GROWING UP IN OZ

by Pat Tobias

Originally published in The Baum Bugle, vol. 31, no. 2 (Autumn 1987), pgs. 10–12

Citations

Chicago 17th ed.:

Tobias, Pat. “Growing Up in Oz.” Baum Bugle 31, no. 2 (1987): 10–12.

MLA 9th ed.:

Tobias, Pat. “Growing Up in Oz.” The Baum Bugle, vol. 31, no. 2, 1987, pp. 10–12.

(Note: In print, this article was supplemented with photographs and vintage advertising that have not been reproduced here.)

I think of the Oz Club in connection with family and home. There are two reasons. First, because my parents introduced me to Oz and to the Club. And second, because . . . well, I’ll get to that in a minute.

It all started before I can remember. Every year, we watched the 1939 MGM movie on television. It was a special family event, something to be treasured.

When I was two (or maybe three), my mother read The Wizard of Oz to me for the first time. And The Land of Oz. And Ozma. A chapter a night. At four, I learned to read. Then at bedtime, I would watch over my mother’s shoulder to make sure she didn’t leave anything out. I looked into those wonderful Neill pictures and imagined myself in Oz. Maybe I imagined too well, because when I was six I got into trouble at school. I had been signing all my papers Ozma.

We lived on Kansas Street, which I always felt was significant.

My bedtime reading was abandoned when I was eight or nine because my mother was starting over with my sister, Wendy. I was on my own to finish the series. I’m not sure how far we’d gotten reading a chapter a night for six or seven years (interspersed with Pooh, Alice, Dr. Dolittle, Dr. Seuss and other classics). I do know we’d crossed over from Baum to Thompson, and I believe we were closer to the end of the series than the beginning. But I don’t recall which book I read all by myself for the first time.

So far, this tale is not unique among book-loving children (except maybe for calling myself Ozma). But then, in 1964, something remarkable happened. In June, my father went to Oz. At least, that’s what he told me when he came back. He said there’d been a tornado and everything.

The next year I was ten, and something even more remarkable happened. I went to Oz. My father and I left Kansas Street (in Oklahoma) and drove north. Oklahoma was flat, dry, hot and looked just like Kansas in the Oz books and movie. When we arrived two days later in Indiana, it was hilly, green, lush, wet and cool. (You know, I may be lying about the cool part . . . ) It certainly looked like Oz to me.

We drove on a twisting, winding road and then—suddenly—we were there. A scarecrow (a real one) was out front and there was a sign that said “Wizard of Oz Lodge.”

We walked through the door of a screened-in porch and then through another door into the house. On my left was a room that seemed to be taken up entirely by a grand piano. My father turned right, into a big room with tables in it. He greeted people he’d met the year before. Oz books were everywhere and so were Ozzy knick-knacks. I was introduced to a great many people (perhaps ten or twelve) all at once. I knew even then that these people were going to be special to me. At that time, I thought it was because I had gone to Oz. I later learned that being in Oz was only one of the reasons they were special people.

It would be wonderful if I could remember whom I met first of that group in 1965, but I just can’t. It might have been Brenda Baum (now Turner), who adopted me. “You remind me of my granddaughter,” she told me later, when she gave me a pinafore and let me help out for a while in the kitchen. I felt very important when she allowed me to put bowls of peppermints and glasses of iced tea (carefully) on the tables.

It just as easily could have been Jim Haff, who also adopted me. He was very tall and his eyes twinkled and he made the most outrageous puns. He loved baseball. From then on, forever, he was my uncle.

It might have been Cal Dobbins, who decided he should be my grandfather when he found out I didn’t have one. He started my life-long interest in old films and, for years, brought silent Laurel and Hardy comedies to Oz conventions just for me to see. I’m not sure how other Ozzies reacted to the non-Oz activity, but I loved it.

Or Dave or Doug Greene, the twins. Because I was a well brought-up child, I called them Mr. Greene and Mr. Greene. Because they were all of 20 years old at the time, they spent the better part of that first weekend trying to talk me out of it. In retrospect, I think I may have clung to formality for fear of calling one of them by the wrong name.

Or Harry Neal Baum, who sat me on his lap and told me stories. I can’t remember the stories, but I would give almost anything to be able to.

It might have been Fred Meyer, who gave me a puppet. Or Dick Martin, who drew me a picture of Polychrome (my current favorite) on a piece of Oz Lodge stationery—something I treasure to this day. Or Irene Fisher (who also adopted me). Or Jan Holahan. Together, Irene and Jan helped me comb my long hair, which was very tangled after two days in a car.

Or it just might have been this tall, outgoing kid—the only other child there. He was red-haired, freckled and 14 years old. He, like I, loved old songs. And amazingly, he was nice to me, perhaps because we were the only children there. Or perhaps because he knew what it was like to be the youngest. Or perhaps just because he was nice. His name, if I remember it correctly, was John Fricke. To this day, 22 years later, he’s still my best friend and big brother.

I could have met any of them first, but it doesn’t really matter, because I met all of them in a matter of minutes and meeting them changed my life.

The next day, I met more people, all nice, all interesting, all willing to talk to an overly excited 10-year-old. The rest of the convention is a blur, except for food with Ozzy names, an auction, a wonderful marionette show by Bill Eubank, and a contest that I won.

Sunday morning, we had to leave. Back to flat, dry, hot Oklahoma. Back to nothing—or so it seemed to me. I had an uncontrollable crying fit (something that has since become my trademark). I couldn’t bear to leave these people—my family—for a whole year. A woman (who I’ll swear was Barbara Koelle, although she denies it) took me aside and, with some concern, told me I’d make myself sick if I kept crying. As we left, I (still crying) wondered how much crying one had to do to become sick. There hadn’t been a tornado, but I didn’t care. I’d been to Oz. It was the best time I’d ever had.

The next six months were spent thinking about Oz and writing letters to Brenda, Jim, John and the others. The six months after that were spent anxiously awaiting the next convention and writing letters to Brenda, Jim, John and the others. This was a pattern that would repeat itself for many years.

When I was 20, I still cried at the end of Oz conventions, still couldn’t bear to leave. But now I was a grown-up—at least I thought so. (To some people, though, I was still Little Patty!) We now met at Castle Park, Michigan—an enchanted place—and my sister was one of the littlest ones there. I had new aunts and uncles and cousins to meet every year. It dawned on me about this time that I didn’t have the vaguest idea what my Oz friends did for a living out in the real world. I worked to correct my oversight.

I also discovered that no matter what else was happening in my life, the Oz Club went on. There would always be silent Oz films to see, inventions by Bill Eubank, auctions. I would meet Margaret Hamilton or Eloise Jarvis McGraw. And once a year, I knew I could be with people who thought I was pretty and smart and who liked me no matter what dumb things I might have done the year before.

Next thing you know, I was 30. I no longer cried at the end of conventions unless provoked. I no longer had to wait a year to see people either, which might explain why I didn’t cry. It hit me suddenly that, in five years, I would be the same age my father had been when he took me through that door at Oz Lodge 20 years earlier.

So, feeling reminiscent, I looked around. And there was a little girl. She had long hair and she loved Oz and she was one of the youngest children at the convention. She reminded me of someone I used to know—or, perhaps I should say, of someone I used to be. Her name was Wendy Roth. I decided after 20 years in the club, after all the kindness from all the people, after all the years, it was time for me to pass a little on to someone else. Carrying on the tradition started by Brenda, Irene, Jim, Cal and others, I adopted her. She lives with her parents in Manhattan, near me, and we go kite-flying in Riverside Park and play Monopoly in French and talk Oz. She’s the new generation of my Oz family.

For 20 years, my family has been there. True, we say we attend Oz conventions to do Ozzy things—to buy books, see films, collect goodies, even just to get away on vacation. But I think it’s really a front, a cover. What’s really going on is a family reunion. Almost every year, some stranger will come up to me at one of the late-night convention gatherings and sav. “I don’t know what it is about you people. I came here out of curiosity, but I feel as I’ve known you all along. But I couldn’t have, could I? I just don’t understand it.”

And I say, “Don’t worry about it. It’s been happening to me all my life. Welcome home.”

Now, I’m 32, and I had a dream the other night. In it, I’d been in some minor sort of accident and was laid up in bed. As I opened my eyes, I saw faces peering down at me. Surrounding my bed, filling the room, were people I knew. They were my family: Irene, Pete, John, Ed, Barbara, Dan and Lynne and Alison, Cal, Dick, Jim, Judy, Jerry. Jim and Dorothy, Katie, Wendy (and Wendy), Marc, Brenda, Fred, Hank and Myra, Robin . . . and on, and on, out into the hall. I looked at each person in tum, and was overwhelmed with feelings of love and warmth and all manner of comfort. I sat up in bed, looked around the room and said:

“I was in this truly marvelous place. And you, and you . . .and you were there. And this is my room. And you’re all here . . . And, oh, Auntie Em—there’s no place like home.”

You may think that was just a strange dream. In fact, you. may not even believe I dreamed it. But I did, and I don’t find it strange. I know I’m a very lucky person, because once a year for more than 20 years, I’ve had the privilege of going home to Oz—where my family is. And, as we all know, there’s no place like home.

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