Remembering the Magic of Disney

I was in a Barnes & Noble one day back in the 90s. I was doing some Christmas shopping. I’m standing in the biographies section, spending more time on my favorite genre and thinking more about what I would like to read rather than what would make a nice gift. I have my neck craned so I can read the vertical titles. That’s when I see a thick new biography on Walt Disney. My mind was instantly transported back to my youth.

That’s the kind of pull the world of Disney has on me. And I’m obviously not alone. I mean, I didn’t even pick up the book, for I knew I would only get distracted and an hour later my wife would come and meet me at the agreed upon time and I would have accomplished nothing. But just seeing that familiar W and D in the title, in that beautiful script style; it was enough to tap into that inner child and elicit a world of memories at that magical kingdom.

The time was circa 1965-75 in Newport Beach, California. That is when and where I spent my early childhood. That era was beautifully captured in the TV show The Wonder Years. That was it. Corduroy pants, Vans shoes, and short-sleeve plaid shirts. And a bike for exploring all day long. That was me.

Just north of our home, beyond the brown hills, was a place called Anaheim. Scratch that. That was what the adults called it when they were giving instructions on how to get there. I never referred to it as Anaheim. It was a place called Disneyland, and it was sacred.

I can’t say I can remember my very first journey to Disneyland, though I imagine it was when I was in my low single digits. But I do remember that it became an official destination for every important visitor who would come to see us. By important I mean they weren’t just stopping by for the day. An important visitor is the one you hear your mother talking about for weeks before they arrive.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she would say on the phone. “We’ll be so happy to see you,” as she looked at me and rolled her eyes. After she would hang up she’d announce that some east coast relative was coming to visit and we’d have to find a lot of things for them to do while in Southern California. And that is where I would come in. As a young kid in the higher single digits, I was a pretty good tour guide. I could navigate our visitors in their rental car to the beach, to Fashion Island shopping center, to Laguna Niguel to visit my grandparents. But most importantly, I could serve as their ambassador to the Magic Kingdom.

You see, our important visitors may have come from distant lands, some even from Europe. But this young ambassador was going to take them to a place more special than any they had left behind. And it was my special job to escort them there, which is a special way of saying my mother wasn’t the type to really enjoy going to amusement parks. Besides, she and my dad were busy with the kumbaya experience of that period, which certainly didn’t include the phony commercialism of Disneyland. And my older brothers and sisters were all teenagers in Orange County, California. Think they were interested in wearing a Mickey Mouse hat with their name stitched on the back? Not a chance.

And so the blessed day would come. The important visitors had arrived. They had settled at some local lodging. They had come over for dinner and got caught up on what everyone had been doing since the last time they had made an important visit. And now it was time for the young ambassador to escort them north, over the brown hills, to the Magic Kingdom.

As an adult, the distance from Newport Beach to Anaheim seems like nothing, as if they are right next to each other. But as a kid, it seemed like quite a ride. And during this ride is when I would explain the many facets of the Magic Kingdom to the important visitors: how the ticket book system worked and why it was important to get enough EE tickets; and where the best restaurant in Frontierland was; and why we should plan to stay late enough to see the Electric Light Parade.

The magic of this place, set in an old orange grove, began immediately upon pulling up to the ticket booth of the enormous parking lot. The people were suddenly nicer. And they were organized. Right this way. Down that row. Park right here. And then an excited walk to the first exotic ride of the day—the people transporter that was so long, like a caterpillar. It was incredible how the teenager could drive it and make a U-turn so that it stopped right in front of us. And then it would whisk us away to the entrance of the Kingdom.

As an adult, I notice the cheap hotels and the commercial streets of Anaheim. And it seems incredible how they’ve maintained this oasis of Disneyland right in the middle of it all. But as a kid, I never saw it that way. Rather, we were crossing over from one world to the other. Behind that giant hedge of bushes lay a different land. And the evidence of that was coming towards us right now—the Monorail! That bizarre mode of transportation that has come back from the future.

But we wouldn’t catch the Monorail here, not at the entrance. That would be for later. Here we would purchase our tickets—with plenty of EE tickets. And film. We always needed to get film at the entrance. So then we could take a picture in front of the grand flower image of Mickey Mouse. And then the steam whistle of the old-time train up above would blow, and we would walk through the tunnel into the Magic Kingdom.

I am in good company with the millions who have experienced Disneyland or Disneyworld when I say that, even today, when I walk into that early American Main Street scene, I get goose bumps. But is it the same for everyone? Maybe not for those who never experienced it as a child. For I think that is the real magic. Seeing it as a kid—when Walt Disney’s Imagineering could take hold in your mind—and believing it was real.

And so it would begin. Yet another journey through Disneyland for the young ambassador with his important visitors.

I realize now that Disneyland was really my exploration of the world. My family didn’t travel much—we were a “camping family.” That really meant that a preacher’s salary didn’t allow a family of six to go to many exotic lands. But inside the Magic Kingdom I could travel to the past and the future. And it is remarkable that I have consciously and unconsciously used my experiences at Disneyland as points of reference later in life.

Recently I have been reading a biography of Mark Twain. As I read about his early boyhood days on the Mississippi River, I was suddenly upon the giant paddle wheel boat at Disneyland. I can hear the brass band playing as we circle Tom Sawyer’s Island, and it is 1850.

When I travel now, in the 21st century, I have looked out the airplane window at night and seen the lights of cities below twinkling in the darkness, and instantly I feel that I am on Peter Pan’s ride, lifting up into the cool mist above London. As a kid I loved that ride, and I don’t recall noticing the cables and theatrical lights behind the scenes. Those are things that adults notice, not kids.

Once during a visit to Washington, D.C., my wife and I toured the U.S. Capitol and the new visitor’s center. Looking at the statues and the exact locations where many of our great forefathers have stood, I flipped channels in my mind and I was now watching Abraham Lincoln stand up and give us a speech. But it was the mechanical President Lincoln at Disneyland. And it was real.

The Electric Light Parade was a particularly dazzling experience for me. I think it was the music that was so fascinating, even more than the lights. It was electronic music, probably using new synthesizers that were being invented at the time. It has a fanciful array of piano-sounding arrangements, mixed in with strange squeals and deep grunts that were unlike anything I had heard from traditional instruments. Any adult today who heard that as a kid, knows exactly what I mean. I remember I bought the 45 record of that song at one of the gift shops when leaving Disneyland back in the early seventies, and I loved to play it at home again and again.

As I’ve said, the magic that Walt Disney so successfully created in that little park in Southern California keeps weaving itself into my adult life. For example, every time I hear Elton John’s song "Levon." There’s a line that goes:

Levon sells cartoon balloons in town;His family business thrives.Jesus blows up balloons all day;Sits on the porch swing watching them fly.

I don’t know what Elton John’s song was about, but I do know that verse puts me right back on Main Street, Disneyland. The little ambassador and his important visitors are about to conclude their day and as they head for the exit, the balloon vendors hold beautiful bouquets of multicolored balloons all in the shape of Mickey Mouse, with Mickey himself smiling down at me. Of course, we get one and it bobs around in the back seat of the car, tied to the wrist of the little ambassador as he sleeps.

And the day would come when I would return to the Magic Kingdom with little ambassadors of my own. I wouldn’t be prepared for it, however. I mean that moment when the Imagineering hits you and you wonder, “Wow, where did that come from?”

And so it hit the 33-year-old father of four as he returned from the saloon with root beer floats for his children who were waiting patiently with their mom. They were in their strategic spots getting ready for the 1:20 PM parade titled “Remember the Magic” according to the glossy park brochure. Hmmm, thought the dad, I don’t remember any such parade by that name. Oh well, this was Disneyworld in Orlando—maybe they have different stuff.

After carefully getting the floats into the hands of the kids, the music of the arriving parade could be heard. The crowd started to stand, and look down the street for the first Disney characters to come into view. I realized that my three-year-old girl would need to be lifted up or she wouldn’t be able to see. So I hoisted her up on my shoulders, with sticky root beer and vanilla ice cream inevitably ending up in my hair. And then, suddenly, the minutiae of child maintenance disappeared.

A large parade float was magically rolling by in front of us. A beautiful song was flowing out from seemingly nowhere. “It’s time to remember the magic,” sang the Disney actors. And they were beautiful; the young men dressed as princes and such. The beautiful young ladies in their sequin gowns, and blue eyes and red lips and white gloves. They all looked as if they had just come from the castle and now they were doing a ballroom dance here for us little people.

“It’s time to remember the magic,” went the refrain. And I was remembering. It wasn’t the same song as 25 years ago, but the music, the visuals, the feelings, the memories—they were exactly the same. Just then I was busted. My wife had turned around to look at me as Cinderella passed by and blew us a kiss. And there, with my little girl on my shoulders, and three little ones by my side, my eyes began to well up with tears. And my wife saw it and she had a look of disbelief and then she gave me a boo-boo face, which meant: it’s okay honey, don’t be embarrassed.

Walt Disney had done it again. He weaved his magic from one generation to the next. He had taken me outside myself and told me exactly what I needed to hear. It was time to remember the magic. And I did.