. What was the use of talking about things you lived with every day of your life. If they were half-way with us, we steered them around poison ivy, beggars lice, sumac and chuckle burrs.

It was fun to try the young fellow from town our on corn silk, Indian cigars, grape vine and Brown's Mule. Smokin' and chewin' was all the same, they got white, wobbly and then sick to the stomach. That was good clean fun and recreation the old way. We didn't mean no harm by it and they had something to talk about when they got back to the city.

I guess they talked about Dad rollin' his own and the checked dress Mom had made from some feed sack goods. We got in our licks about the patent leather shoes, the striped pants and the starched collars.

But all of us enjoyed the coming and the going. Those city words that identified a nationality and degraded many first generation Americans were lost on our untrained ears. It was better that way. We walked the country roads and they walked the city streets.

Once in a while the youngsters were afraid of the dark and needed some reassurance. But there was always someone to make you feel safe and not much happened to make newspaper headlines. I guess it happened some but when you have a piece of hay in the corner of your mouth and whistle up your dog a fellow feels mighty comfortable and secure.

So I watched the two big men. You don't call a man a Water Witch, even in the country and get by with it. There had to be the inevitable collision.

The one stood sort of sizing up the antagonist and then fondled the forked peach stick. It looked sort of like a sling shot without the leather cup and rubber innertube strips. I thought of David and Goliath. Perhaps history would repeat. Then the startling first words, "It's a gift, sort of like extrasensory perception."

The forked stick is held in both hands with the bottom of the Y pointed upward. It is known as a Divining Rod and when the gifted carrier walks over a good stream of water the stick turns over and points to the water. Next the "witch" takes a limber twig and holds it over the spot selected by the peach stick.

Like a pump handle the twig dips down and then comes back to the starting position. Each circuit indicates 10 feet and if it bows 8 times you must go 80 feet to strike water. At the end of the measurement the twig will shake sideways before staring over again.

Fantastic? Perhaps it is. But, this same man told me where to drill and that I would need to go down 128 feet to strike water. I believed and hit at 126 feet. We have good water in a country well and if you understand the meaning of the title even a Water Witch can be a mighty regular guy.

If some of my city colleagues feel like being a LFRA Witch, we'll let them use a Diving Rod to find discounts, travel opportunity, recreation and more members. Success is fun!

David L. Brigham
Executive Witch