Why then, oh why can’t I?

Britt Kennerly
Jul 24, 2017 · 4 min read

I knew I was screwed the minute I looked up at the screen, where host Robert Osborne talked about the making of “The Wizard of Oz” and then Judy Garland started singing “Over the Rainbow.”

Doug and I were waiting in the room you stand in before getting on The Great Movie Ride at Disney’s Hollywood Studios. Clips from Turner Classic Movies play as you go through line — “Mary Poppins.” “Singin’ in the Rain.” “Casablanca.” You know. Classics.

My mother and I watched “The Wizard of Oz” together at least a dozen times. It started airing on TV annually the year I was born, back when dinosaurs stomped the earth and before you could rent a movie. After I got married and moved to Arizona and became a reporter, one of us would call the other while it was on, usually just in time for us to sing part of “Rainbow” together. We’d hang up and then call again after Dorothy wakes up and shout in unison, “There’s no place like home.” I am sure I know what my dad, who hated long-distance phone bills, was singing in the background.

When I had the chance to interview two Munchkins, I regaled my mom with stories they’d told me and gave her a business-type card from Margaret Pellegrini, who played the flowerpot Munchkin and a sleepyhead. Mommy gave the card back to me about five years ago and told me I should hang onto it because it was probably worth something.

But my mother, who’s 84 now, doesn’t remember all of that anymore. Ever-creeping dementia is erasing a lot of the good shit, those just-us moments. For the last couple of years, every time I’ve thought of “Wizard,” I’ve had this vision of my mother’s distraught face, instead of Aunty Em’s, inside the Wicked Witch of the West’s crystal ball. Mommy is looking for me to come home. She can’t see me because I’m in Arizona or Indiana or Florida or wherever the hell it is the tornado of life has thrown me.

And so, as Judy sang and Toto looked on, I started to cry. Quiet, steamy, scald-your-cheeks tears, rolling in a room full of smiling people who probably thought I was just a hormone-challenged, middle-aged woman who needed a pill of some kind. Doug put his hand on my shoulder but looked at the screen because as he says, every time he sees me get weepy-faced, all he wants to do is ask, “What can I do to make it stop? I don’t like to see you hurt. I don’t like to see you sad.” And he can’t fix this, and he knows that.

A woman who was holding two little kids’ hands caught my eye and looked away, almost as if she were embarrassed to see me boo-hooing over a made-to-jerk-you-around song. I wanted to run over and hug her and tell her it was OK, and that she should hang on to those kids and sing with them while everyone can remember the words. I didn’t, because at worst I’d have been booted out of the park and at best, could lose my place in a long line.

And then it hit me that even if I called my mother right that minute, she might not be able to sing our song or recall watching “Wizard” with me. And Judy Garland and Robert Osborne and Margaret Pellegrini are dead. And the dog who played Toto has been dead since my mom was a teenager. Even The Great Movie Ride, which transports guests through a world of those classic films and makes a stop in Oz, is going away soon to make room for another attraction. Crap. Cue the waterworks.

Anyway, they let us through the door to get on the ride just as Judy started to wail “Why then, oh why … ?” I didn’t have a tissue so, one arm at a time, I wiped my eyes on my T-shirt sleeves. I missed the “… can’t I?” part. Doesn’t matter. Because my mother gave me wings, I still think I can fly over that rainbow, and no one’s going to tell me otherwise.

Britt Kennerly writes for FLORIDA TODAY. Reach her at bkennerly@floridatoday.com, on Facebook at facebook.com/bybrittkennerly/ or on Twitter: @bybrittkennerly.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade