The Well Witcher

I wrote a much shorter version of this story almost 10 years ago.   I decided to expand it to creative non-fiction instead of the essay version that you can read here.  

Enjoy my take on one of the most Appalachian experiences from my childhood. 

I remember the day the well witcher came. I was outside riding my bike around the yard when I saw his beat up old truck pull in.  I ditched the bike and ran into the house, screen door clattering as it shut.

“The man is here!” I yelled as I went through the door, but my dad was already slipping his shoes on (those old loafers that are smashed down in the back like a clog) and my mom was still finishing up the dinner dishes.

 

I saw my mom reaching for the towel, a sure sign that she was about the leave the dinner dishes and follow the allure of the man in the beat up truck.  

I heard he held the secret to our long standing water shortage.  

We never had enough water. We let yellow mellow because we didn’t want to run out of water for supper or the laundry or a bath.  It’s a good thing I was an only child because one load of laundry a day was all we could handle, and an inch or two of water for baths was all I got.  If we needed to water the garden we had to scoop the water out of the blue rain barrel that sat next to the garage.

My dad was talking with the man, his name was Ron or Rob or maybe even Bob, I couldn’t hear very well from the porch.  I stood back, trepidation rising up in my belly.  

That morning my mom had told me they hired a well witcher to come and find some water.  

“A well what?!” the only witches I knew had pointy hats and cauldrons and came out at Halloween.  

She paused and took a breath. “A well witcher is someone who is supposed to be able to come out and find a good place to drill a well.  Hopefully we can get a new well and finally have enough water,” she said wistfully, her eyes swimming with all the loads of laundry she could do and showers she could take.  

“Weird,” I responded, also thinking about how nice it would be to actually flush the toilet every time I go to the bathroom and be normal, like my friends.

 

I watched the man now, with his long peppered beard and crumbled straw hat as he leaned against his truck and talked with my dad.  Grownups— all they ever do is talk.  I reached down to pet my little orange kitten, Furbee, and when I popped my head back up I saw the man getting something out of the back of his truck.  I craned my neck to see what it was.

It was a long skinny stick, shaped like a y.  

My mom said something about him using a stick to find the water, but I didn’t know she meant an ACTUAL stick.  This looked like it just fell out of the maple tree in our front yard.  

The man took his stick and walked out toward the pin oak, the one my dad dug up from the woods up in the hill behind our house.  He’s behind the tree, so I climbed up into the back of my dad’s old white Ford to get a better look.  I sat perched on the edge of the truck, side eyeing the well witcher— and watching my dad who followed him around the yard.

Watching.  Waiting.  For what?  I sure didn’t know.  

I leaned my back up against the big blue rain barrel.  Usually it was sitting next to the garage collecting the precious drops from the gutter, but last night we took it into town to my aunt’s house.  

It’d been so hot that we didn’t have enough water in the barrel to nourish the garden and our withered tomatoes.  My aunt had that good town water, and plenty of it.  My dad let me go with him after supper and we drove into town in the Ford with the windows down, rock and roll blaring on the radio.  

While the rain barrel filled I ran wild with my cousins.  We played in their backyard, shaded by the big trees, collecting sticks and rocks and turning them into masterpieces.  My dad and his sister leaned against the old truck and talked about the day, which was mostly filled with complaints about the hospital they both worked at.  

We had about thirty good minutes to play while that barrel filled. We played tag and four square and even spent a few minutes with the kids across the street (a luxury I didn’t get living way out in the country).  

When it was filled to the brim we hopped back into the truck and rode back to the country, windows down of course.  I asked my dad the question when we were almost home— right after we passed over second bridge that went over the winding creek, the one that my dad tells me the Indians used to camp at thousands of years ago.  

“Can I swim in it tonight”

I don’t see why not, came his answer.

We pulled into the driveway and I ran in to my room, threw my swimming suit on, and then ran back out and into the bed of the truck.  My dad was already there, admiring the water and waiting for me.  He lifted me up and in the barrel and I bobbed up and down and up and down until my fingers and toes were wrinkly.

“Maybe I’ll get to jump in the barrel again after this guy leaves,” I thought, remembering the refreshment of last night.

The well witcher must not have been happy with the side yard because before I knew it he was walking behind the garage.  I jumped out of the truck and stood under the shade of the elm in the backyard.  The man was talking animatedly to my dad.

“This is the spot,” I was sure he was saying.  

A few months later I watched the big drill push the dirt up and out of that exact spot that the well witcher had stood in on that hot summer day.  I was excited and chattered along to my mom asking her about everything that was happening.  

I heard her sigh.  “I don’t know how it all works, Melissa.  We’ll have to get a book from the library about well drilling.  I just hope they find water soon.  The man told me that he’s already down 150 feet,” she responded.  

They found water.  Abundant water.  We started dreaming of showers and laundry and flushing the toilet.  The well driller told us that the water was pretty murky and dirty, but we could let it settle and run for a little while and there was a good chance it would become potable.  

The water never ran clean enough for us to use.   No matter how long we waited, it was full of sediment.  

We capped of the well, and with it our dreams of abundance.  

So, on the hottest summer evenings we would load up that rain barrel in the back of the Ford.  We would play and chat and visit and when we got home— on the very happiest evenings I changed into my suit and jumped feet first into my very own redneck swimming pool.