Click

Dorothy bought the farm and lived there happily until her death. She leased the land itself to neighbors and made a pretty penny; she turned the barn into a safe space for strays (both human and animal) and ran a sewing service called "I Get You, My Pretty" on the side (refashioning old clothes into something with a bit more flare). Every year, Dorothy sponsored a scarecrow-making event at the county fair and the 4H kids went nuts; she put up a cash prize for the winner and took the finished design home to live in her front yard. She had a metal man sculpture commissioned to remake the old hand pump at the well and a huge stuffed lion sat proudly in his own chair on the porch. Dorothy was no nonsense and loved. They found her asleep in the downstairs bedroom, dressed in gingham check, and wearing red sequin shoes; she had been ill for days and the note said she had an inkling and was not afraid to go. She asked the people who found her to perform a favor: click her heels together three times. They did it, of course; everybody wanted to do right by Dorothy Gale. Damnedest thing, though; on the day of her funeral, a tornado formed and landed at the farm, cutting a howling path all of the way up to the house where it stopped for a minute and then evaporated into thin air. Haven't seen one like that for more than seventy years.