There's no place like home

I haven't written for a couple of weeks.

I've been in Oz.

Just as with Dorothy (in the MGM film, not in L. Frank Baum's books), I've been in a dreamland of my own making.

When I was a little boy--along with millions of other little American kids--I watched The Wizard of Oz once a year on television.  It was a family event, bigger and more important than the Super Bowl.

Then, for the next six months or so (as long as the weather permitted), I would force the neighbor children to act out the film in my backyard, with different parts of the yard designated as different parts of the land of Oz.  Munchkinland was by the garden; the scarecrow was near the swing set; the lion lived in the lilacs.  The little girl across the street played Dorothy, and I played every male part that wasn't covered by some boy in the neighborhood.  Sometimes I played the Wicked Witch, too, I suppose; I must have--nobody else wanted to.

Fifty years later, I did the same thing.  This time, though, I staged the show in the Woodrow Wilson Multiple Purpose Room (a little larger than my back yard).  I didn't play a part in the show--I covered parts in the orchestra. 

And the show was a dream come true.  The kids were terrific; the costumes were beautiful (thanks to my wife and daughter); the sets were gorgeous (thanks to art classes and another daughter); even the sound was good (thanks to my son).

So, a little worn out from age but lightened by nostalgia, I emerge from the cyclone trip home, glad to be here, and even happy to be back in the traces again.

Because, after all, there's no place like home.