by
Odds Bodkin

Sure, I like to think I'm observant. Most of us do. But after the dairy farmer's daughter easily named the secret number the fourth time--and I couldn't crack the code she and the farmer were using--I really did think I was in the presence of two first-class psychics.

They weren't, of course. They were just part of a very nice family who taught me a most amazing dinner table game.

Let me backtrack a bit. I was staying with a Vermont dairy farmer, his wife and three kids during a performance tour a few years ago. One night at supper the farmer smiled and said, " Okay, Cassie, let's play Psychic Numbers with Mr. Bodkin."

His daughter Cassie got up and left the room.

The farmer asked for everybody's fork and spoon at the table. There were six of us. He piled the twelve utensils on his placemat and turned to me. "Okay, Mr. Bodkin, think of a number between one and ten. Don't speak it out loud, Cassie might hear it. Just hold up how many fingers. Cassie will know it. It's time to play Psychic Numbers."

Wanting to play the game, I held up seven fingers. Everybody at the table nodded. Then the farmer went to work. First he laid down two forks, then crossed them with three spoons, then added forks and spoons in bizarre crisscrosses. The last spoon he set off from the main group.

I had no idea what he was doing. I thought to myself: This code will never work. There's no pattern.

"Whew, that was challenging," breathed the farmer. "Okay, Cassie. Come on in!"

Cassie walked in and glanced at the utensils. "Seven," she said, and smiled.

Now how did she do that? Were there seven intersections of forks and spoons? No. About ten or so.

Were there seven angles created? No, more. Seven outside edges? No. I turned to the family. They were all smiling.

"Do that again," I said.

Cassie disappeared. I held up one finger. Everybody nodded, faint smiles trailing across their lips. The farmer created another complex pattern, using all the silverware.

Cassie walked back in. "One," she said.

My mind went into high gear. It was a code. A complex code. How could you derive the number one from that pattern? It looked haphazard. Or else amazingly complex. Was this a family of mathematical geniuses? They looked, well, like regular people. And how had Cassie done it so fast? Twice more Cassie named the number without hesitation.

"So how did she do that?" I at last asked, feeling beaten.

The farmer's wife smiled. "Psychic Numbers," she replied. "Want little Billy to do it?"

Little Billy was in First Grade. He did it, too. Flawlessly. I felt humbled. Mental giants, I thought, here in rural Vermont.

Then they explained the trick. Each time Cassie had walked in, she hadn't looked at the silverware at all. She'd watched her dad's fingers rest momentarily on the edge of the table, then disappear. First there'd been seven fingers. Then just one.

A number between one and ten. The forks and spoons were just a distraction. And I'd been fooled by Psychic Numbers.