When I was very young, I knew of only two witches in TV or movies. Actually, the same movie: The Wizard of Oz. There was lovely Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, who had a lilting voice and traveled in a bubble. And there was the hideous (and green!) Wicked Witch of the West. I loved Glinda. I was terrified of the Wicked Witch, especially when she’d laugh in that ear-splitting shriek. But there was one thing that made her a little less frightening: she was in Oz. And Oz was a magical place. Not just an ordinary neighborhood such as where I lived.