But kids love knowing things that very few adults know. Jeremy crows with delight when he beats me with a question, and the rest of his relatives have far less Oz info than I have, so I'm kind of the spiffy auntie.
I was sure there was a Mo popcorn stand someplace, because I had helped in the early festival planning, being a known Oz fan. At the festival, it was not actually in Mo, it was in Quadling country. I have written several articles on connections between Chicago and L. Frank Baum. Baum lived here for nineteen years around the turn of the century, taking jobs as an actor, as a newspaperman, later in a department store, finally as a full-time writer. He wrote
The Wizard of Oz
in a house on Humboldt Boulevard on the northwest side in 1899. I'm a freelance reporter, working in the Chicago area, and I was currently writing a story about the Oz Festival for a major daily, and a more scholarly piece on Baum himself and his work for
Chicago Today
. But even though I'd been here at the festival several times over the last few days, I did not know exactly where the popcorn was. The food stands had moved into place at the very last moment. That was okay. Popcorn was just a pretext. Really, Jeremy and I wanted to wander.
A lot of people only think of the
Wizard of Oz
movie when they think of Oz. The challenge for the festival was not only to use a lot of the most familiar movie elements, which would appeal to just about everybody, but also to include a lot of the wonderful characters and places L. Frank Baum invented for the other Oz books. My favorite was
The Land of Oz
. A stranger book has never been written. Those who have read it will know why; for those who haven't, I won't spoil the treat by revealing the plot. Or then again maybe my favorite was
The Magic of Oz,
where two friends, searching for a birthday present for Princess Ozma, arrive on an island where a magic plant grows. While admiring the plant, their feet take root. Jeremy's favorite was
The Royal Book of Oz,
begun by Baum and mostly written by another author, in which the Scarecrow searches for his family tree. I had read it to him four times and Maud said she'd read it to him so often she'd long since lost count.
Of course the movie elements were everywhere at the festival. There was a field of poppies, for instance. Grant Park is always lushly planted with flower beds, and this year they'd planned well ahead for the inaugural Oz Festival. Instead of going with geraniums or petunias, they had planted poppies. The Latin name for those big, bright red oriental poppies is
Papaver somniferum,
literally what L. Frank Baum intended— poppies that put you to sleep. He knew whereof he spoke. Unfortunately, oriental poppies tended to bloom in early June in this part of the world. Since the festival was in July, the planners had chosen a different variety, bright yellow-orange California poppies.
The farmhouse that Dorothy rode from Kansas through the sky sat on a slight but disorienting angle— or catty-wumpus my uncle would call it— doing duty as a funhouse in the Munchkinland section. And somewhere a human Dorothy was walking around in ruby slippers, even though in the original book the slippers were silver. The 1939 moviemakers had figured Technicolor hadn't been invented for nothing.
In the Oz canon, the Land of Oz is divided into four small countries, with the Emerald City in the center. The land of the Quadlings is red. Winkie country is yellow. Gillikin is purple. And Munchkin country is blue. So the festival divided the big area the city had given them into four different-colored "countries." In the very center was the Emerald City, actually a very pretty little three-story castle with the festival offices inside and a gentle roller-coaster ride for the younger children going spirally around it outside. The castle and roller coaster were, of course, emerald green. From the castle pinnacle flew Princess Ozma's flag, a banner with an emerald green center, its four quarters the colors of the four lands, yellow, blue, purple, and red. From above the castle's green doorway, a speaker played the "Oz Spangled Banner."
The lights, decorations, and uniforms of the vendors in Munchkinland were blue, of course. And in Gillikin country the color scheme was purple. Even the snow cones in Gillikin were grape purple. The general effect of all the color was dazzling and cheerful in the late daylight. Once the sun set and night came on, all the lighting in each section would be the appropriate color. And then the festival should be really, really impressive. E. T. Taubman, one of the festival designers, had told me that lighting is the most effective, most evocative way to create mood at an event, and one of the least expensive.
"But," he said, "it's usually ignored."
It wasn't ignored this time. Or at any rate, Taubman hadn't been overlooked by the press. His innovations for the festival had formed the basis for a glossy magazine article. Two of the news channels, WGN and Channel Twelve, had produced preopening segments on the festival and Taubman's light schemes. The lighting designs were colorful and bright and full of motion, just what television loves to show. Taubman's efforts had paid off both for himself and for the Oz Festival.
We passed a Munchkinland stand selling fizzy blue drinks called Witches' Brew. I stopped, intending to sample some, but in the low yellow light of the setting sun the blue goo looked muddy and not very appetizing. Plus, we were heading for the rides. I may not be a parent, but hey, I'm a quick study and I knew that stuffing a child with sugary, carbonated drinks just before going on wild rides wouldn't be very smart.
At a ticket booth near the castle I bought a "giant size" strip of ride tickets (emerald green tickets, naturally), not wanting to have to come back for more. My guess was we'd use them all.
The first ride we hit, in nearby Gillikin country, was more experience than ride. It was called the Magic Turning Mountains. In
The Lost Princess of Oz
the only path Dorothy and her friends can take to get across the canyon and continue their quest is blocked by huge mountains that spin. Scraps, the Patchwork Girl, thinks they can cross the canyon by hurling themselves into the first spinning mountain, bouncing from that onto another mountain, and then a third, until they reach the far side. And since she's made of cloth and stuffing, she tries the plan first, before the "meat" people take a risk.
To make the magic turning mountains, the festival planners had modified a fairground Tilt-a-Whirl, building purple molded foam rubber up over the seats in conical shapes, like huge pyramidal Nerf balls. The "mountains" rotated very slowly— insurance liability worries, no doubt— but looked like loads of fun. Smaller soft balls in purple, lavender, mauve, and violet totally filled the floor and intervening spaces so that children wouldn't be hurt if they fell.
"No adults," the ride manager said. He pointed to an arched signboard that read MAXIMUM 48" TALL in lavender letters on dark purple. You had to walk under the arch to enter the ride and if you were too big you couldn't go in.
Well, I could see why. If a large person got knocked into a small person it might do the small person some damage. "Want to go by yourself?" I asked Jeremy.
"Oh, yes!"
He ran in, shouting, throwing himself at a mountain, bouncing from one mountain to the next in total glee, the sort of utter, uncomplicated joy that only children can have. The little monster actually climbed to the peak of one of the mountains and stood there spinning and crowing at the top of his lungs. Another boy who was taller tried the same thing and rolled all the way back down. Jeremy crowed louder. He had triumphed.
You could stay in this device as long as you wanted, so he did. I shifted feet, sighed, shifted some more, but I really liked watching him enjoy himself. Finally he bounded out the far side.
I pretended to pout. "Oh, poop," I said. "That looked great and I didn't get to do it." Jeremy always thought "Oh, poop!" was the funniest remark you could possibly make. I suspected his parents disapproved of the expression.
He giggled. "You're fun, Aunt Cat."
When they say things like that, you want to buy them ice cream and popcorn and chocolate and not even ask them to wash their hands.
"Let's find a ride you
can
do, Aunt Cat."
We found the Kansas Tornado back in Munchkinland. This was the very tornado that carried Dorothy to Oz, although, luckily for us, it had been plopped down here in the form of a kind of racetrack that zoomed up and down through cloud shapes until it got going so fast that it could spiral upside down through a blue tube.
He loved it. I was the adult, presumably, but I had that mixed scared-thrilled feeling, as well as the don't-make-a-fool-of-yourself-in-front-of-the-child feeling, and when I got off I staggered for the first two or three steps. I was glad we hadn't gotten to the ice cream and popcorn yet.
Then we did the Flying Monkeys back in Gillikin country, where everything was purple. The Flying Monkeys was actually a merry-go-round with monkeys in place of horses, and the music playing was "Over the Rainbow." The merry-go-round was purple, naturally, highlighted with Day-Glo violet and lighted with both ordinary and ultraviolet light. The ultraviolet light on the violet Day-Glo made the highlights look practically radioactive.
We found a booth where you put your head in an opening and could have your picture taken as the Tin Woodman, Scarecrow, Cowardly Lion, Dorothy, or the Wicked Witch. I elected to be the Wicked Witch, which put Jeremy into fits of laughter while he watched me be digitally photographed. I put the photo in my pocket. He made me promise to give him the picture to take home with him at the end of the evening.
"Now I really need ice cream or popcorn," I said.
"Or both."
Laughing, I said, "Watch it, buster. With you it's always gimme, gimme, gimme."
There was an ice cream stand next to the Emerald City roller coaster. Fortunately, it had more flavors than just green pistachio. Personally, I have never understood why anybody orders anything other than chocolate ice cream, although chocolate chip, fudge ripple, and double-double chocolate aren't bad. We stood eating ice cream and watching all the fun things around us.
The festival security and info staff all wore gray-colored shirts with OZ on the back in big white letters. Except for the shirts' color they were reminiscent of the uniforms of the Wash & Brush-up Company in the movie. I had asked my brother Barry why the festival hadn't used green for the Emerald City, but he said that he wanted them to be obviously security, not theme-park characters. There seemed to be a lot of security people out here tonight. Maybe the whole staff was required to attend the opening, since the mayor and the superintendent of police and other Chicago big enchiladas were going to be here. Security would have to be good. Most likely the staff would be subdivided into smaller shifts tomorrow.
Each night of the festival featured a different special event. Tomorrow a performance of
The Wizard of Oz
would be held on the outdoor stage where the ceremonies were going on tonight. Then, over the week, there would be a Dorothy look-alike contest, a Toto look-alike contest, Scarecrow look-alike, and so on. One night was Munchkin tumblers with a prizewinning high school tumbling group starring as Munchkins.
The Horse of a Different Color passed us by. He was pink. I had been in the organization offices when Barry and the horse people had discussed this effect. The anticruelty advisers quite rightly would not permit horses to be painted. So the decision had been made to get three white horses, oil them lightly, and sprinkle them with vegetable-derived food colorings. They used beet powder for pink, turmeric for yellow, and something vegetable in origin that I can't remember for green. As far as I knew, they weren't doing blue or purple. The colors would wash off with a hose. I had wondered aloud what would happen if it rained and the little children saw a pink horse turn white.
"That'll just be the magic of Oz," Barry said.
It was exciting, being involved in the creation of a festival. I've always liked finding out how things work, and up to now festivals and fairs and such things just seemed to happen. Getting in on the mechanics of it had been a revelation. I liked the festival's creative people, too, with the possible exception of the public relations firm of Glitz & Slick. Okay, so that isn't quite their name. It should be.
Jeremy was thrilled with the pink horse, led around by a young woman dressed to look like Scraps, the Patchwork Girl. But he
really
giggled when the Tin Woodman appeared, wearing a suit of shiny, real metal, making creaky noises, and carrying an oil can.
"Can I oil you?" Jeremy asked.
The Tin Woodman said, "Yes, please oil my knee; it's very stiff today." He bent the knee, making a creaky noise, and handed Jeremy the oil can. Jeremy applied it to the knee and squeezed the handle. A small jet of what I assumed to be water squirted out. Jeremy jumped for joy.
By now it was getting dark. I glanced at my watch, and saw it was just past eight o'clock. Not yet time to meet Barry.
Jeremy was studying me closely. "Aunt Cat, can we play together again soon?"
"Of course, Jeremy."
"Like maybe tomorrow?"
I looked more carefully at him. "Why? Any special reason?"
