The Christmas of Oz - Revisited

Note: This one's a direct repost from my former blog.  My daughter's now 10 years old and has a little sister who rivals her for the title: Cutest Princess Ever.  Still, I thought it was fun enough that it deserved to make the move here with me. :)

Last year, JUST before Christmas and well into the Holiday Season, my wife and I introduced our three-year old little girl to the Wizard of Oz.  It was on television one evening and we let her stay up "late" to watch the entire movie.

Now just to get it out-of-the-way, obviously my little girl is the cutest, smartest, most talented and awe-inspiring three-year old around.  Got it?  Now that THAT's settled, we can continue.

See, like many little girls, My little Princess has become enthralled with all things Oz.  Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Lion have become her bosom buddies.  She can tell what scene is playing just from the music or dialogue she hears even when she's out of the room, and she's got more than a few words for that naughty green witch that seriously needs a time out, in her opinion.

The video was at the top of her wish list for Christmas and my Wife and I lovingly got it and made sure she opened it as her first gift.  Between showings on cable in the days leading up to Christmas and her own DVD, she's seen the film more than twenty times in the last three weeks.  Seriously.  And so has Daddy.

I'll let that sink in, and appreciate all the Sympathy cards you send.

Anyway, my precious little girl is quite verbose and inquisitive, like any self-respecting three-year old should be, but bias aside, she's even just a bit more than that.   She's honestly been asking us, since she was about one year old "What's that?" about everything.

So, she finally decided to turn her mutant intelligence powers to the details of the Wizard of Oz (The guy she insists just needs to learn how to use his balloon like a good Wizard), and while she's still thrilled to see Dorothy's house flying through the air in the Tomato, she's perplexed by the following mystery:

What are the Witch's names for the East AND West, and is there a witch for the South? (and, of course, what's HER name, then?)

I have to admit, I found myself floored by the clarity of her question and frankly, the fact that I had NO friggin' idea.  I mean, I had seen the movie now more than twenty times WITH her as well as maybe just as many times throughout my entire life, and I'd never given the idea a second thought.  I recall even reading the books when I was a kid...or more likely having them read to me, and as far as I knew, the Green Lady was simply the Wicked Witch of the West.  Period.  That WAS her name, right?

Stumped, I went to the source.

In the book "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" by L. Frank Baum, the Wicked Witch of the West had no name mentioned.  Anywhere.

No wonder she's so grumpy. She's jealous that Dorothy has a name and she doesn't.

No.  Really.  No name.  Way to go, Mr. Baum.

A clever google-ite, I kept looking and found details for the novel Wicked...a book I have yet to read but have heard good things about.  In the Gregory Maguire book,  "Wicked, The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West," the Wicked Witch of the West was named Elphaba. (Obviously a clever manipulation of L. Frank Baum).  In the Broadway musical;  "Wicked" the Wicked Witch of the West is also named Elphaba.

Her sister, the Wicked Witch of the East had a VERY small but pivotal role in the L. Frank Baum book and the 1939 film. (She's the one who gets a house dropped on her cranium without even uttering a quiet "Oh No!").

In the book by Maguire and the Broadway musical, the Wicked Witch of the East's name was Nessarose.   In the Script for the MGM film, she was called Gulcheria (after Miss Gulch)

However, in the Baum novels, she had also had no name, and so both witches were referred to as either The Wicked Witch of the East or West.

And what about the Witch of the South?  Believe it or not, it gets worse here, kiddies.

In Baum's books, The Good Witch of the South is named Glynda. Yes, Glynda...in the South, not the North.   She is beautiful and young in appearance (though much older in reality), and it is she who tells Dorothy that her magical SILVER slippers will take her wherever she wants to go. She is also the most powerful witch in all of Oz, and rules Quadling County, which is well defended by her army of Amazons.
Got all that?  Forget the munchkins, or flying monkeys gang...this witch has Amazons!

Her sis, the Good Witch of the North is an older sorceress, weaker than either of the wicked East-West sisters.  She's the one who meets Dorothy upon her arrival,  and sends her down the yellow brick road, but doesn't appear in the book after that, though she does show up in sequels.  (I guess she got lost or something)

She was never named in Baum's books, but in his own stage adaptation he named her Locasta.   However,  in one of the sequels written by another Author ( Plumly), she is named Tattypoo.

And here I thought explaining to my Princess how a Scarecrow could talk, a man could be made out of Tin, and a Lion could be such a scaredy-cat might be difficult.  But THIS mess?

While for now I'm likely to just pick from the available names for each witch, someday, not today, or probably even THAT soon, probably around the time that she'd rather be talking to her friends about boys and the latest bubblegum pop music star that is driving her Mother and I crazy...THAT's when I'm going to sit her down and explain, in detail, the true details for names of the Witches North, South, East, and West.

That's what Fathers are for, right?  The important stuff?   I'll let her Mother worry about that silly ol' Birds and the Bees thing...

~Steve

Broken Robots

After yet another day of chaos and mayhem,  I sat my kids down and smiled down at them in a patient, fatherly way.   I had had enough of our usual games, and I was going to try a new tactic - logic.

It was time for a parable.  A life lesson, if you will.  And I was ready and willing to share.

Not surprisingly, since the latter half of the day and evening my wife and I had been boiling over with scoldings, threats, and time outs aplenty for the children-who-really-needed-to-get-a-clue, they seemed eager to listen.

"If you had robots in your house that, once or twice a day, randomly did things they weren't supposed to do, like breaking toys, throwing shoes, or punching people, would that be good?"

No, father, they shook their heads solemly.  Obviously not.

"And if these robots were scheming to swipe cookies, screaming at the top of their lungs for no apparent reason, or drawing on the walls with crayons, would THAT be okay?"

Chuckles all around as they continued to shake their heads.  Oh, no Father.  Of course not.

"How about if the robots refused to clean up messes they made, and left tools and machine parts all over the floor for everyone else to step on and hurt their feet?  How about that?"

Silly Daddy.  Of course that wouldn't be ok.  Smirks now.

"AND after scolding and disciplining them, if you asked these robots WHY they were doing these things that they were programmed not to do...that they knew very well were wrong and going to get them punished...and the only answer they would offer was, "I dunno..."

"Those robots would be really broken, Daddy."  My youngest offered.

"...and wouldn't you turn them off until you could get them fixed or reprogrammed?"  I followed this up with an arched eyebrow.  My best Spock impression of implied logic.

Nods of approval all around from my kids, finally catching on.  "Oh, Daddy.  You're so clever.  Of course you must be talking about the OTHER kids in the house", each seemed to be thinking.  "I'm not the broken one, of course."

And right at this climactic moment of almost-clarity, my son says, "Um, tomorrow, can we build a fort in the living room?"

The spell was broken, and all of them were now nodding their heads in excited anticipation of the following day's events, my lesson forgotten just like that.

Broken Robots.  All of them...and I'm looking for some reboot software.

Anybody got a wrench?  *headdesk*

I Can't Pick My Nose...

All my life, I've never really been able to simply sit down and pick my nose.

No, seriously.  I can't.

Now, I know that this topic may be a bit ooogy to some people, and if so, I advise you to simply move along to my next post which will likely be about something cute the kids did or some other silly aspect of my life, because frankly, I really need to vent a little bit about this one.

You see, my problem isn't one of squeamishness or distaste.  I don't hate nose-pickers.
Now, don't get me wrong, I don't have some sort of fetish for nose-picking or anything.  And I don't particularly have the desire to spend inordinate amounts of time in the excavation of a perfect...er, booger.

Seriously, I think picking your nose is just as gross as the next guy...or mom, really.  (Because, lets face it, more moms complain aobut their kids picking their noses than dads, unless of course you're sitting in church or at a family function.)

No, my problem is more about the fact that I CAN'T pick my nose.  I truly and honestly can't...and you know how people get about being denied something, right?

Go ahead.  Tell your kids they CAN'T do something...pretty much ANYthing, really.  Within 24 hours, practically guaranteed, they'll be trying to sneak around you to do that very thing.  (Unless, of course, you just get silly and try this sort of reverse psychology to get them to eat asparagus or stewed tomatoes.  Kids aren't THAT dumb.)

But WHY, you may ask, can't I pick my nose like the rest of rural and backwater America?  (And some of you middle to upperclass Americans too...yeah, you.  I see you there behind your screen, picking while you think nobody's looking...)

Its a question of size.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

No.  Not the size of THAT.

Rather, it's about the proportionate size differential between my fingers (which are, I confess, rather large and broad) and my nostrils, which are in contrast, VERY small.  (A fact that my wife LOVES to tease me about, btw)


A quick anatomy lesson:
Even though the nose is generally considered an outer part of the face, (most likely because its usually the first part of the head to get smacked when playing Dodgeball or in a fist fight), the human nose is actually composed of both the external structure and the inner nasal cavity, which is divided vertically by the septum and runs from the nostrils to the pharynx.  The blood vessel network inside the cavity moistens and warms air that's going to enter the lungs.

Got all that?

Ok.  But it's really not that important, or rather, it certainly wasn't to me when I was a kid.  All I knew was that no matter what I did, my fingers just never really fit up my nose properly to allow a good, ol' fashioned nose-picking.  I mean, I saw my friends, and heard the stories, and frankly, I never got anywhere near the satisfaction that some of the other kids did with what little scraping and poking my fingers could do from the outside of my nostril.

Oh, come on now.  What?  You've never picked your nose?  Never enjoyed the sense of achievement and relief at finally getting that itchy bit of irritation out of your nose while no one else was looking?



Oh.  And let me stop for a moment and be clear about something.  I'm not talking about being ok with booger-EATERs.  You guys know who you are and yeah, I'm just as grossed out as everyone else at your choice of delicacy.

Ew.

But back to what I was saying earlier, I suppose you could say that I have nostril envy.  I mean, I've got friends and even family that have nostrils you could drive a Cadillac into.  I'm sure they have NO problem whatsoever picking at anything that's bothering them up there.  Granted, this may be a classic example of the grass being greener on the other side of the fence...well, of something being greener, in any event...and I'm sure that they probably have complaints about having a nose that's too large.  Perhaps sunglasses don't fit properly or they can feel the breeze when the wind blows up their nose.  I don't know.

What I do know is, that while I'm sure the thrill of being able to clean out my nasal passage with my own finger rather than with a tissue or a Q-Tip would likely pass rather quickly if I had the ability, sometimes...just sometimes, when I look up at the sky at night and see that first star, I'm tempted to wish...

Starlight.
Star bright.
First Star I see tonight.
I wish I may.
I wish I might.
Have the wish I wish tonight...

Aw, who am I kidding?  I usually end up wishing that I could win the Lottery just like everyone else.

~Steve

Shazam!

May 20th, 2018.
Day One.

You know, originally I had planned to relaunch IC on the first day of the New Year.

Things happened...life happened, and for various reasons, the first post on the first day of of the year didn't happen.  Cue the self-imposed and probably unwarranted guilt.  Though to be honest, after some reflection...who out there really cared if I waited a day or thirty or not, right?  Or more?...I think that the waiting makes it better.  No, not better.  Perfect

But just a friendly warning: I'm not going to try to do this whole blog-thing perfectly.

Been there, done that, stressed myself out with early blogs, and it went badly.  Oh, no, I'm deciding right here and now that, much like the first draft of the novel I'm working on, it doesn't HAVE to be perfect.

Because let's face it, life isn't perfect, right?  We live and we work and we stress out over what we do and don't have and what we will or won't accomplish in our sometimes meaningless and fragile lives.  At least that's how I've always done it.  Why pretend, right?

Ahh, but pretending is what I do.  It's what I WANT to do.  It's what Imaginary Crayons is all about.  (Just in case you may have been wondering.)

Imaginary Crayons is all about the magic we all KNEW about when we were kids.

No, not the Harry Potter hocus-pocus stuff, or the Inner Peace and Healing crystal kind.  Not the Voodoo-Zombie-Summoning-stuff or even the kind that drives the folks that celebrate the Solstice with a midnight dance around Mother Tree.

No, the magic I'm talking about...the real kind...is the stuff that we lived for when we were young and fresh and didn't know better...or  maybe we DID know better, but just didn't care.

I'm talking about the kind of magic where the meaningful conversations we had weren't about whether or not Santa really existed and delivered presents all around the world in one night, but rather, whether his sleigh could fly faster than Superman and which of them would be better suited to fight off an alien invasion if it should ever come right down to it.

You see, I'm a just a kid who grew up and never stopped believing.  Not in Santa or the boogeyman, not in the Force or in True Love or in Good Guys in White Hats, or even the fact that we really ARE allowed to keep playing pretend the way we did when we were kids.  It's just that we just have to keep it more to ourselves sometimes, and we have to play a little quieter and find new ways to express our playtime.

For me, Imaginary Crayons, in all its blogish-silliness-and-glee IS going to be my playtime, and I invite you to play along.

This is the first post of many, many peeks into my mind and yeah, into the magic I still KNOW exists in the world around me.  Come join the fun!

Abracadabra.

~Steve