The Land of OZ in Wisconsin’s North Woods

Paragraph from an essay in progress, “Oz: Emerging Truth.”

OZ sits me down where I’m accompanied by the parting grip of Old Man Winter. His dying is not pretty, and he’s peeping around the corner in prurient self-interest, wanting to mess with Easter.

But he can’t, so Old Man Winter becomes a disgruntled wizard, holding on to his wish for relevance. The curtain is pulled back and he’s busted as a fake. He’s not the all-powerful controller. I try to ignore the cold bearded man behind the curtain as I sit with him, the snow, and the wood stove. Outside, I he weeps at his parting.