The earliest memory I have of the Wizard of Oz, I was about four years old, but I know the first time I saw it was earlier than that because my dad talks about me calling it "The Boz." Watching this movie was like sitting in pure magic for the short time it played on TV once a year.
My love for this movie has stayed with me my whole life and I have, from time to time, collected Wizard of Oz items, the most recent being Barbies. For my last birthday I received Dorothy and my daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter gave me Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.
My granddaughter, another name for heaven, has been my buddy for the two short years of her life. When we are together she loves for me to read to her, every book our hands can touch, and Nana's heart is thrilled beyond measure to be able to hold her her and read the words that go with the pictures that keep her so enraptured.
During their last visit, my granddaughter found the two dolls, still in their boxes, and lovingly, carefully carried them all over the house talking to them and pushing the buttons to hear them sing. Her mother informed me that she had never seen the movie but was fascinated with Glinda because she wore a beautiful dress.
In a state of shock at the magic she had withheld from her daughter, I grabbed up my baby and sat her on the couch next to me and turned on the DVD player. The familiar black and white story started up, loaded with music and promise of magic. We sat together watching Dorothy's dog jump out of the basket and run home. The tornado carried her house away to the colorful place known as Oz and the amazing adventures that followed.
Then it was over and I felt the same ache as when I was four years old. I looked down at my girl and she looked up at me with eyes the size of saucers.
"Nana, watch it again!" And I fell in love all over again.
