My father and my grandfather were always working up at the ranch. They had muddy boots on 7 days a week, drilling wells. Tall, red drill rigs in the yard and me with my friend sliding down the sand piles. My brother Max and I sat in the old abandoned mustang, played the radio, pretended we were driving when they worked on the big drill rigs.
When I was alone, I sat in my Grandfathers chair, reading magazines and sending away for buffalo head nickels from ads in the back. We made fires in the morning after it rained, the pasture smelled like cows, dandelions and salty ocean air on Back Ranch Road. Crocodile Rock was on the radio in the morning and hot chocolate in ceramic mugs. School friends were fun, we ate hot lunches and we wore bell bottom corduroy pants with chokers like David Cassidy.
Every March, The Wizard of Oz was on television. When I was out on my own living in New York City, I clicked my heels many times, never made it home. Stayed right there, freezing in the winter, stuck in the Bronx. The Emerald City is a fantasy and the Narcissist is the antagonist in your story. The flying monkeys scared me the most. Shoot them down one at a time or stay out of there flying range.