Me and the Wizard of Oz

Color was new to most TV shows in the early 70’s, but we were living in color. Full Woods’ family color. Not on display for everyone, but in full regalia for those close enough to be witnesses.

The programs were bathed in deep and dazzling colors that came to life on the small screen of our black television with chrome wheels and dials.

PBS taught me how the matrons of the elephant herds nurtured their young, how the lioness's use of feminism broke through when protecting hers from the violent and voracious appetites of their fathers. The mothers that protected their calves and kittens were the moms that made me smile to myself and understand the warmth of connection. The hilarity came with how the flamboyant pink flamingos could line dance, snap their black beaks from side to side and kick up their knees as if choreographed by some wildlife genius. These kooky birds left us writhing on the floor, our bellies aching with laughter.

On Sunday nights as in most homes in our neighborhood of Oakbrook in Clear Lake City, the TVs were tuned to the crown jewel when we watched “Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color.” The Disney Corporation doled out specials once a year. One such favorite (though I’m not sure Disney owned it.) was Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella starring Leslie Ann Warren.

In my pre-teen dramatic way, I identified with Cinderella. Credit where credit is due, I was enlisted at a young age to co-parent with my parents. I was in a thruple of sorts with them as the third parent in the three-ring circus. Help with the other 4. Wake Dad as he slept off another happy hour in his car in the garage. Rally the troops to set the table and clear it and get the dishes done. Do it with a smile. Do it with a “yes.” Don’t disagree. Don’t expect anything in return. “Yes,” “Yes.” “Yes.”

I wanted someone to recognize my Cinderella connection. Someone to thank me or even take pity on me so I could be a child for a minute. My grandmother was my “Bibbity-Bobbity-Boo.” She was always kind to me and let me have sleepovers with her and my grandfather. She got it. She knew how to make me feel special and love me without expecting me to perform tasks.

I was good. I was supportive. I was helpful. Don’t disappoint. Don’t be a child. Don’t dare make a misstep. That could result in a shocking punishment. An abandonment.

My favorite night of the year was the Sunday when The Wizard of Oz was broadcast across the U.S. I don’t believe it was a Disney property, but I loved it so. It was magical and transported me to places I couldn’t imagine on my own.

We prepared for this with great fanfare. One could probably smell the popcorn and butter for blocks. My mother had to make copious amounts for the brood. We grabbed blankets and pillows from our beds and claimed our spots on the furniture or floor.

Being the oldest, I was dependably dependable and avoided misbehavior. I was by title the “example” for all the others.

One such Sunday, I was met with the ultimate punishment. I was banned from watching the movie that I would have to wait another year to see. I felt like Margot in “All Summer in a Day.” My own sun was just about to come out, too. I was going to see the effervescent pink bubble with Glinda in it as she came to quell the fears of the Munchkins and Dorothy. Instead, like Margot, I was locked away in a closet, but sympolically. I wasn’t allowed to see the other side of the rainbow, that was the place I longed to find the warmth and kindness of those that loved me. Those characters who would lead me home to the place where I belonged.

My mother couldn’t recall what I did but agreed that the punishment surely didn’t fit the crime. I wasn’t that kid. I was maybe 11. I was never mouthy. I was obedient. There was no grace given.

We had a two-story house. Though I wasn’t aware she knew I was listening from the stairs, she told me she could see my toes on the carpet. I wanted to be close enough to hear the movie. This woman knew I was obeying the sequester but didn’t have the heart to let me come down and join the family.

My memorization of the movie allowed me to relive the tornado scene, see the colors pouring onto the screen as Dorothy slowly opened the door of her tiny house that had landed on the Wicked Witch of the East.

I wished my mother could have apologized to me acknowledging that she’d been that witch that one night when I was the only one of the seven left out. Forced out. Made different. Made an example of.

Did my parents opt to parade their bravado by using their secondhand parent as a specimen that under observation could be demeaned and reduced to exclusion from the clan like the chimps whose minor misgivings during a grooming session sent them to the forest alone to contemplate their difference? PBS taught me the ways of animals. My clan’s lack of compassion and empathy was unmatched on “Wild Kingdom.” I loved how the female elephants manifested care and concern, guided behavior with a firm conviction. I believed they wouldn’t turn their backs on me or make an example of me.

I laid back on the carpet of the stairs feeling every ridge of the steps as they forced small curves in my back. The music of each scene evoked different colors and textures. I could feel the stiff ruffles of the starched blue gingham dress and blue socks. The ruby slippers glimmered and flickered. After being refreshed Dororthy’s pretty blue ribbons hung just so. Restuffed, the Scarecrow jumped to the floor with his wobbly ankles. The Tin Man was buffed and handsome and flirtatious as ever batting his eyes. Lion was tickled as he was combed and primped but remained bashful with a red ribbon in his mane. I could feel the scratch of the Scarecrow’s hand in mine as we descended the steps to the long hall that led the way to the wizard. I knew he would get a diploma to prove his brilliance; Tin Man would receive a token heart and Lion would embrace his courage. My lonely, blind version of this beloved movie would end the same as if I’d seen it.  Sadly, I disagreed wholeheartedly that there was no place like home. I didn’t click my heels. Instead, I slowly slunk upstairs to my room desperate to give the Tin Man my bruised heart because I believed a used one was better than a token or none at all.