I wrote a first draft of this story in 1994 after watching an episode of the PBS TV show, "Mister Rogers' Neighborhood." The guest was Margaret Hamilton, who played the Wicked Witch of the West in the movie version of "The Wizard of Oz." Mr. Rogers wanted children to understand that the Witch was not real but was portrayed by an actress. On the show, Margaret Hamilton showed how make-up transformed her into the Witch, and I remember she commented that the Witch was not all bad and that if you observed her carefully you could see that she sometimes even was sad.
That exchange inspired me to write this story, which originally I intended as a gift for Margaret Hamilton. It was only after I'd finished writing it that by doing some research in the library (this was pre-Internet) I discovered that Margaret Hamilton had died about ten years earlier. The episode I'd watched of "Mister Rogers" had been a re-run.
Since I could not send my story to Margaret Hamilton, I instead sent it to her son, Hamilton W. Meserve, a newspaper and magazine publisher in the Hudson Valley area of upstate New York. In March, 1995, he wrote back a lovely note which said, in part: "Mom was always concerned that children understood the difference between make believe and reality. Your story gently bridges the two and makes children want to know the witch as a person."
That first draft of this story was written well before the show "Wicked" opened and before publication of the novel on which it was based. Recently, I dug the story out of my files, was pleased to find it still carries a compelling message, and did some editing.
So, click your heels together three times—and I hope you enjoy!
The Wicked Witch's Retirement Dinner
(October, 2011)
"Melt me, will she!" snarled the Wicked Witch of the West as she crept along a dark passageway in the basement of her castle. "When I get out of here, I'll catch that prissy Kansas girl, and her little dog, too!"
It had been just an oversight, really, that had allowed the Witch to return to life. On the upper deck of the Witch's castle, Dorothy Gale had doused the Witch with a bucket of water, melting her. The Palace Guards knelt and proclaimed, "Hail to Dorothy! The Wicked Witch is Dead!" But so excited was everyone by the Witch's demise, that no one bothered to mop up the puddle of her remains. While everyone celebrated, the water that once had been the Witch seeped through the floor and into the castle basement. Drop by drop, it formed a puddle. When a rat ran through it—the puddle quivered alive. From its center rose a plume of swirling, black smoke and from the smoke emerged the black-caped, green-skinned cackling figure of the Wicked Witch of the West.
Feeling her way along the maze of dark tunnels, the Witch vowed, "I'll catch her, and this time I'll kill her!"
But the Witch would not be able to catch Dorothy because Dorothy had already returned safely to Kansas. The Wizard, too, was gone. Now Scarecrow was in charge, aided by Tin Man and the Lion.
When reports reached Scarecrow that the Witch might still be alive, he ordered the Palace Guards to arrest her.
Days later, the Witch, still lost in the tunnels, heard footsteps.
"Stop right there, Witch!" shouted the captain of the Guard. "You're under arrest!" With him were a dozen Guardsmen, all dressed in the same red-trimmed, gray uniforms they had worn when they worked for the Witch.
"Fools!" threatened the Witch. "I'll burn you to cinders!"
The Guards remembered the Witch's evil powers and how she had used them against her enemies.
The Captain said, "But Scarecrow has ordered us to arrest you."
"Arrest this!" shouted the Witch, and she thrust her hand toward the Captain as if to throw a fireball.
He flinched.
But nothing happened.
"You'll die in flames!" she screamed, thrusting both hands within inches of his face.
Again, nothing happened.
The Witch looked at her open palms and long, slender green fingers, as if she had never seen them before.
The Guards handcuffed her and led her away.
They kept her overnight in a holding cell in the castle. Pacing the tiny room, the Witch tried to understand how she had become a prisoner in her own home. She recalled the cold shock of the water that Dorothy had thrown at her, and how she had weakened and begun to melt. And she guessed at how no one had mopped up, and how the water had seeped through to the basement, allowing her to return to life. Exhausted and anxious, she lay down on a small cot in the corner of the cell. Clutching at a fold of the fabric of her black cape, she fell asleep.
Before dawn the next morning, the Captain of the Guard entered.
"Get up!" he ordered. He told the Witch she would be taken to Munchkinland to see Scarecrow.
She stood slowly, feeling stiff. She had not slept well. Her gown and cape were heavily wrinkled.
The Guard handcuffed her. "Can you take these off when I get in the coach?" she asked.
"You're not going by coach," said the Captain. "You're going by monkey. Scarecrow thought you might like to travel the same way you once arranged for him, Lion, and Tin Man to travel."
Two of the Witch's own Flying Monkeys entered the cell. "Take her away!" ordered the Captain.
The blue-faced Monkeys, about half as tall as the Witch and still wearing the red bell-hop caps she designed for them, led her out of the cell and down a hallway to an open window. They gripped the Witch by the back of her black gown and leapt into the air, holding her below them as they flew up and away from the castle.
"Let me go!" cried the Witch.
But she hoped they would not let her go. She understood now that she no longer had the power to fly. Indeed, that none of her magic powers had survived the melting. She was just an old woman, dressed in black, being flown through the gray, predawn sky toward an unknown fate. She was tired, and she was afraid.
The Monkeys landed outside Munchkinland—a law recently passed forbade the Monkeys to enter the city because Munchkins were still too frightened of them. Nervously, a dozen Munchkins met the Witch and escorted her to the central square where Munchkin police took her into custody.
Acting swiftly, Scarecrow called all Munchkins to a meeting at City Hall that same afternoon to decide what to do with the Witch.
City Hall, with tall marble columns and nearly 500 seats was the largest indoor meeting space in Munchkinland. Nearly every seat was filled. Munchkins turned to watch as Scarecrow entered through a rear door and walked slowly down the long center aisle, occasionally nodding to his right or left as he passed Munchkins whom he recognized. At the front, he mounted the stairs to the stage and stood at the podium. A security guard then led the Witch in through a side door and seated her at a small wooden table in the front of the Hall, off to one side and below where Scarecrow stood.
As he looked over the assembly, Scarecrow patted down a few straws poking through the seams on the top of his head. Now that he did most of his work indoors, he seldom wore the high-pointed black hat he used to wear in the cornfields. Munchkins seeing Scarecrow hatless for the first time were struck by the profound roundness of his head, and how the stitching of the seams that ran from scalp to jaw on either side of his face made his head resemble a baseball.
Scarecrow raised his white-gloved hands in a "settle-down" gesture to quiet the crowd. He told the Munchkins about how the Witch had been captured, assuring them her magic powers were gone, and then invited suggestions on what should be done with her.
"Stone her!" cried one Munchkin mother who was the first to rise to her feet. "She scared my children with her fire balls and threats! They still have nightmares."
"A lighted match will do better!" piped an old man.
"Drop a house on her!" shouted another man. "That did the job with her sister."
At the mention of her sister, the Witch, who had been staring straight ahead, bowed her head slightly. She imagined it would not be long before this angry crowd of little people took her life, too.
Tin Man, who was sitting in the front row, unbent himself into a standing position. Bright ceiling lights reflected off his skin and sent laser-like beams around the Hall.
"Now, I don't mean we should go easy on the Witch," Tin Man began, "but if I remember correctly, though the Witch scared a lot of people she never actually killed anyone. Putting her to death might not be fair."
Scarecrow asked the Coroner to check his records. After a brief pause in the meeting, the black-suited Coroner stood and confirmed that the Tin Man had a point: the only death recorded was that of the Wicked Witch of the East.
A young Munchkin man rose. A boy and girl stood on either side of him. "I'm all for fairness," he began, "but we can't allow the Witch to remain in Munchkinland. It's too dangerous for our children. I say we if we can't put her to death then banish her—march her to the city limits, give her enough food for a couple of days, and let her fend for herself in the forest."
As Munchkins murmured their approval, there arose from the front row a massive head of brown curls topped with a tiny red ribbon.
"Yes, Lion," said Scarecrow," what do you have to say?"
Munchkins in the seats directly behind Lion had to duck to avoid being struck by his swinging tail as it bobbed and made wide sweeps from side to side before Lion was able to catch it and hold the tip in front of him as he spoke.
"Remember, folks," he began, "we're not dealing with the Wicked Witch as we knew her—this Witch has no magic powers." He stopped and half sat down, but then quickly rose again as he remembered the rest of what he had wanted to say. "If we set the Witch loose in the forest, she'll have no shelter. The animals will attack her, or she'll starve." Lion concluded in a confident tone, even gesturing with his paw for emphasis. "Putting the Witch in the forest would be the same thing as a death sentence. It just wouldn't be right."
The debate continued. All the time, the Witch sat quietly, her back to the crowd, staring ahead.
Then Scarecrow quieted the crowd.
"My friends," he said, " I've listened carefully to all of you, and I think I have a solution." He smiled gently and put one white-gloved hand to the side of his head, as if to show from where the solution had come. "It's true, of course, the Witch has harmed many of you by the frightening way she behaved, but instead of harming her, why not make her pay us all back?"
Munchkins murmured. "What?" "How?"
Scarecrow continued, "The convenience store in the middle of town—"Munchin' Munchkins—has been closed since the manager retired last year, and I've heard from many of you what a hardship it is not to have a place to pick up groceries and other essentials. I propose we make the Witch run that store for us; she can keep what money she needs to live on, but all the rest will go to help Munchkins in need."
The Witch glanced up at Scarecrow. She recalled her last words to him on the upper deck of her castle: "How about a little fire, Scarecrow?" she had taunted, as she touched her flaming broom to his straw-filled arm. Could that same man she nearly had killed now be proposing to save her life?
Munchkins rose to express their fears: "Live among us? The Wicked Witch? How will we protect our children? What if she's faking and hasn't really lost her powers? Our children go to that store to buy candy; the Witch could poison it!"
It was only when Scarecrow agreed to have a security guard posted inside the store during business hours that a majority of Munchkins finally agreed to his idea.
Scarecrow looked down toward the Witch. "Stand up," he said.
The Witch slowly rose.
"Do you have anything to say before I issue this order for you to run the store for us?"
The Witch seemed remarkably tall as she stood among the seated Munchkins. Though she held her chin with just enough lift to hint at her former pride, she dared not look back towards the hostile crowd and instead kept her gaze locked on Scarecrow. There was something in Scarecrow's simple, sewn-together face that told her she was not being tricked, that this man without a bone in his body was firm in his decision to spare her. But her lips remained pressed tightly together, and she said nothing.
"Then I hereby order it," Scarecrow declared. "Take her away."
A guard led the Witch out a side door. As Munchkins filed out of City Hall, they debated among themselves whether Scarecrow's idea was wisdom or folly.
They gave the Witch a cottage just off the Yellow Brick Road where it curves out of town. It was a small cottage, even by Munchkinland standards: a modest living room with a day bed and, off to one side, a little kitchen. Before the Witch moved in, Munchkin carpenters raised the ceiling and extended the bed frame.
The Witch slept all of the first day and part of the second; the simple bed was a comfort after two mostly sleepless nights on jail cots. On the afternoon of the second day, a Munchkin messenger arrived with a sealed envelope from Scarecrow. Inside was a note: "I know you'll do well at the store. Use this to buy what you need for your home." Attached was a check—payment in advance.
The Witch was startled: she couldn't remember the last time anyone had expressed confidence in her.
Her first shopping trip was for groceries. She waited until late in the day when she thought the street would be less crowded, but even so Munchkins, seeing her black-gowned figure, crossed to the other side of the street; Munchkin parents picked up their toddlers and hurried away.
When she had lived in her castle, the Witch employed a cook, so it had been many years since she had prepared her own food. But to her surprise, she found she enjoyed cooking again, and with the few ingredients she was able to afford she managed well enough to feed herself.
Her next excursion was for clothes. She had nothing but the black cape and gown she had been wearing when arrested. Of course, there were no clothes in Munchkinland large enough for her, but by piecing together several Munchkin garments she picked up at a thrift shop, she made herself a few simple skirts and blouses. Most were beige and other neutral colors. No black. And no shoes that were ruby, scarlet or any shade of red.
Those first weeks she spent fixing up the cottage, shopping, cooking, and making clothes, were the first time in years the Witch had been by herself. In the castle, she was nearly always surrounded by others: her staff, the Guards, the Monkeys. At first, the solitude at the cottage troubled her, but gradually she began to like having time to be quiet and think, and she delighted in discovering that she could take care of herself.
At Munchin' Munchkins, the Witch had much to do to prepare the store for re-opening. It needed airing-out, sweeping, and dusting. Much of the existing stock, such as food and medicines, was old and had to be thrown out and re-ordered. She re-organized all the shelving: tissue boxes and personal care items here, school supplies and games there, cereal boxes up off the floor, magazines and penny candy near the counter. She found some old cans of paint and touched up the "Munchin' Munchkins" sign in the front window.
Each day she walked to the store alone. She wore her hair in a loose bun, kept her head down, and didn't talk to anyone unless spoken to—which was seldom.
There was no "Grand Opening;" one morning, when all was in order, she just quietly flipped the red and white sign hanging on the front door to "Open." The store that now stood ready to serve Munchkins was clean, well organized and freshly stocked. The Witch surveyed her work with a simple sense of pride, something she could not recall having felt in a long time.
Even so, the first few weeks did not go smoothly. One morning, the Witch arrived at work to find spray-painted across the store's large front window the words "Surrender Witch!" She worked much of the day with paint thinner to remove the scrawl. A few nights later, several bottles of Witch hazel were lobbed through the same window. The next morning, Munchkins observed the Witch outside the store on her knees, carefully picking up the shards of glass. She covered the window with brown paper until the glass could be replaced. Police questioned two members of the Lollipop Guild but no arrests were made.
It took many months before most Munchkins felt willing to even try shopping at the Witch's store. Gradually, though, the sight of her in Munchkinland became familiar, and Munchkins grudgingly admitted among themselves that she was reliable. If a Munchkin mother came into the store for three bottles of milk and two hairbrushes, that's what she was charged for; no one reported any incident of the Witch making an error on a bill, or trying to cheat them.
Still, they were cautious, and one day there was an incident that reminded them of why they were wary.
"Look what you've done you miserable midget!" screamed the Witch. A chubby little boy, no older than ten, had come to the store after school for Frozen Oz Bars, a popular ice cream sandwich. It was an afternoon in spring, about halfway through the Witch's first year at the store. She had arrived at work early that morning to stack dozens of bottles of a new soda in a tall pyramid display. It had taken her several tries to get the bottles to balance. Whether on purpose or by accident, when the boy ran into the store, he knocked over all the bottles.
The boy's knickers and black buckle shoes were covered with bits of glass, but he didn't move. He could only stare at the terrifying image before him: a tired, green face contorted in rage.
"I'll tan your hide!" shrieked the Witch. Then she noticed a broom leaning against the wall. "No," she said slowly, in a mocking singsong tone. "I think I'll skewer you!"
The Witch squinted and curled her red-painted lips into a phony smile. Grabbing the broom just above the bristles, she advanced on the boy, thrusting the handle at him like a lance.
"How about a little shish-ka-bob, baby boy?" she threatened.
The boy glanced forward and back, looking for a way out.
"Don't hurt me!" he pleaded. "I didn't mean to do it!"
For a long moment, the boy and the Witch stood face to face, separated only by the length of the broom handle.
Suddenly, a shudder ran through the Witch. She closed her eyes, relaxed her shoulders. She took a breath. As she slowly lowered the broom to the floor, the boy dashed around her and out the door.
Amidst the pool of sticky soda and shattered glass, the Witch crumpled to the floor and wept.
In early fall, about three years after the Witch had come to live among the Munchkins, a severe low pressure system moved through Munchkinland. The Munchkin meteorologist called it a storm, but others were sure it was a hurricane. Around 11 o'clock in the evening the roof of the chick nest blew off. The Munchkin Fire Department sent a ladder truck to the scene. Firefighters climbed up and into the nest and carried each yellow chick down to safety. They placed the frightened birds on the ground and climbed up again to spread a tarp over the exposed nest. As they wrestled with the wind to tie the tarp down, one firefighter stopped and motioned to the others to look below.
"Well, I'll be the Wizard's uncle!" he said to his fellows. "Would you look at that?"
On the sidewalk below was the Witch, kneeling beside the frightened birds and smoothing their ruffled feathers.
"Don't be afraid, my pretties," she said. "The storm will pass."
When an assistant to the Mayor arrived, the Witch rose and silently handed him two grocery bags with loaves of bread, warm blankets and six bottles of milk—enough to keep the chicks warm and fed throughout the night. Then she turned and hurried away.
In the following days, Munchkins spread the story among themselves about how the Witch had come out in the storm to help the chicks, and left even without being thanked:
"Did you hear what the Witch did...?"
"The Witch saved the baby chicks!"
"She petted them, and brought them blankets and milk."
After this, when Munchkins would go to the Witch's store, many for the first time would say hello to her. A few even tried asking how business was and how she was. Though outside the store no one had much to do with her beyond a simple nod, inside the store became a warm and friendly place. And the Witch continued to take pride in the store's neatness and efficiency; if anyone asked her to order something special such as baby wipes or a new kind of ice cream bar, the item would show up on the shelves within days.
As relations warmed, the notion of what to call the Witch became something of a problem. Calling her "witch" didn't quite seem right anymore. One Munchkin told of a conversation he had had with the Witch during which she revealed that her given name was Margaret, and that quickly got around. From then on, it was "Good morning, Margaret," "How's business today, Margaret?"
As customers felt more comfortable talking to the Witch, children who came into the store with their parents discovered she had some amazing stories to tell—not just stories about witches, but by someone who really was a witch!
"Tell again about how you flew on a broom!" pleaded one Munchkin boy, while his mother shopped.
"Tell us how you made clothes for the Flying Monkeys," asked a little girl.
Before long, the Witch found she was spending nearly as much time telling stories to Munchkin children as she was tending to adult customers. One day she put a sign in the window:
Thursday's 3:00 - 4:00 p.m.
All Are Welcome
For Story Hour, the Witch moved boxes and display cases to clear a space at the back of the store, threw some pillows and blankets on the floor, and seated herself in an old rocking chair. Children, and sometimes their parents, would come early to sit up close.
"Can you tell about when you were a girl?" a Munchkin girl asked one day as the Witch settled into her chair.
"Well," began the Witch, "there was a time when my sister and I were little girls—just about your age—and we had just discovered our magic powers. At first, it was like a game for us. I remember on days when my mother was hanging the laundry behind our house my sister and I would see if we could fly over to the front of the house and then back again before Mother noticed we had been gone."
A boy asked, "Tell the part about heating the dog food."
"Oh, yes," said the Witch. She had told this one many times. "When I was a girl, we had a little dog named Blackie who slept in our backyard in a dog house my father built. In the winters, it got cold where we lived, so sometimes on very cold nights I would sneak out of my room to the backyard where Blackie lay in his dog house, and I would heat up his dinner by making a tiny flame with my fingers." The Witch stretched her fingers out towards the children to show how she used to make flames.
"That's all for today, children," said the Witch. As they left, she invited each one to take a penny candy from the fish bowl near the door.
For many years, the Witch continued working at Munchin' Munchkins and the people of Munchkinland were glad she was there. But a time came when she found it was getting too hard to keep with up with the ordering, stocking, and cleaning, and working the new computerized checkout was something she just never felt comfortable with. As her 70th birthday approached, she decided it was time to retire.
No one is sure who first proposed honoring the Wicked Witch of the West with a retirement dinner, but the idea was immediately popular. Tin Man headed up a committee to organize the event.
Late on a Saturday morning, Tin Man stopped by the Witch's modest home to tell her about the plans.
"Please come in," the Witch said quietly. As he entered, Tin Man couldn't help but think back to the grandeur of the Witch's former castle.
"I wasn't expecting anyone," said the Witch. "I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess."
Tin Man noticed a dust mop and carpet sweeper standing in one corner; against his will, he scanned the room for a broom, but saw none. The Witch pointed to a chair, and as Tin Man seated himself, the usual clanging noises he made when adjusting his posture sounded especially loud in such a small room. A slight blush came to his aluminum cheeks, but the Witch waved away his embarrassment, as if to say, "We all creak a bit as we get older."
After a bit of talk about the weather and general goings-on in Munchkinland, Tin Man got to the point and told the Witch about the plans for her retirement dinner.
"So you see," he concluded, "it's something we all want to do. I hope you'll agree and let us make this party for you."
She nodded without saying a word. Under her eyes, the skin, now wrinkled with age and darkened to a forest green, became moistened with a tear.
"If you wouldn't mind. . . I'll just be a minute. . . " she said, excusing herself to the bathroom to regain her composure.
Tickets to the Witch's Retirement Dinner were hard to come by. Some said members of the Lollipop Guild had bought up a block of seats and were offering to sell them at high prices. By the day of the event, it was sold out.
None who attended the event could remember having seen anything like it in Munchkinland. It had the splendor and excitement of a royal wedding or Hollywood opening. At City Hall, where the Dinner was held, Munchkins arrived in gilded carriages, shiny private automobiles, and tiny limousines. Everyone came dressed in their finest. Aging members of the Lullaby League, though no longer able to fit into tutus, looked lovely in pink gowns and garlands. The portly mayor, now hobbled by arthritis in both knees, wore black tie with a crimson cummerbund.
Inside, the Witch sat on the stage at the head table. With her sat Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion, all in black-tie. The Mayor was up there, too, along with the current chairperson of the Lullaby League and a former member of the Lollipop Guild who now sat on City Council.
"May the goodness of Glinda, the wisdom of the Wizard, and the decency of Dorothy be with us all, now and forever," intoned a clergyman in an opening benediction.
Scarecrow welcomed the enormous crowd and introduced those at the head table. He said after dinner there would be plenty of speeches and, in the meantime, advised everyone to eat heartily.
Dinner included tiny salmon steaks, endive salad, baby carrots, and, for dessert, finger-sized chocolate eclairs.
Later, as servers poured refills on coffee and collected dessert plates, Scarecrow again stepped to the podium.
"My Munchkin friends, there are many who wish to honor our special guest tonight," he began, "so I will start by inviting the youngest among us to go first."
Two members of the New Lullaby League, girls of about eight years old, performed a short ballet in the Witch's honor.
Next, a member of the Fire Fighters Union, recounted the well-known story of how the Witch helped save the baby chicks the night of the storm.
More speeches followed, many sincere, some clever.
Finally, the Mayor climbed to the stage to present the Witch with a Scroll of Appreciation for providing the best convenience store in Munchkinland.
When the speeches were done, Scarecrow rose again. "I hardly know what to say after so many eloquent remarks," he began, "but I, too, have something for our honored guest." Scarecrow presented the Witch with a gift: slippers lined with fleece, which he said he hoped would keep her feet warm for many years to come. He didn't mention it, but the slippers were ruby-colored—a poignant gesture lost on no one.
The Witch rose and accepted the slippers. She softly touched her eyes with a handkerchief, put on her reading glasses, straightened herself at the podium, and spoke:
"My dear, dear friends," she began, "you are all too kind."
"Thank you, Scarecrow, for these lovely slippers. I will cherish them."
"You know, I don't need poppies anymore to put people to sleep. I only need to talk too long."
There was a smattering of laughter.
"These years among you have been the happiest of my life. I have tried to repay you by doing my job as best I could, but just the chance to live among you is so dear to me that I can never truly repay it."
She stopped to pat away a tear.
"I am reminded today," she continued, "of another day many years ago when my circumstances were much different. I am thinking of what turned out to be the last day of my old life. I was living in my castle and in my hands I held the fate of an innocent young girl and her little dog. I had frightened that girl so much that all she could do was weep and think of her dear Aunt 'Em. If Dorothy were here with us today, I would confess to her that when I looked into my crystal ball and saw her aunt in such a state of worry, I thought of my own mother who had died many years before. I asked myself what would Mother think of what had become of her two daughters: one killed by a falling house, and the other scaring a little girl and her pet.
"For the truth is, I looked into that crystal ball and what I saw reflected there was the image of an angry woman who could frighten little children. I could hardly believe it was me, yet it was me and despite all my powers, I was powerless to stop being me."
City Hall was silent. Even the servers stopped clearing tables to listen.
"When my sister and I were young, we were like most other children," continued the Witch. "We played games and we dreamed of the future. But as we grew, we started to look different from others. We became tall in a land of little people. My face and hands were not pleasing to look at; my skin turned green. I grew angry. I knew there was more to me than the way I looked and these strange powers, but that was all people saw in me—sometimes all I could see in myself.
"I spent years terrorizing everything that lives and breathes—including all of you—and built myself a great castle. But there was no joy in it. Can you imagine how dull it was to live with those Flying Monkeys and stone-faced Guards? It was humiliating, too, having little people as enemies.
"The worst day was the day my sister died. I could hear you singing from far away. Even now it is hard for me to say the words—"ding dong" and the rest—about how happy you were that my sister was dead. I thought, "Will this also be my end? That someday I will die and people will celebrate with marching bands, songs, dancing, and parades? This is my fate—that harmless people will rejoice at my death?"
At this, many Munchkins bowed their heads, recalling how they had danced and sang at the death of the Wicked Witch of the East.
"I was so angry at that fate—which I had created for myself—that I came to you in a searing ball of fire and rage. I'm sure you remember it. And that is the day I met Dorothy."
The Witch stopped to sip water form a glass under the podium.
"Dorothy reminded me of when I was a young girl; she even had a dog like mine. I don't know that I ever would have hurt her, but I know I frightened her and her friends terribly. For that I am sorry."
Here the Witch paused to glance at Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion.
"I do wish Dorothy were here so I could thank her in person. The water she melted me with gave me new life—not by giving me new powers, but by cleansing me of the old ones. You called them powers, but to me they were a curse. These last years have been the happiest of my life. You have allowed me to live among you and to be—to be myself. There is no way I can ever repay you for that sweet, sweet privilege.
"Thank you all."
The Munchkins and all those on the stage instantly rose to their feet and applauded loudly. The Witch seemed momentarily stunned by the reaction, and removed her glasses to again wipe away a tear. Scarecrow joined her at the podium and supported her with an arm around her shoulder. When the applause ended, he approached the microphone.
"If the Wizard of Oz were here, Margaret, I know he would have a little something for you in his famous black bag, as he had for Lion and Tin Man and me. Before we came tonight, we discussed this and did our best to come up with one more gift for you like the Wizard himself might have given."
Scarecrow held up a small, black cloth bag. He cleared his throat and, affecting as best he could the Wizard's deep voice, faced the Witch and said, "You, my dear Margaret, have labored under the illusion that you lack beauty. But as everyone present will attest, you have become, and always were inside—a woman of exceptional beauty."
Scarecrow paused, and held one finger straight up in imitation of the Wizard.
"BUT, you lack something that other beautiful woman have got—a beautiful ornament. And so, by the authority vested in me, I hereby bestow upon you"—here Scarecrow pulled a string of shimmering green jewels from the black bag—"a lovely emerald necklace, each stone lovingly collected by the children of Munchkinland."
Scarecrow handed the necklace to the Witch, who held it to her chest for all to admire. Looking directly into the Witch's moist eyes, Scarecrow continued, more softly now, "And remember, my supernatural friend, the beauty we find inside ourselves is the beauty that others will see in us."
Again, the crowd rose and applauded warmly. Scarecrow embraced the Witch, as did Lion and Tin Man, in turn. When it grew quiet, the Witch took her seat, gently fingering the lovely gems.
The Wicked Witch of the West continued to live in her little cottage on the outskirts of Munchkinland. Munchkins checked on her daily to see that she was well. One windy day when she was out for some fresh air, she fell and fractured a hip. After that, she wasn't seen much. Two weeks before her 78th birthday, she was found in her bed, having died in her sleep.
They buried her in the Munchkinland cemetery. A simple stone marked her grave. On it, the Munchkins wrote:
Of Munchkinland
Lies below.
She had a good mind,
A kind heart,
And the courage to grow.
©Peter Lovenheim
