Treasury of Joy & Inspiration

by Editors of Reader's Digest

  Although the forked stick has become the classic instrument for dowsing, a wide variety of tools have been used over the ages: whalebone, crowbars, pliers, blades of grass, even bare hands. Today, plastic, metal or fiberglass V-rods are favored by some dowsers, since they are smoother than a tree branch to hold. (The forked stick is reported to react so violently at times that the dowser’s hands are left red and raw, and the bark peels off the twig.) The ability, however, lies not in the tool but in the user. Whether the dowser is aware of it or not, it is he or she who moves the rod.

  Dowsing is used for more than discovering water wells. Plumbers have long used “pipe locaters”—twin L-shaped dowsing rods made of bent wire that seem to swing apart or together when over buried water lines. Some utility companies employ dowsers to zero in on telephone cables, water mains, and electrical power lines prior to digging. In Vietnam, engineer units of the 1st and 3rd Marine divisions successfully used bent coat hangers to locate enemy tunnels, booby traps and mines.

  Soviet scientists are actively using dowsing, which they call the Biophysical Method (BPM), to detect ore bodies, subterranean streams and oil. At a 1973 conference in Prague, Soviet professor Aleksandr Bakirov reported that BPM has proved of definite value in geological mapping—in establishing fissured zones and geological contact zones, in tracing mineralized zones. “It makes prospecting more effective and also lowers the cost of drilling,” he says.

  Is there a physiological basis for the skill? In the United States, physicist Zaboj V. Harvalik has found that many dowsers are unconsciously sensitive to small disturbances in the earth’s magnetic field. In tests, he has had subjects walk across a low-intensity electromagnetic beam that can be switched on and off. Sensitive dowsers seem to pick up “dowsing signals” from it. Yet they fail to do so when certain parts of their bodies—the kidney area, or the head—are shielded with heavy aluminum or copper foil. This suggests the existence of magnetic sensors in those parts of the body, as well as a “signal processor” in the brain which transmits the command for subliminal arm-muscle contractions that move the rod. Says Harvalik: “The rod turns not because it is pulled by some unknown force, but because certain individuals sense a change deep in the earth.”

  Some further explanation is needed, however, to account for “long-distance” or “map” dowsing. In one of the most famous cases on record, documented by American historical novelist Kenneth Roberts in 1950, dowser Henry Gross spread out a map of Bermuda in Roberts’s home in Kennebunkport, Maine. Then, passing his divining rod over it, he marked three places in Bermuda where fresh water was to be found—despite geologists’ conviction that no fresh water existed on the island. The Bermuda government was persuaded to provide drilling equipment, and by April 1950 all three wells had come in. One of them alone was providing a total of 63,360 gallons daily.

  “Dowsing is a parapsychological phenomenon—ESP,” says Karlis Osis, of the American Society for Psychical Research. It works, he says, because humans unconsciously know a broad spectrum of things that lie beyond the range of normal awareness—perhaps through the 75 percent of brainpower seemingly unused in everyday life. Some of this information, hidden deep in the mind, may indirectly filter into consciousness through slight physiological changes demonstrated by muscular movements and an indicator such as a divining rod.

  The American Society of Dowsers, which is composed of 1,400 true believers from all walks of life—teachers, farmers, doctors, housewives—convenes each September at its headquarters in Danville, Vermont. There last fall, as a test, we asked Maine dowser Bob Ater if he could locate the well on our property in Connecticut, over 300 miles away. He told us to draw a rough map of the property, including any buildings. Shown our finished sketch, he asked, “What about the old foundation over there?” For a moment, we thought he had to be mistaken—but then we remembered an overgrown concrete slab, where a garage had stood 30 years ago. We traced it in.

  Ater picked up a pencil, which he explained acted as a dowsing rod for him. He poised it over the map. Then his hand descended, and he marked a neat little circle—just about where our well is.

  As an afterthought, he said, “There seems to be something coming out of the house over here.” He drew a snakelike line from the end of our house, along the driveway, to the terrace. We stared in disbelief. It was where we had left the garden hose—and exactly where we found it when we returned home two days later.

  Letter in the Wallet

  By Arnold Fine

  September 1985

  from The Jewish Press

  It was a freezing day, a few years ago, when I stumbled on a wallet in the street. There was no identification inside. Just three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years.

  The only thing legible on the torn envelope was the return address. I opened the letter and saw that it had been written in 1924—almost 60 years ago. I read it carefully, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the wallet’s owner.

  It was a “Dear John” letter. The writer, in a delicate script, told the recipient, whose name was ­Michael, that her mother forbade her to see him again. Nevertheless, she would always love him. It was signed, Hannah.

  It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, beyond the name Michael, to identify the owner. So I called information to see if the operator could help.

  “Operator, this is an unusual request. I’m trying to find the owner of a wallet I found. Is there any way you could tell me the phone number for an address that was on a letter in the wallet?”

  The operator gave me her supervisor, who said there was a phone listed at the address but that she could not give me that number. However, she would call and explain the situation. Then, if the party wanted to talk, she would connect me. I waited a minute, and she came back on the line. “I have a woman who will speak with you.”

  I asked the woman if she knew a Hannah.

  “Oh, of course! We bought this house from ­Hannah’s family.”

  “Would you know where they could be located now?” I asked.

  “Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home years ago. Maybe the home could help you track down the daughter.”

  The woman gave me the name of the nursing home. I called and found out that Hannah’s mother had died. The woman I spoke with gave me an ­

  address where she thought Hannah could be reached.

  I phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home. She gave me the number. I called and was told, “Yes, Hannah is with us.”

  I asked if I could stop by to see her. It was almost 10:00 p.m. The director said that Hannah might be asleep. “But if you want to take a chance, maybe she’s in the dayroom watching television.”

  The director and a guard greeted me at the door of the nursing home. We went up to the third floor and saw the nurse, who told us that Hannah was indeed watching TV.

  We entered the dayroom. Hannah was a sweet, silver-­haired old-timer with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I told her about the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw it, she took a deep breath. “Young man,” she said, “this letter was the last contact I had with Michael.” She looked away, then said pensively, “I loved him very much. But I was only 16, and my mother felt I was too young. He was so handsome. You know, like Sean Connery, the actor.”

  We both laughed. The director then left us alone. “Yes, Michael Goldstein was his name. If you find him, tell him I still think of him often. I never did marry,” she said, smiling through tears that welled up in her eyes. “I guess no one ever matched up to Michael. . . .”

  I thanked Hannah, said good-bye, and took the elevator to the first floor. As I stood at the door, the guard asked, “Was she able to help you?”

  I told him she had given me a lead. “At least I have a last name. But I pro
bably won’t pursue it further for a while.” I explained that I had spent almost the whole day trying to find the wallet’s owner.

  While we talked, I pulled out the brown-leather case with its red-lanyard lacing and showed it to the guard. He looked at it and said, “Hey, I’d know that anywhere. That’s Mr. Goldstein’s. He’s always

  losing it. I found it in the hall at least three times.”

  “Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked.

  “He’s one of the old-timers on the eighth floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s wallet, for sure. He goes out for a walk quite often.”

  I thanked the guard and ran back to the director’s office to tell him what the guard had said. He accompanied me to the eighth floor. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.

  “I think he’s still in the dayroom,” the nurse said. “He likes to read at night. . . . A darling man.”

  We went to the only room that had lights on, and there was a man reading a book. The director asked him if he had lost his wallet.

  Michael Goldstein looked up, felt his back pocket, and then said, “Goodness, it is missing.”

  “This kind gentleman found a wallet. Could it be yours?”

  The second he saw it, he smiled with relief. “Yes,” he said, “that’s it. Must have dropped it this afternoon. I want to give you a reward.”

  “Oh, no thank you,” I said. “But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet.”

  The smile on his face disappeared. “You read that letter?”

  “Not only did I read it, I think I know where ­Hannah is.”

  He grew pale. “Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was?”

  I hesitated.

  “Please tell me!” Michael urged.

  “She’s fine, and just as pretty as when you knew her.”

  “Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow.” He grabbed my hand and said, “You know something? When that letter came, my life ended. I never married. I guess I’ve always loved her.”

  “Michael,” I said. “Come with me.”

  The three of us took the elevator to the third floor. We walked toward the dayroom where Hannah was sitting, still watching TV. The director went over to her.

  “Hannah,” he said softly. “Do you know this man?” Michael and I stood waiting in the doorway.

  She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn’t say a word.

  “Hannah, it’s Michael. Michael Goldstein. Do you remember?”

  “Michael? Michael? It’s you!”

  He walked slowly to her side. She stood, and they embraced. The two of them sat on a couch, held hands and started to talk. The director and I walked out, both of us crying.

  “See how the good Lord works,” I said philosophically. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

  Three weeks later, I got a call from the director, who asked, “Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “Yup, Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!”

  It was a lovely wedding, with all the people at the nursing home joining in the celebration. ­Hannah wore a beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark-blue suit and stood tall. The home gave them their own room, and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 78-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple.

  A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.

  Christopher Reeve’s Decision

  By Christopher Reeve

  July 1998

  condensed From Still Me

  On memorial Day weekend, 1995, my world changed forever. I was competing in an equestrian event in Virginia when my horse, Buck, decided to put on the brakes just before the third jump.

  When he stopped suddenly, momentum carried me over the top of his head. My hands got entangled in the bridle, and I couldn’t get an arm free to break my fall. All six-feet-four-inches and 215 pounds of me landed headfirst. Within seconds I was paralyzed from the neck down and fighting for air like a drowning person.

  I woke up five days later in the intensive-care unit at the University of Virginia hospital. Dr. John Jane, head of neurosurgery at the hospital, said I had broken the top two cervical vertebrae and that I was extremely lucky to have survived. He told my wife, Dana, and me that I might never be able to breathe on my own again. But my head was intact, and my brain stem—so close to the site of the injury—appeared unharmed.

  Dr. Jane said my skull would have to be reconnected to my spinal column. He wasn’t sure if the operation would be successful, or even if I could survive.

  Suddenly it dawned on me that I was going to be a huge burden to everybody, that I had ruined my life and everybody else’s. Why not die, I thought miserably, and save everyone a lot of trouble?

  As family and friends visited, my spirits were on a roller-coaster ride. I would feel so grateful when someone came a long way to cheer me up. But the time would come when everybody had to leave, and I’d lie there and stare at the wall, stare at the future, stare in disbelief.

  When I would finally fall asleep, I’d be whole again, making love to Dana, riding or acting in a play. Then I’d wake up and realize that I could no longer do any of that; I was just taking up space.

  One day Dana came into the room and stood beside me. I could not talk because of the ventilator. But as we made eye contact, I mouthed the words, “Maybe we should let me go.”

  Dana started crying. “I am only going to say this once,” she said. “I will support whatever you want to do because this is your life and your decision. But I want you to know that I’ll be with you for the long haul, no matter what.”

  Then she added the words that saved my life: “You’re still you. And I love you.”

  I can’t drift away from this, I began to realize. I don’t want to leave.

  A crisis like my accident doesn’t change a marriage; it brings out what is truly there. It intensifies but does not transform it. Dana rescued me when I was lying in Virginia with a broken body, but that was really the second time. The first time was the night we met.

  It was June 1987, and a long-term relationship of mine had ended. I was determined to be alone and focus on my work. Since childhood I had developed the belief that a few isolated moments of happiness were the best you could hope for in relationships. I didn’t want to risk too much because I was certain that disappointment would follow.

  Then one night I went to a cabaret with friends, and Dana Morosini stepped onstage. She wore an off-the-shoulder dress and sang “The Music That Makes Me Dance.” I went down hook, line and sinker.

  Afterward I went backstage and introduced myself. At the time, I was an established film actor. You wouldn’t think I’d have a problem with a simple conversation with a woman. But when I offered her a ride to the party we were all going to, she said, “No thanks, I have my own car.” All I could say was “Oh.” I dragged myself out to my old pickup truck, trying to plan my next move.

  Later I tried again. We talked for a solid hour. I have no idea what we talked about. Everything seemed to evaporate around us. I thought to myself, I don’t want to make a mistake and ruin this.

  We started dating in a very old-fashioned way. I got to know Dana’s parents, and we developed an easy rapport. And Dana was instantly comfortable with my two children, Matthew and Alexandra. It filled me with joy.

  Dana and I were married in April 1992. Three years later came my accident and Dana’s words in the hospital room: “You’re still you.”

  I mouthed, “This goes way beyond the marriage vows—‘in sickness and in health.’ ” She said, “I know.” I knew then and there that she was going to be with me forever. We had become a
family.

  As the operation drew closer, I became more frightened, knowing I had only a 50-50 chance of surviving. I lay frozen much of the time, thinking dark thoughts.

  My biggest fear had to do with breathing. I couldn’t take a single breath on my own, and the ventilator connections didn’t always hold. I would lie there at three in the morning in fear of a pop-off, when the hose just comes off the ventilator. After you’ve missed two breaths, an alarm sounds. You hope someone will come quickly. The feeling of helplessness was hard to take.

  One very bleak day the door to my room flew open and in hurried a squat fellow in a surgical gown and glasses, speaking with a Russian accent. He said he was my proctologist and had to examine me immediately.

  My first thought was that they must be giving me way too many drugs. But it was my old friend, comedian Robin Williams. For the first time since the accident, I laughed.

  My three-year-old, Will, also gave me hope. One day he was on the floor playing when he suddenly looked up and said, “Mommy, Daddy can’t move his arms anymore.”

  “That’s right,” Dana said. “Daddy can’t move his arms.”

  “And Daddy can’t run around anymore,” Will continued.

  “That’s right; he can’t.”

  Then he paused, screwed up his face in concentration and burst out happily, “But he can still smile.”

  On June 5 I had my operation. It was a success. My doctor predicted that with time I ought to be able to get off the respirator and breathe on my own.

  Three weeks later I moved to the Kessler Institute for Rehabilitation in West Orange, New Jersey. The worst days there were when Bill Carroll, the respiratory therapist, would test my vital capacity, a measure of how much air I could move on my own. I was failing miserably. To even consider weaning yourself off the ventilator, you need a vital capacity of about 750 c.c.’s, but I could hardly move the needle above zero.