T H E   R U B Y   S L I P P E R S   O F   O Z

When I was a little girl, I devoured every Wizard of Oz book by L. Frank Baum, as well as the continuing series by Ruth Plumly Thompson. I checked the paperbacks out of the library so frequently that they finally donated me the ravaged copies. Oz was a kingdom full of wonders -- glass cats with fur of spun crystal, gnomes and word games, silliness and terrible phantasms. There was a certain emotional health and optimism about human nature in the books. They were "cosy." But they were also intelligent, complex stories with inventive characters, from Baum's terrifying and stern First and Foremost Phanfasm, to Plumly Thompson's bizarre and whimsical Curious Cottabus. (I shall never ask a series of questions again without thinking about the Curious Cottabus.)

I watched the movie, of course, and the ruby slippers were hypnotic, glistening and winking, bright red on a field of yellow brick screen. Much more visually appealing than the original silver slippers drawn by W.W. Denslow, with their little-girlish straps and flat bottoms. In the movie, with heels and sparkling sequins, they instantly became the epitome of magic and glamor. For Dorothy, a girl from drab Kansas, donning those sequined slippers was a way of entering a magical realm full of bright color -- and none of us could ever understand why she wanted to go back home.

A few years ago, I was rereading the Oz series, and everywhere I went I saw red shoes. There were sparkly red shoes in Target, of all places, but they were only in little girl's sizes. I sat down on the floor and tried them on while my friends waited with varying degrees of impatience. They watched me quizzically while I contorted into various unlikely positions and considered Cinderella's sisters' option -- lopping off a toe or two, or maybe a heel. The largest pair, a child's size four, was at least one adult size too small for me, even with my small-ish feet. The shoes were cheaply made -- just Mary-Jane flats with a little strap and red glitter pasted on -- but if I had found them when I was a child, and could still fit into them, I doubt I would ever have taken them off.

The MGM movie was playing on Target's movie monitors, and I stopped, spellbound, and watched while my friends continued shopping. "I can't stand that Disney-ish stuff," a friend of mine said, and I was bewildered. I had never thought about it that way. I'd always identified with the Dorothy character, a candid dreamer -- she had a sense of wonder combined with a dash of no-nonsense Kansas farmgirl.

Later that year, my mother and I took a day off from visiting the University of Maryland campus to explore Washington DC. We were forced to take a detour around the city because of Earth Day demonstrations -- and there it was -- a sign on the side of the Library of Congress, advertising the traveling Wizard of Oz exhibition. There were no parking spaces, so I begged my mother to drop me off in front of the library and drive around the library till I re-emerged. "I'll be right back out," I said.

Two hours later I re-emerged, having seen some of the holiest treasures of the Ozian universe. My mother was perturbed, but I assured her I couldn't have helped myself -- I completely lost track of time. It was as if I had been transported to another universe. There was an original Baum manuscript, handwritten, with notes in the margin! And there were the ruby slippers in a glass case. Until that moment, I had no idea whether they'd be there. I stared at them, transfixed, for what must have been over half an hour, taking them in at different angles. They were falling apart. The transparent red sequins were worn and scuffed, but they still had the magic. And they still have that magic, for millions of other people. So, on this page I'll share a few of my "ruby slipper" finds and facts -- and you'll find references to other iconic red shoes here as well. Please enjoy, and don't forget, there's no place like home.