On the Funnel: The Wizard-of-Oz Edit
Jeffrey Gardner
Jeffrey Gardner
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.