there’s no place like home

Yesterday, I walked into a hot air balloon.

My cousin Mark owns one, and he brought it to my Memaw’s 87th birthday party in Madisonville, Kentucky. It was too windy for tether rides, but he blew up the hot air balloon to lay on its side behind the house. Mark invited us to take our shoes off and step inside.

I was surrounded by green, yellow and blue. I looked up and saw the shadows of tree branches above the balloon. Lightning bolts mark the part of the balloon that faces heavenward when it’s floating. The trapped air buzzed against my ears, and the material rolled beneath my feet.

My dad said it felt like gym class, when kids raise the colorful parachute together then tucks themselves under it. I said it felt like Oz.

“Is there a hot air balloon in The Wizard of Oz?” my dad asked.

I watched The Wizard of Oz for the first time this June, when I grew tired of my friends’ bullying me for not having seen it. I must admit it was insane that I hadn’t. I’ve seen the Broadway production of Wicked twice, once in New York City and once in Louisville. I saw the movie in theaters last fall and am eagerly awaiting Wicked: For Good. I’ve even seen The Wizard of Oz twice on stage, put on by the Alhambra in Jacksonville and by the Anderson County High School musical cast. But I didn’t watch the movie until this summer.

It is, obviously, wonderful. The scene when Dorothy walks from her sepia homeland into the burst of color that is Oz—well, it wasn’t unlike stepping inside a hot air balloon.

And in answer to my dad’s question: There is a hot air balloon in The Wizard of Oz. It’s allegedly how the Wizard arrived in Oz, and Dorothy tries to depart via balloon in her desperate attempt to get home.

Yesterday, as I stepped out of the balloon and slipped on my shoes, I noticed that both of my grandmothers were seated in lawn chairs, watching our sprawling family.

No clicking of my heels required to be home.