An Annual Family Tradition

On a Sunday evening in 1968, we gather around our RCA Victor color television for the annual showing of “The Wizard of Oz.” My father settles into his armchair, arranges his pack of Marlboros and an ashtray within reach and glances at his watch. Two hours until “Bonanza.” With a resigned sigh, he opens a newspaper. “Oz” is not on his must-see viewing list. 

 I stretch out on the carpet, chin propped in my hands, feeling warm and toasty in freshly laundered PJs. Huntley and Brinkley are wrapping up the nightly news. Lamplight casts ghostly images of battle and protests and unrest upon the walls; the room reverberates with the sounds of gunfire and whirling helicopters and chatter about the recent assassination of a black King with a booming voice. 

Charlie, my ten-year old brother, sprawls across from me, surrounded by his GI Joe action figures and announces how he can’t wait until he’s old enough to go fight in that fiery place called Vietnam. I’m only seven and admire his bravery. “God forbid!” my mother says. Jack, a dyed-in-the wool cynic at thirteen, snorts from his corner of the sofa. Charlie and I ignore him. Jack is our sometimes tyrannical babysitter and an insufferable know-it-all. He hugs Daisy the cat close to his chest and buries his face in her fur. Daisy is the latest in a long line of strays he’s toted home, and she will shortly deposit a surprise gift of six kittens in my parents’ bedroom closet. Jack loves animals and wants to be a veterinarian someday. 

My mother hushes us as the news ends and the movie starts. Jack stands and slouches toward his bedroom, Daisy purring in his arms. “Baby stuff,” he mutters and his door slams. My mother sighs.

Dorothy wanders into the barnyard and starts to sing about rainbows. My mother sniffs, and dabs at her eye. My father turns another page of his book. Rock music blasts from Jack’s room disturbing the magical moment. “Turn that noise down!” yells my mother. I hold my breath as the tornado drops Dorothy’s house into Munchkinland. Glinda, the Good Witch, sweet and motherly, floats down to greet her. The Munchkins swarm Dorothy and sing in welcome. Charlie leaps to his feet. He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, rocks from side to side, and sings along in perfect unison. 

We laugh at the Scarecrow’s antics. He’s our favorite character. There’s a lull as the Tin Man makes his appearance, so my mother cheerfully announces that she’s going to make popcorn. Charlie and I follow her into the kitchen like Auntie Em’s chicks.

Jiffy Pop

My mother pushes a tin pan covered in aluminum foil to and fro over the gas flame, while Charlie and I watch in wide-eyed anticipation. The silver foil gradually expands into a dome until it resembles a UFO from a Grade Z sci-fi flick. The air is filled with the staccato sound of kernels merrily popping. The dome is split open. Steam escapes, along with the pungent smell of burnt popcorn. The magic of the moment dissipates as we rummage through the char, looking for edible survivors. Jack appears behind us, picks up a kernel and tosses it back. “This stinks,” he declares and stalks off. He’s surly and unsmiling. It’s as if the corners of his mouth are rusted shut. A cracking voice, gangly limbs and the onset of acne are reasons enough not to smile, but his puberty is driving my mother to distraction. She makes a strangulation gesture behind his back and throws her hands up in defeat. Charlie and I snicker. 

The Scarecrow, the Tin Man and Dorothy are creeping fearfully through the forest. Charlie and I chant along about lions and tigers and bears repeatedly, our voices rising until finally my mother shrieks, “Oh my...enough already!”. But Charlie ignores her and morphs into the Cowardly Lion. He clenches his hands into fists and swings playfully at me. I holler in mock terror. His fist connects with the table lamp. It wobbles perilously, but my mother saves it with a one-handed catch. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she roars. My father lowers his book and takes in the scene. “Settle down, lad,” he says quietly. And Charlie does. The Great Oz had spoken. 

We’re soon engrossed again in the film. I peek from behind my fingers as the Witch advances menacingly upon Dorothy and her friends. I cheer when Dorothy splashes the Witch with water and she melts into oblivion. Charlie thought they went to an awful lot of trouble. “Why didn’t they just shoot her?” My father chuckles.

But Dorothy puzzles me. Why does she want to go home? Oz is magical and colorful and exciting. Why does she want to go back to the dreariness of a Kansas farm? Why return from that kind of world to this one with its endless news cycle of hate and war and horror? Still, she says her goodbyes, clicks her heels together, and she’s home. 

I hear Dorothy’s final words: "There's no place like home" And I see my father, wonderful and powerful and wise like the Wizard, and my mother, who is naturally warm-hearted and kind like Glinda, but harried at times like Auntie Em; Charlie, the clown of the family, a blustery, harmless lion cub, and Jack, as steely as the Tin Man on the outside, but enormously compassionate toward the most helpless of four-legged creatures. 

I’m Dorothy. And I’m home.