On the Funnel: The Wizard-of-Oz Edit

I grew up at the top of a very tall hill. That hill overlooked a very green valley. In between were

 miles and miles of birch and pines. Places to hide. Places to dream. Down in that emerald 

valley was a 150-year-old town square that filled with residents daily since 1824. In the

springtime, pansies and azaleas and rhododendrons grew, though one never saw a

landscaper. In the summer, children swung on swings and read E.B. White in the 

reading room of the burnt-sienna brick library. The plump, red-cheeked librarian 

would doze off in her wooden Windsor chair until two quarreling children awoke 

her from her slumber. Through the clear, paper-daffodil adorned window you 

could see the American flag, firmly standing at attention, driven deeply into a 

massive circular donut of concrete. In the autumn, children-dressed-as-spooks 

marched in the Halloween parade. A copious number of witches, vampires, 

clowns, and princesses filled the streets of the village, seeking delectable treats. 

I wandered alone dressed as the singular Casper the Friendly Ghost, a costume 

my mother had placed on layaway. Leaves fell and flowers died. The elders 

could feel in their bones that wintery white flakes and the brightly lit village 

Christmas tree were just around the corner. Our area was known as the 

Tornado Alley, even though we lived nowhere near Kansas, Missouri, 

Oklahoma, Texas, or Iowa. Our town in reality had more threats of 

twisters, than actual ones. An average of seven to nine per year, 

always setting off the fire hall sirens about three weeks after the 

summer’s-end carnival. It was just the week before school 

started that year that I was lying in the lean-to I had built 

far into the woods at the very end of the faded yellow 

cowslip hedge bank in the month of June that year. 

I had brought a thermos of Kool-Aid and crackers 

smeared with PB&J. The horse flies would watch 

me attentively, waiting for their brunch. I didn’t 

really mind them as long as I was safe and clear 

from the storm going on inside the farmhouse 

of my youth. I had just placed my head down 

on my stick-and-leaf pillow when my folded 

tarp began to ripple, and it turned direfully 

dark. The howling of the wind and the fire 

station alarm invaded the entire fifty square 

mile area, drowning out my Mother, who 

now was desperately screaming my name. 

Much like the many nights in my bedroom, 

I covered my ears and head and began to

 hum: You’re out of the woods. You’re 

out of the dark. You’re out of the night. 

I saw happy bluebirds in my dream. 

I saw my friends. My best friend. 

All while acres of trees were torn 

up around me, while the concrete 

donut was thrown 2 miles into 

a field of cow corn and our

country’s flag toppled and

was left to lie in the rubble.

While the old gazebo 

crumbled into the 

azaleas. When I

could feel the  

sunshine on 

my cheek, I

stood up, I

brushed the

leaves out of

my hair and off

of my pinstriped 

t-shirt. I collected

my things and 

headed out of 

the woods 

towards Home. 

I stepped into 

the sun. I 

stepped 

into the 

light.