My Mom thought movies were tools of the Devil. At the best, they were a waste of precious time that could be better spent working or learning; at the worst, they filled heads with scary nonsense.
She was, as always, half right.
“The Wizard of Oz” used to air once a year on television. “You’ll just have bad dreams,” Mom would tell me. “You’ll be too scared,” my sisters said, “just like last year.” It didn’t matter. I was going to watch it this time, from start to finish, from Danny Kaye standing on the rainbow explaining why part of the movie was black and white, through Almira Gulch on the bicycle, past the tornado, the shoes, the monkeys. This time I would make it.
But then, as the tornado blew Dorothy away, and Almira turned into the witch, I would run crying into the kitchen to hide my face in Mom’s lap.
365/radical elements 
I could barely get past the opening scene. It was a very scary movie.
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I don’t remember ever being frightened of it. I watched it every year sitting on the floor in front of the television (black and white for way too long) and was a mess of tears and snot at the end when the pals had to say goodbye to Dorothy. My parents always threatened me that they’d not let me watch it because it made me cry.
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That movie scared me sooooo much. (I think I was in college, though, or nearly, before I saw it turn to color. And by that I mean that my parents never owned a color set.)
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My sister used to be scared by Lassie. You’re in good company.
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Did you emerge for “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”?
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