HANGMAN
There was a classmate playing a game of Hangman in front of one of my classes and I hated him immediately.
Which isn’t fair to write about this kid, but I’ll explain my reaction:
Usually, the professor strolls into class as the bell rings (a metaphorical one—there isn’t a classroom bell on a college campus), which means that the punctual among us sit in silence before he walks through the door. It’s dead silent before class, either because no one is familiar with each other, hesitant to start conversations that would be obviously eavesdropped upon should they start, or that everyone is on a phone perusing social media apps in place of real-life experiences (as we all do).
This isn’t uncommon practice. Most of my classes feature this lack of conversational atmosphere. It’s deathly silent in the preceding minutes before class starts.
Except for when I walked into my class last Friday.
There, stationed at the whiteboard was a sandy-haired, twig-thin literature type adding the last limb to a stick figure dangling from a crookedly drawn gallows, signifying that he had just won a game of Hangman. I perused the words that had so stumped the two or three other participants that played (the rest of the class had their heads down and didn’t give a shit).
O B F U S C A T I O N
M A L F E A S A N C E
“T O D R E A M I S T O D I E”
I made the last quote up, but he had something just as obscure and niche. The point is: where there was silence – despondent, antisocial, un-spirited silence – now there was a game of Hangman hosted by a literature fan showing off his vocabulary and knowledge of little-known quotes.
And I thought, “Oh, f*** you.”
Here’s why:
There’s a difference between enthusiasm and ego. Regarding this game of Hangman, were the words chosen to loosen up the class, to get people talking? No. Did this guy choose words or phrases that might draw a laugh or cue some recognition? No. The words were obnoxiously chosen and the quote was obscure and meant nothing to anyone else. This was a game of vanity, of ego. This guy was showing off how smart he was and to get a little attention by playacting cavalier at the front of the class.
Not only was the game an eye roll, but then this guy took pride in winning the game! Of f***ing Hangman! I know this is true because he laughed with glee when the two or three other classmates offered up guesses (with the same enthusiasm as an employee reluctantly volunteering to clean out the toilets at a grimy diner, “I guess I’ll do it. Is there an ‘A’?”). This game of Hangman was proof of wit.
Which incurred another silent, “Oh, f*** you,” as I took my seat.
I then felt guilty. How old was this literature enthusiast: 18, 19-years-old? Why was I responding so harshly? Was it because I secretly wanted to rile the class, to spread my influence as a seasoned 33-year-old who understood how to NOT be like a pompous academic? And, honestly, if I had tried ANYTHING like this classmate of mine, it would have backfired anyway. I would have been like a parent that “tries to be cool” and my efforts would have tanked just as hard.
So, maybe I needed to let up. Let this classmate be pompous and gleeful. He’ll grow out of it. After all, wasn’t he trying to break the ice? He’ll learn how to NOT be a tightwad in the future, I thought.
The next thing I knew, the metaphorical bell rang for class and in walked the professor. He examined the whiteboard, which still had the game of Hangman on it for some reason (all the better to have the professor admire your prowess of recalling English words longer than 8 letters, I guess).
“Obfuscation, malfeasance,” listed off the professor, rubbing his chin and considering the terms. “I’m going to leave this up, today. I’ll write things on the other whiteboard. Looks like a great game of Hangman was had here. Great vocabulary, whoever was playing.”
All my previous patience and understanding went out the window. “Well, f*** you, too,” I thought.
Therein was the cause of my classmate’s misplaced enthusiasm: a professor that enabled academic pageantry.
For the next minute, the professor and twiggy classmate bantered back and forth, pitching even more obnoxious words to stump future players with.
And I, with a herculean effort to resist groaning, sat in the back of the class, content with my omniscient view of the world, knowing how truly cringy the past five minutes of class had been.
At least I wouldn’t ever degrade myself like my classmate had, I thought.
I, after all, had dignity.
“Alright, let’s take attendance,” said the professor. “Bertie? Where’s Bertie…ah! There you are. How’s it going Bertie?”
The professor was still calling me Bertie. (Read more about it here.)
“Good,” I answered the professor with a sigh. I proceeded to draw my own game of Hangman on a fresh sheet of paper. I couldn’t figure out the last letter of my own game, though.
Maybe you can help me fill it in?
***
WATER WITCHES
This was irresistible to write about.
There’s a family neighbor in northern Michigan with a truck drilling a water well that is still in the front yard. The truck has been there several months, the well digging deeper and deeper without any luck. Either water has been undrinkable or there hasn’t been enough to act as a well for an entire household.
My mother adds to this piece of news, “They should hire a Water Witch.”
“A what?” I asked.
“That’s not what they’re called, but that’s who used to find spots to dig wells.”
“Explain,” I said. I couldn’t wait to hear this.
“If you were looking to dig a well out by a farm, you’d hire a Water Witch. The Water Witch would look around for a tree branch, shaped like a Y, and when he found a good one, he’d wander around the grounds and wait for the tree branch to start shaking.”
(It turns out you can use just about anything, but most modern Water Witches – yes, this is still a thing – prefer using two metal rods.)
“Go on,” I said, almost drooling with anticipation.
My mother shrugged. “Once the stick is shaking, that’s the spot you started digging a well.”
“And this worked? People really dug wells like this?”
“Oh, sure. They were hired all the time.”
“These people were hired?!”
“Well, yes. They were never wrong,” said my mother.
My father put down his mug of coffee. “Of course they weren’t wrong! It’s Michigan; if you dig deep enough, you’ll find water no matter where the branch starts shaking.”
“Oh come on,” said my mother, egging him on, “Those tree branches really shook.”
“Because the guy was shaking it himself!”
“You don’t believe that do you?” asked my mother with a coy smile.
And while the merits of the Water Witch were playfully debated by my parents, I had a renewed sense of hope in humanity. If a Water Witch was really a paid position in the history of American farming, then I can see no better future for a people who were creative enough to shake a stick and say, “Dig your well here, Farmer John.”
Entire neighborhoods had wells dug on such foundations.
Kind of gives you a tingly feeling of pride in grassroots American history, doesn’t it?
For your viewing pleasure, I’ve attached an article about Water Witches from Time Magazine. Apparently, they are still sought after during droughts, particularly the dry season in California. I won’t spoil the end of the article; it isn’t a very long read.
https://time.com/11462/california-farmers-are-using-water-witches-to-make-your-two-buck-chuck/
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Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,
