Laura C. Rader
When The Wizard of Oz graced the silver screen in 1939, it changed cinema and popular culture forever. But the true story began decades earlier with the young composer who risked everything to bring it to the Broadway stage.
At the turn of the century, twenty-three-year-old Paul Tietjens is a gifted classical pianist with dreams of greatness and a non-refundable ticket to Europe to study with the master composers of his time.
But when the bank calls in the debt on his family’s Missouri farm, Paul forgoes his dream to save them from financial ruin. Desperate to find a new road to success, he moves to up-and-coming Chicago, where he persuades author L. Frank Baum to collaborate on a comic opera of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, setting the stage for the defining cultural touchstone that we know today.
Paul embarks on his opera with high hopes, but scandal threatens his soaring ambition when he falls in love with his best friend’s beautiful but married sister, and his fears grow as the Wizard of Oz demands not only his talent but his soul.
Inspired by Paul’s 1901 diary, The Lark follows Paul as he journeys from the theaters of Chicago to the streets of Manhattan, from his family’s Missouri farm to the beaches of Michigan, fighting to hang onto the chance of a lifetime, his integrity, and the woman he loves.
Laura C. Rader is the award-winning author of the biographical historical novel Hatfield 1677. When she isn’t writing, you can find her conducting research, playing her 1905 antique piano, and spending time with her family, friends, and pets.
A native of Southern California, she now lives north of Raleigh, North Carolina.
Chapter
Nineteen June 7,
1901 Macatawa,
Michigan
In
Michigan, in Michigan, I would that I were rich again. A ticket I'd buy, and
away I'd fly, to the far-off fields of Michigan.
—From The Wizard of Oz opera,
“In Michigan,” lyrics by L. Frank Baum and Glen MacDonough
Baum and I
boarded the boat for his summer home in Macatawa just after sunset. We stood at
the rail for hours, gazing out at the moonless sky and marveling as the stars
winked on, at first one by one, but eventually in a swirl of galaxies and
brilliant constellations.
We reached
Macatawa Harbor at dawn, disembarked, and took a carriage to Macatawa Park. I
was excited to see if Baum's house was as wonderful as Den and Ike had said.
Three or
four stories of dark planks and timbers scrambled down the rocky bluffs to the
beach and boat dock, gables facing every which way, stairs and balconies
juxtaposed at odd angles. Magical, comfortable, and unruly, precisely the type
of place where good artistic work could flourish.
Baum’s
first successful books—Mother Goose in Prose and Father Goose: His
Book—were celebrated by a goose-shaped wooden sign hung from a front porch
post, announcing we’d arrived at “The Sign of the Goose.”
“Maud,
we're home!” Baum said, throwing open the screen door.
I was
welcomed by an immediate impression of warmth and family, with gleaming
hardwood floors and sparkling windowpanes, armchairs grouped around Oriental
rugs, and children’s belongings scattered about.
Maud
showed me to my room upstairs. It was spacious and lovely, with a view of the
lake, and a bathroom located across the hall, featuring a clawfoot tub and a
water closet.
“You'll
have to share this bathroom with the boys, I'm afraid. I set out fresh towels
by the washbasin. You must be tired. Please, make yourself at home. Frank's
creative impulses dictate our schedule here.” She laughed.
“I think
I’ll take a nap? We were awake most of the night on the steamship and only
slept a bit."
“Frank is
already napping. And I'll have lunch ready for us when you awaken."
Before
sitting to eat, I ran my fingers over the tiny brass adornments nailed to the
chair's back. “What marvelous little geese.”
“Maud
thinks my predilection for waterfowl is excessive,” Baum said, pulling his
chair closer to the table.
“I believe
I said you were a silly goose, dear,” Maud said, setting a plate in front of
him.
“They’re
delightful,” I said.
Dinner
was, fortunately, not goose but chicken. I regaled Baum, Maud, and their boys
with tales of all the hoofed and feathered creatures on our farm in Slater.
There was,
in fact, a gaggle of geese in Baum's home. They weren't confined to the sign
hanging from the porch or the little brass medallions on the chairs. Geese
decorated the outer stringers and newel posts of the staircases, marched along
the edge of the fireplace mantel, and paraded in a pastoral scene on the wall
of the sitting room, stenciled by Baum.
After
lunch, the entire family and I donned our bathing costumes and, carrying an
umbrella, blanket, and towels, traipsed down the stairs stretching invitingly
from the front porch to the beach.
I self-consciously removed my towel from my shoulders and stepped into the
water, wearing my striped knickers and sleeveless knit shirt. I was not tan,
and only my arms and shoulders were toned. Still, I soon relaxed, as Baum was
supremely confident and self-possessed as always, and the boys were exuberant.
In her bathing costume of a navy-blue sailor jacket, knee-length skirt, and
stockings, even Maud happily waded out into the lake past her knees. The water
was cold and refreshing, and we had a jolly time splashing about.
Maud and
the boys returned to the house after a while, and for the remainder of the
afternoon, Baum and I lounged on the sand, enjoying the warm sun and discussing
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Henry W. Savage, and all things musical and
theatrical.
After
supper, I relaxed on their porch and reread The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
My cousin Laura’s son Raymond adored it; I’d read it to him before. But to
write music for it, I needed to refresh my memory. I enjoyed the premise of a
cyclone whisking a house away intact, and the themes of relying on one’s
intelligence, compassion, and courage to find one’s heart’s desire.
