Six months later, I found myself in Shanghai, on business. I'd received a call at the apartment I was staying in from my brother in Houston, saying that my father had died. I was surprised when I heard it, because you're not sure what you've actually heard when you're told that your father has passed away. Most of us are going to hear a parent has died one day, but no amount of mental rehearsal can prepare you for the tangibility of that moment—and it only happens once.

            At one point during the last year of my father's life, when he was quite ill, I'd convinced my brothers and sisters to go to the agreed-upon funeral parlor to make sure our dear father's last wishes would be carried out. Later, when the details were finally to be decided on, my brothers and sisters felt he should have the final word in all of it. I felt choices like that should be finalized before you're 87 and nearing the end. Asking a dying man to please tell us whether he wants to be waked, cremated, or no memorial at all—oh, and can he let us know by Tuesday because that's when we're all meeting to sign the papers—well, it seems rather cruel.

            My father was from New Orleans, and lived lastly in Houston (relocated because of Hurricane Katrina). On the phone, I put everyone's mind at ease and let them know that we would be doing exactly what we had all calmly agreed upon when at his place for Thanksgiving the previous year. His body was to be cremated, sent to New Orleans, and interred in our family tomb in St. Louis Cemetery, with a simple and nice memorial service. And that's the plan that was put into action.

            We discussed the service. I thought that it would be nice to have a music accompaniment. I thought of "A Couple of Swells," a song my father adored. He had told me when he saw Judy Garland and Fred Astaire performing it on stage in the film Easter Parade, after the song finished, everyone in the theater burst into applause. I also thought of the aria from Lucia, which I knew he loved, and the Christmas song "The Little Drummer Boy," which oddly enough I never liked (probably because he liked it so much). I though a combination of those recordings played at the memorial service would allow everyone the chance to think of my Dad.

            When I mentioned this, my brother nixed it, saying, "That’s too long. Three songs are…"

            "No, no. I want to do a combination." I said, interrupting him.

            There was silence. This was a striking contrast to the terse moment at Thanksgiving months earlier, when I told my brothers and sisters that a Jesuit priest should be present at dad's service. Then, everybody couldn't shut up. I argued over their protests that a Jesuit priest would be appropriate—not a mass, but a priest—considering my father had been taught by the Jesuits in his grammar school, his high school, and also his university days. Well, unbeknownst to me, the subject was actually never settled.

            We had initially decided that the memorial services would be held at my mother's home, but now there was doubt. My father and mother had been divorced since 1966, and suddenly in 2007 they'd reached terms of endearment. I had memories of my father despising her, saying the most horrible things, usually with a bottle in hand. When Hurricane Katrina happened, they were unexpectedly forced together again, alternating together between different children’s homes while they themselves were homeless. On shifting sands, he suddenly realized that he had been joined with the woman he had loved and never stopped loving. Who knew? She certainly hadn't. Now that he was gone, I asked my mother if his turn-around later in life was enough. She said, "Too little, too late."

            My mother had since sold her home and moved into a lovely apartment, but not big enough for a wake. We finally decided that the service would be held at the Poor Claire Monastery. This was practical, but I hoped the church wouldn't burst into flames. All the saints and stained glass windows would be looking down on a service held by a fundamentalist Christian pastor, with Protestant hymns sung in a Catholic monastery chapel.

            After haggling about all of that through several phone calls, my brother asked me when I was getting back from Shanghai, and told me it would be sacrilegious if I didn't attend the funeral. I told my friend Tiki this as I hung up the phone.

            "No, actually it would be too bad if you didn't attend." she said, "What's sacrilegious is having a Protestant service in a Catholic chapel."

            I chuckled and thought, "She's so right."

            I felt very much like not attending. I had been a good son, and I hated funerals. Months earlier, I'd commited to important plans in Minnesota. I'd gladly agreed to be the keynote speaker at the annual Judy Garland Festival—a great honor—which was to be held that June in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. It would be the festival celebrating what would have been her 85th birthday. The timing of the festival clashed with the timing of my father's service. My family, my job, my dad…myself. There I was in China, sitting in a smokey apartment, next to a trash bin full of burnt fake silk pajamas, with all of this feverishly running through my head. For some reason, all I could think of was a song. While Tiki continued to dutifully wipe, I just sat there, and began singing "It's a Great Day For the Irish," from the film Little Nelly Kelly.

            Days later, as if everything else hadn't been enough, another email was sent from my family. I had been expecting it. Inaccurately polite, it let me know that the pastor from my brother’s Texan church would conduct the service, and that the songs would be sung by a woman who had sung at my brother's wedding years and years ago. And oh doesn't that just sound delightful? I felt left out. I'd always felt left out, but now it was complete.

            I thought of Judy and Fred Astaire singing the lyrics to the theme from Easter Parade, "Walk Up the Avenue," dressed in hobo costumes. Dad loved it. It's a fantastic musical film production, and the only one that Fred's partner, Judy, could perform years later without him, and not have anyone in the audience miss Fred Astaire. Ginger Rogers couldn't pull that off!

            Not attending the funeral of my father would be something I'd surely regret. But, would I? I'd rebuilt the family tomb, I'd supported my father financially for years, and I figured that I'd done enough in life. Now, in death, he wouldn't even be there to need me. I'd have to face the family firing squad in New Orleans for his sake, but he was gone now, and he and I had made our peace. For a moment, I would think I should trust my instincts and just not go, but then like a hangover, the guilt would move in. Then the phone calls from family came, telling me how it would be downright sacrilegious, as noted earlier. I was euphoric about attending the festival in Grand Rapids, speaking to other 'Judy Heads.' But here, months later, I had no choice. And so it was. Supressing every cell of my being, I reluctantly picked up the phone and—in a dreary, lifeless baratone voice—cancelled my plans to speak in Minnesota. I felt guilty for my self-pity, but I thought supressing my feelings at that stage wouldn't have been a good idea. The festival organizers were crestfallen, but understood. I hung up, picked up the phone again, and made plans to go to New Orleans to pay final repects. My heart was broken in a million pieces.

            Shortly afterwards, Flora called. She was dissapointed that I wouldn't make the Judy Festival (we were planning to meet there), but naturally understood. Of course, of course…everyone understood. It looked like the third phase of our Judy adventures wouldn't be happening after all. A few days later, she surprised me via delivery with a divine collection of gifts. It consisted of three pillows with beautiful slip covers she had embroidered with the names of my children, Gomez, Magi, and Benny, done on exquisite Russian linen. She also sent me a copy of her favorite novel, Hanover Square, a DVD about an artist she loved and admired, aromatherapy bottles, Christian Dior homme cologne, some kind of very fancy derma-system, and a garland of hearts made out of doilies, all laced together. She wrote on the package, "Because you love Garland.” What a sweet and thoughtful gift, from a person with the same qualities. And it arrived at just the right time.

            After canceling my scheduled appearance at the festival I didn't cancel my flight to Minnesota. Whether this was subconscious, or because it had all just been too much—I don't know. But opening the package of beautiful gifts from Flora, and pondering over them, I knew that I would be missing what would be precious, quality time with her—a new friend, a real friend and part of a family of sorts. Here's someone who doesn't know me, but desires to.  Every time I thought about it, that phone call canceling on the festival felt more and more like the consummation of a major life mistake. But my real family needed me; it was what I had to do at the time. Still, I couldn't get the festival out of my head, and I felt dreadful.

            You can choose your friends, but not your family, and Flora was a surprise friend of the highest order! We'd chosen each other through our love of Judy Garland, an intensely passionate and strong connection. Now we would be visiting her birthplace together on a special occasion. A holiday. Conversely, I didn't feel I was a part of my birth family. Showing up for my father's service woud be purely mechanical. It may sound cruel, but the truth is that if I wasn't in the family, they would never have chosen me. They define themselves in the belief that I'm going to suffer eternal damnation for the way I live, the way I feel. For them, it's their way or the highway to Hell. Here I was about to miss an opportunity to share a once-in-a-lifetime experience with this new friend that I loved. Some say that family is forever. Well then, I guess they won't mind waiting.

            Within hours, I suddenly just closed my eyes, bit the bullet three times, and called to re-arranged my travel plans to attend the festival. I let my family know. When I did, there was no blow-up on the phone, so I could tell they'd been expecting it. Maybe even hoping.

            I had initially let Flora know that I wasn't going to attend the festival through my assistant. I had tried, but couldn't reach Flora while I was in Shanghai.

            But now, glowing, I picked up the phone and called her.

            "Polish the rubies," I said, "I'm on my way." She was jubilant, loudly so. We re-organized our plans and I hung up the phone. I felt alive again. I hummed Judy's opening number from her last performance at the Palace Theater; "I Feel a Song Coming On."

            Days later, I found myself frantically rushing to the airport to catch the flight to Grand Rapids, but I missed the flight by five minutes. Shit. Was it my assistant's fault? My fault? The cab driver's fault? My assistant didn't give me my flight information, so I had to dash to the office to get it. That was a good twenty minutes. Had I been more responsible in taking the information, I probably would have made the flight. Had the cab driver taken me on another route, I would have made the flight. Had I not decided to stop and fantasize about the boy next door for a delicious few moments, I would have made the flight. But that last one doesn't count. I was going to a Judy Garland festival after all. How could I not agree with "Just adoring, not ignoring the boy next door," as she so lovingly sang while gazing with her big eyes through filigree lace draperies in Meet Me In St. Louis (directed by her second husband, Vincent Minnelli)?

            Here I was skipping my father's funeral for a Judy Festival, really on my first truly sacrilegious journey to Hell (I'd had to fly to Hades in coach, as first class was booked) and I'd now missed the flight. I didn't know what was worse, eternal damnation or the financial cost I would incur when I got to Minneapolis. I'd have to hire a driver take me all the way to Grand Rapids, a three and a half hour drive, or I could possibly try and get another short flight. But I knew I'd arrive anon, and the chaos would be worth it. I consoled myself thinking about the magnificent outfits I'd prepared for the festival; oh, they were very studied, but carefully so. I would be wearing the only jeans that fit me like a normal person. I also brought some must-have, just made-to-measure in two days while in China Mao jackets, my brown silk velvet robe, and a crazy suit with the even crazier shirt bordering on "costume." I decided I'd go there and really knock 'em wild.

            Judy always left them guessing. I found myself in the same position. Was I going, or I wasn't I? Would I attend the services in New Orleans, or not? Was he going to show? Was he not going to show? Will he or won't he, at least it looks like he will—convention, funeral, family, best friend, standby flight, phone call saying yes, phone call saying no, get disappointed, get excited. Who knows? Kind of like Judy, isn't it? But instead of an audience of thousands wondering, I could expect maybe 400 guessing what I was up to.

            I spent my new free time getting my assistant to arrange another flight. I then rewarded my realization that missing my flight wasn't my fault with a guilty indulgence. I got the works in the airport spa. It was $110 for one hour of massage, when I'd just paid $12 for the same thing—frankly, much better—in Shanghai! "What a world, oh what a world," I thought, as the masseuse's fingers caused me to melt.

            I finally made it to Minneapolis, the land of Mary Tyler Moore. After all those delays in New York, I boarded the jet only to be told that we would have a three hour delay due to the weather. "I'm not going to make it after all."   

            After we finally landed, I crawled off board and parked myself in the Minneapolis airport waiting area, hoping to be allowed on a plane to Grand Rapids with my standby ticket.  While waiting, I struck up a conversation with a woman who told me that she commuted between Minneapolis and Long Island City on the weekends. I said, "That must be hard."

            "No," she said, "you just have to get to the airport on time."

            I confessed my travel nightmares, and she looked at me smiling, and asked, "And you live in the city?!"

            I then told her about my reason for my trip (which she found intriguing) and told me I was going to be visiting a very pretty town. I remarked that it's amazing to think that the most gifted and talented entertainer of the 20th century could come from such a small place.

            Suddenly, she looked at me crossly and asked why I would say such a thing. I was surprised. I told her I didn't mean it as an insult, it just seemed amazing to me. She turned back coldly and said, "Great things come from small places."

            I thought to myself, you know she's right. Diamonds come from little lumps of coal.

            I began talking with this woman about Judy, and suddenly my phone rang. It was Flora. It sounded funny because when she said, "How’s it going?" I replied, "I'm trying to convert someone to Judy-ism." Sometimes I feel like the head vampire, biting everyone and making them love Judy. Not that it would be hard, I just make them know her.

            I told Flora of my troubles, complaining like a New Yorker. "Oh poor Marc!" she chimed. She's such a good spirit, a good soul. I told her I was excited about seeing her. I had to put on the corny act a little because I felt so childish talking to such a young innocent. She'd actually said "Oh poor Marc!" I realized I was just crazy about someone who was so fond of me. It's so nice to be liked, genuinely. What could be more genuine than a bond between two obsessed Judy nuts?

            Right then, I found out I wouldn't make the standby flight.  My assistant informed me that a driver would charge almost $500 for the trip to Grand Rapids. This trip was getting more expensive as the events unfolded. But I'd have sawed off an arm and a leg to get there, because there's no place like home.

            Judy Garland's actual home is a bucolic little town out in the middle of nowhere, indeed a little diamond nestled amongst something else. My driver sat me in a lovely big Town Car, with air conditioning, and told me he'd never been to Grand Rapids, but had Mapquest directions. I hoped he'd have better luck with those things than I did.

            So here I was, riding, riding, riding. I looked out the window. As we got closer to Grand Rapids, the memory of everything that had happened in the last week began to melt away. The number of buildings began to diminish on the passing landscape, which was also getting flatter, more windswept, and greener.

            I was shown my room at the hotel and I plopped down on the bed. I was exhausted. What a trip. And what a room, it was awful. It made me think of Judy's opening number at her last London appearance in 1969: "I Belong to London." While humming this, I realized the air conditioner in the room didn't work. You know, in a hotel, I feel it's supposed to be as cold as January, whether it's the Holiday Inn, Ritz Carlton, Four Seasons, or Four Reasons Less, it has to be arctic. This place wasn't. But they certainly were friendly about it.

            I woke up in the morning, happy, looking forward to finally seeing my dear Flora, her precious baby daughter, and her beautiful niece, who happened to be named Frances. Oh how dishy. Frances Gumm was of course Judy Garland’s birth name. Who knows, by the end of the trip she may decide to call herself Dorothy.

            We met in the brunch room, and already had plans. We would go straight to Judy's birthplace home. Gathering everyone, we schlepped through the two parking lots, soon arriving. We discovered a lovely little house, surrounded by a burgeoning town that seemed to be growing up carefully around it, as if it wanted to leave the house undisturbed out of familial respect. We delighted in taking photographs, and looked at template cuts—large stands of the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man, Dorothy and the Scarecrow one could poke their head through. I couldn't tell you what I was feeling at the moment. I'll confess I had been there before, of course, but each time I'd experienced a novel mix of emotions, similar to the combination felt after visiting her tomb. It was a brilliantly sunny morning, which made me feel happy. More than anything, I loved seeing how everyone was laughing and smiling at everything.

            We walked into the house from the rear entrance into the summer kitchen. It was appealing and original, painted in a deep red with green woodwork—not Christmas-y, but very American. We then entered the actual kitchen, which was cozy, and the antique appliances were absolutely charming. I imagined little Frances begging for just one more maple cookie, please. Stopping while the others moved on, Flora and I recited a Hail Mary in memory of my father right there in the kitchen, and then retired to the Gumm's dining room, finding it quaint and lovely. A peddle sewing machine was at the window with a card that stated this spot is where Ethel Gumm sewed the costumes for Frances and her sister’s vaudeville act, the Gumm sisters. Jimmy, Suzy and Baby (as Frances was known back then) had all stood for fittings, exactly where we were now standing, looking down. We turned and looked, and could see the family’s upright piano from where we were. We walked into the living room, or parlor. It was sociable, and homey, and we saw there was copy of Gainsborough's Pinky on the wall. Well, that's got to go!

            I sent a tiger oak hall tree for the room, a nice English Edwardian piece that people like the Gumm family would have displayed and been proud to one. I thought it was more appropriate for the space (goodnight Pinky!). I'll have to confess, the interior design of Judy Garland's childhood home was something I cared for greatly. I had helped decorate the historic home through thrift shops, Ebay, and antique stores (yes, it's true, who would have believed that I would be involved in the decorating of the interior of Judy Garland’s birthplace home?). It sure is refreshing to decorate for a star who can’t complain or ask questions. But more than design, I did specialized prop styling, and period decorating. The entire home is done with antiques from before 1924; furniture, curtains, clothing, china, silver, dolls and more...even an oak wood ice box. I selected and paid for the period wallpapers for the girls' room, the master bedroom, the bathroom and upper hall. None of these wallpapers were from the original home, but all were replaced with appropriate items. People often asked me how I got hired to do such a thing. I tell them it wasn't a job, it was love.

            In the living room, at the stairs' landing, is a card that explains that it's the spot where the Gumm Sisters spent hours practicing their routines. Going up the stairs, one can see a mahogany armoire on the second floor hall. The tiny upstairs bathroom has an even tinier bathtub (that I later learned wasn't original) which is adorable. This was an opinion formed before Flora and I almost snapped our spines trying to sit in for individual portraits. For only a moment, I wanted to get a photo of myself sitting on the toilet, hoping to be lucky enough to get a similar picture if we could get into Judy’s last home in London. So disrespectful, sitting on the potties of this legend’s first and last homes—where Judy no doubt experienced countless private moments. It might have been in bad taste, but it was an irresistible personal homage. She died while sitting on the toilet, just like Elvis.

            In the little room to the left of the bath, which was the girls' room, are two small beds. A card on one bed reads that Mary Jane, Judy’s eldest sister, committed suicide. Whose idea was it to put that there? It is true, but it's the kind of news one doesn't like to read on a little museum card inside a cheery bedroom setting. The master bedroom holds a double bed and a small child’s crib style bed, which is where the greatest performer of the 20th century slept, cradled, in her earliest years. And lo and behold, on this bed is a card that reads; "Judy Garland died on June 22, 1969, cause of death: accidental barbiturate overdose." This sweet bed with dolls and stuffed animals, and then this little card of sad truth. On the double bed is a card that reads; "Frank Gumm, Judy’s father, died of spinal meningitis. Ethel Gumm Gilmore, Judy’s mother, was found dead on her knees between two cars in a Dallas parking lot in 1953." Reading the cards, I suddenly realized how lucky I was to have Flora as a friend there with me. Overall, it's a charming, if not bitter-sweet, little museum in a forgotten little corner of the world. I'll find it forever fascinating, as will others, I'm sure.

            Before we left the area, I tip-toed up the steps and peeked through the window of the glass door to see all of the furniture and  decorative pieces I had given the museum. My eyes lingered over the collection. It was such a thrill owning Judy memorabilia and costumes and jewelry and make-up cases and dolls, and being able to have them all displayed so lovingly and carefully here—a foundation for "scholars of Judyism."

            We found our way into the children's museum section. Another mystery, because what makes it the "children's museum" is animals. Not like a petting zoo, or funny stuffed animals—but taxidermy animals. Lots and lots of taxidermy animals. That would scare the hell out of most people, let alone kids. There was a mountain lion rearing, a huge black bear with claws seven inches long, a coyote, even dinosaur skulls. Really quite a jarring display. Enjoy, kids!

            Back at the festival hall, we were treated to Judy memorabilia, at 150% overcharges. Dear Flora purchased a figurine for $130 which, at a garage sale could probably have been purchased for five bucks. I bought a Christmas ornament of a 20-something Judy out of costume. It wasn't a typical representation of Judy as an MGM character, like Dorothy. Here she was just being Judy Garland, dangling from your holiday tree.

            Then we were swept off to the first get-to-know-each other festival luncheon. I didn't necessarily stand out, compared to the attendees en masse. The crowd was quite Fellini-esque, walking through this convention hall in middle America, with everyone in their various guises. If you think science fiction conventions are picturesque, you should see a Judy Garland Festival. I'm sure the locals were wondering what had come over the lobby of the building (and the street outside), which was flailing with the decorated limbs of fanatics. Young men walking around in hand-made glued and glittered shoes, me towering in my Mao jacket. A little girl dressed as Dorothy with a toy dog in a basket. A group of mentally challenged men in Judy hats and T-shirts. An elderly man proudly running around in his own version of the ruby red Birkenstocks. Recreations of Judy's head and face floating all over the place. People yelling and singing songs and doing impersonations. Judy once told an interviewer in the 60's; "I truly have a great love for an audience, and I used to want to prove it to them by giving them blood." The scene at that festival might have appeared a bit maniacal, but it was love.

            Our host for lunch was the one and only Joe Luft, who happens to be Judy Garland's beloved son, born in 1954. At our table sat Flora, her baby, nicknamed The Chief, and her niece Frances. We then met the rest of our lunch guests, who just happened to be the four mentally challenged young men we'd seen in the lobby, all wearing their hats and T-shirts. Joe joined us, sitting there drinking coffee. Flora and Frances sat next to Joe. I sat in the middle, with Frances on my right. I noticed Joe was paying a lot attention to Flora's baby. She's called The Chief by family and friends, but her real name is Cecilia. Joe was probably transfixed by her because, besides being beautiful, she possesses a disposition so rarely seen in a baby: flawless charm. Flora claimed her father said The Chief is never depressed.

            Then, as I watched out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the strangest thing start to happen. I'd heard Judy Garland sing remarkable songs. I'd seen and heard Liza, her first daughter, sing remarkable songs. I'd even seen and heard her daughter Lorna perform and sing remarkable songs. But now, perhaps the most precious gem of all in this line of Hollywood royalty, Joe Luft, began singing the Paul Simon song, "Cecilia" to the baby! "Cecilia, you're breaking my heart, you're shaking my confidence daily. Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees, I'm begging you please to come home." Sung in a whisper, but still sung. I looked over to see the four mentally challenged men watching him with baseball-sized eyeballs. I stood up, realizing I had to catch myself because I didn't want to faint and make our table even more of a spectacle, which would have been a challenge. The table next to us featured a woman whose talent was cackling exactly like Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch, to yelping applause. She was wearing a giant witch hat.

            It would be later, in the bar, that I would remark about the whole thing to Flora. She told me she had interviewed Lorna, had interviewed Liza, and now, she had not only met Joe Luft, but he had sung to her baby.

            After his performance, Joe (not eating, just drinking coffee) became very polite, so warm and tender. He chatted with everyone. It reminded me of reading about his mother, being surrounded with children who had mental problems when she was in an institution either prior, or directly after, her MGM days. Because next to Joe were the four men, grown men, with their little memorabilia hats and shirts on with his mother’s face on each of them. All of them were mad, and I mean really mad, about Judy, and were just beaming, sitting next to her son, making unavoidably gushing conversation with him. I thought it was amazing how he behaved through it all, relaxed and happy. It seemed like he would welcome any experience.

            Soon, I was surprised to find I'd be introduced to the room. I was introduced as a celebrity interior designer visiting, and got a big ovation. I looked over at Flora smiling and clapping along with everyone. What a lunch!

            The next day's big event was the Munchkin Luncheon. Yes, indeed it is called the Munchkin Luncheon. Now, I'm sure you're picturing a crowded room full of little people in formal dress gowns and tuxedos, all sitting at round tables, eating with little booster chairs (admit it, that's what you were picturing). You may not know, but to date there are only seven surviving actors who played munchkins in the film, which was made 70 years ago. So at this luncheon, the title was at least technically correct, as there was only one of the four living munchkins in attendance. She is quite old, and surprisingly not very short. I think because of her age, I tended to not notice her height. Still, it was quite a thrill. People politely mobbed her. Not many can say they had lunch with a munchkin!

            After the meal, we watched two film programs. The first was hosted by the renowned John Fricke, who presented never-before-seen outtakes from his interviews done for the Judy Garland Biography series (for which he won an Emmy). Then Michael Seawell's gown collection was shown, including actual film performance pieces, and her famous Blackglama mink. It was accompanied by clips from the different films of Judy wearing the gowns. He owns the frock she wore in the last film of her career at MGM, Summer Stock, where she sings "Friendly Star." This song, when it comes to the MGM collection, is my absolutely most favorite. And don't forget, she ended this film and her stay at her studio home away from home with the stunning "Get Happy."

            It was a whirlwind presentation, and the audience collectively gasped several times. Soon it occurred to me that the next show would be mine, which would be that evening. How do you follow all that razzle dazzle? Whatever would I do? I was going to cheat, that's what I was going to do.

            Dinner time arrived, with show time looming close behind. The hot topic of conversation at the table was, of course, the now two year-long "whodunit" theft of the ruby slippers.

            We were interrupted with an announcement. To make things memorable they decided to give us an "activity." It was a game where each table had a theme. We were at the Toto table. Others were at the Dorothy table, the Professor Marvel table, the Wicked Witch table, etc. Each was supposed to come up with a little story using The Wizard of Oz as a starting point. Since we were at the Toto table, this friendly little girl wandered over to us from the other side of the hall with a doll of Toto in a basket, offering, "Would you like my Toto to help you?" Well, of course we would—short on story, long on props!

            Soon we learned that the woman in the black hat who did the Wicked Witch impersonation was sitting at our table. So, I began to brainstorm a story that the Wicked Witch had come back from the dead—or wherever she had been sent when she was melted by the water splash. So she was back, but in our world—and she was now causing havoc because she had stolen the ruby slippers from the Judy Garland museum (she'd been after them all along anyway, right?), and so as a result of this inter-dimensional thievery, global warming was happening—all of it cause by the Wicked Witch of the West. I decided to be topical. I was really going off, writing everything down as I went on and on. Someone finally got a word in edgewise and said, "Excuse me, you have to incorporate Toto into the story. We are seated at the Toto table."

            Oh, right.

            So I took a pen and I wrote at the top. "Toto told me this." We assigned everyone at the table parts, and we performed our little skit when it was our turn. Shockingly, our table won! I think it's because we played "the baby card." The Chief is so beautuful, who wouldn't want to give her the prize? Each of us received a thermos cup with a photograph of Judy fishing, of all things. They were called "go fishing" cups. I though it was only fair to give mine to the little girl who had loaned our table her Toto dog. She was blown away.

            So then it was a round of "Happy Birthday, Judy!" all around the hall, and quite enthusiastically, as you might imagine. She was born into this world 85 years ago. Here I was in her home town. We were all guests at her birthday party, raising our glasses in her honor. Amongst the revelry, it occurred to me how much I had treated Judy as a guest in my own life. Someone who visited me even just as a thought or a memory of an icon, and whose time in my life I cherished and valued. I always felt I was trying to look after the memory of her, make sure her legacy was okay, that she was being paid attention to, and happy. I like to be a good host, especially for a guest I hope will stay forever.

            Someone who had migrated to our table, a young Africa-American girl named Loretta, asked "Why is nobody talking about all the drugs and alcohol, but constantly talking about how Judy was so pleasant." Ahh…from the mouths of babes. At the festival no one would acknowledge the fact that Judy had serious problems. It's a reflection of the mindset of a lot of Judy fans. Of all the people at the festival, this eleven year old black girl popped that question. No one answered.

            The time for my speech was growing nearer. The previous night's presentations were tough acts to follow. I usually spoke to bored, rich women about wall colors and flowery fabrics. But this crowd was not made of wallflowers. Perhaps most importantly, Flora, my dear "sister in Judy," was sitting there with her daughter, her lovely niece, Frances, and the nanny. I didn't want to just "wow" the crowd, I wanted set the room afire.

            We were at the head table and, at my table happened to be my nephew and his fiancé, who lived in Grand Rapids. They both met in Romania as missionaries, and were now living here, and they were thrilled to attend when I told them I would be there. They had shared their love of Jesus Christ to me and I showed them my love for Judy

            As my nephew's fiancé began telling our table about her travels afar, that's when I made my move. I slipped away and tip-toed over to the Judy Museum. I found only the attendant there. I asked them if I could have one of the microphones on display. It was going to be the secret weapon in my presentation.

            I slipped it in my pocket and left the museum, creeping back and secretly segueing back into the room.

            Since I knew I'd be on stage, I'd spent some time deciding what to wear. For my talk, I had decided against my previous idea and instead decided simplicity under the spotlight was best. I wore my newly acquired chocolate brown Chinese silk velvet mandarin robe, lined with contrasting and matching linings of gold and black—a Ming dynasty motif rolled out on beautiful brown silk. A stunner. Even if I didn't set the room on fire, I might at least blind the audience. The outfit was a subtle homage.  I remember showing someone a photograph of Judy Garland in the late 50's, when she had hepatitis (a condition unknown to her, or the world—most people assumed she just had a severe weight problem). She was perpetually bloated. So, she would wear Mandarin jackets. I remember someone looking at the photo and saying, "Well, if you've got to be fat, that's a wonderful look." Sigh. I've always had an on-again, off-again weight problem, and frankly I couldn't wait to have several jackets and coats made by the tailors in Shanghai. So there I was, at the podium. And the first thing I did, I thanked my father. I thanked my father, recently passed, for the gift and magic of Judy Garland. It was he who gave me that gift in the form of a record album and a surprise shared interest, one of our few bonds. I think he would have been proud.

            I held that record album up and told them it was my favorite piece of Judy memorabilia. Then I prepared them for the surprise. I explained how the nice thing about going to auction houses, as opposed to museums, is that you don't have to fight your impulses against the "look, don't touch" policy, which doesn't apply. An auction house is the only place where you can turn a valuable French antique around to check out the bottom, or look at the back of a Monet painting without a second thought. Or, for that matter, maw and paw Judy Garland's personal possessions, with the utmost reverence of course. Then I pulled the rabbit out of my hat; the microphone from my pocket. There was an audible "Oohhh…" from the audience.

            I told them that when I had held this piece at a Christie's sales room years ago, I'd literally felt a jolt. Here was her microphone, that had been made specifically for her. It was small, encased in a white enamel finish, and had the words "Judy, Judy, Judy" finished in gold, wrapping around it like candy cane stripes. On the microphone top itself, were sparkling stars, placed just so. It's such a tiny little thing, about 5.5” long. Judy was so tiny herself however, that when she held it, it looked like a huge instrument. When your hand grasps it, though, your fingers almost cover the whole thing. But if great things come from small towns, great things also come in small packages.

            I explained its history, and told them that my birthday gift to Judy—and to everyone in the room—was to let the crowd experience the microphone. I wanted to hand it from table to table. I told everyone to take time holding it, and pass it on, so we all could feel and hold—closer than ever before—what Judy felt and held. And more importantly, channel what came out of her mouth went through this instrument, into speakers, to entertain the millions around the world. There's nothing like a great show and tell, like in grammar school. But instead of bored classmates, here was an enraptured audience. I informed them that when they held it, to remember that the amplified voice of the greatest entertainer of the 20th century went through that instrument and into the world—and touched an immeasurable number of lives. In the museum, it had been under glass. Now for a moment, it was in their hands.

            Watching them become visibly overwhelmed in their seats made me feel so myself. As I handed it to the first person at podium left, the person cradled it in both hands like a baby bird. I told them to be careful, I wasn't going to let that microphone walk away like those ruby shoes had.

            While I continued to speak, I could peek through the crowd and see these excited faces holding the mike, acting as thought they were singing. A big smile would then spread across the face of each person. One woman cried. It went from person to person, table to table, all the way around the room. The historic voltage transferred through that dainty implement cannot be measured in all the heavens and earth. My talk was a success.

            The festival closed with a beautiful and touching presentation by John Fricke, which had been shown at Carnegie Hall when Judy's commemorative first class postage stamp was released (it was a picture from her film A Star is Born). The presentation was a combination of different films from a very young Judy—showing her stuff—to an accomplished young movie star—again showing her stuff—and then to a 41-year old Judy, looking very elegant with a voice with could rock the walls of a dam, singing "Old Man River."

            This finished with clips from different films, while the soundtrack of the Carnegie Hall version of "Over the Rainbow" was played. All these beautiful images of Judy from little girl to fantastic movie legend. Amazingly, the microphone was still passing from one table to another while the tape ran and the songs were sung. People were holding that mike used to sing those exact songs.

            To my great surprise, I was then given an award. I'd been given awards in the past for decorating, but to be handed an award on a podium in front of the Judy Garland adoration society was quite a thrill. And to have Joe Luft, her son, in the audience and applauding me was like a dream.

            But most special of all was the fact that Flora's daughter was with us, watching it all with wide eyes. Upon learning her name, Joe began to sing a lovely little song just to her. "Little Cecilia...my little Cecilia." As the end of the song finished, so lovingly sung by his mother, there he was, singing to this baby. I was in awe watching him watch the film clips of his mother all evening. He looked so thoughtful. I noticed that he softly mouthed the lyrics of some of the songs. I can't imagine what it would be like to have a parent so renowned and yet, looking at this tape in a room full of admirers, it's not this legend—it's your mother.

            When he left, I said to Flora again, "Do you realize we've now heard all three of Judy Garland's children sing? Everyone's heard Liza, and lots and lots of people have heard Lorna. But how many people have heard Joe?"

            The entire event went off without a hitch. I went to bed, exhausted but exhilarated, and awoke on June 10th, Judy's birthday. My nephew, Ben, arrived with Jen, his fiance, with a cake that read, "Happy Birthday Judy." They also brought several large balloons and gifts for everyone. We sat at the table with Flora, her daughter, and her niece, and Ben and Jen. We sang "Happy Birthday To You," passed out gifts, and exchanged lots of kisses and hugs. As a few stragglers of the Judy Garland club came wandering in, we cut them slices too. And so ended a lovely event. A four hour ride back to the airport was all that remained, and I would have been happy to miss my flight this time around.

            In the end, I did make my way to New Orleans for my father's services. After all, I had been hard on my family. I think I knew I would attend all along. The service was beautifully done and very heartfelt. When asked later, I remarked that it was a huge success. Funny to refer to a memorable service in those terms. It's also funny that the success rate of such an affair is based on the tears shed. And there were rivers of them, for a troubled but good man.

            Good God! It was so hot in New Orleans, "Hotter that the hinges of hell," as my aunt Mary Jane likes to hoarsely say when huffing and fanning herself.

            I commented to one of my brothers that I couldn’t believe that it was so hot in early June. An angelic smile broke out on his face and he crooned "It’ll be a lot hotter than this if you don’t change your ways." Some things never do.

Part four (of four parts) to Munchkin Luncheon…next Monday