The Land of Oz?

I grew up in the land of OZ. Where appearances and faces mattered. The depth and soul was unspoken and hidden.

We had a death in the apartment building last week. There’s a truck downstairs, being the first of the next month, organizing and removing the contents of the deceased’s apartment. We had the coroner here to investigate against nefarious acts. It was likely just a fall or a death in sleep, seeing as how this building is filled with senior citizens. 

In Oz, there are no old people. The lined and wizened Wizard is the only face we see with character. All the other faces are studied, chiseled, or otherwise just “fruity” in their appearance.  The inhabitants of Oz will “dye their eyes to match their shoes” which is just like Hollywood used to be. The land of enchantment , where everyone wanted to go; the magnet of the southern California dream.  Movies, television, stardom.

There was so little of substance that a Friday night football game for the local high school was drowned in the magic of the “Opening” of the week. The critics, the press, the fame. The mile-long limousines dropping off their passengers in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater in a long procession.  

Hollywood and Vine. Max Factor. Revlon, behind its red door. The magic of make-up and wardrobe to change the appearance of a woman from young and lovely to old and haggard for the right part. The hairdressers who changed your hairstyle or made your wigs for the part next week or the week after that. The bit parts, the extra scenery, the crowds. 

We never dealt with death, there. We never thought about the end of life. It was “poof” and the wicked old witch was dead. “I’m melting! I’m melting!” No one talked about what to do with the chair or the couch or the TV or the books. What about the beloved, old, moth-eaten sweater that her mother gave her when she had her first child 50-some years ago? Or that horrid vase that she kept as a memento of their honeymoon trip? When a star passes, their estate goes public, all their possessions are brought to light. The hidden and the well-known. 

What about the seniors in this building and other buildings like it? A few pans, maybe a blanket or quilt. Mobility devices, old and smelly clothes. Shoes that no one wants. The wedding set may still be on her finger. More likely, it’s been given away, or put away in a box on the dresser.  The rest of her jewelry will be plastic, glass and plated. “Nothing of value, here, folks. Move along!” 

But evidence of a life. Some well-lived, some marking time. The appearance of the thing is everything. A little lipstick, a comb through the hair, and we venture forth, into the public eye. The loneliness, the emptiness; these we never share, never expose to the light. Until our deaths. 

Age and wisdom aren’t valued anymore. I remember my mother lamenting turning 35, and the dating pool drying up. It isn’t about dating or mating. It’s about the wisdom of what we’ve learned that we must pass on.  When there’s no one to pass it on to? We die and the things we knew die as well. Who will remember her best friend from first grade? Who will remember her grandfather, and the stories he told? 

We lose our history when someone dies. The writers are free to change what our children learn in school. That the moon landing never took place., that the Holocaust was a joke, that WWI was fought over land, that Viet Nam was a just war.  We lose so much.  

So, when you hear someone say “Pay No Attention to That Man Behind the Curtain!” you wonder what they are talking about. How can that be? You see the suit, the trappings. But look inside. Look for the substance behind the mask. Look below the surface. Take off the make-up and see the real thing. 

We don’t live in the Land of Oz.