Link to article
Disneyland memories stay forever young
By Robert Shriver
When I read of the battles being waged by soulless egomaniacs for control of the Disney entertainment empire, my mind instinctively retreats to the pre-Beatles 1960s when there was just kindly old Walt and his Wonderful World of Color enchanting my family on a black-and-white TV screen on Sunday nights in Ashland, Ohio.
Walt Disney was a god, conversant in the dialects of ducks and mice, and if Machiavellian mischief was afoot in his universe, word of it never reached my youthful ears.
Those memories are especially poignant this year given that Walt's greatest early creation, Disneyland, will celebrate its 50th birthday.
So will I, which means that I can relate to the struggle to stay relevant amid a jaded public that is bloated with empty cultural calories.
I don't have kids, but I fear that today's young visitors to the Anaheim, Calif., theme park view it as simply that: an Anaheim theme park and not much more.
The supercharged, thrill-ride-laden competition at parks across the country seems just too powerful for a park designed for gentler family outings.
If that is true, then it is a tragedy. Because for me, during my visit in 1963, Disneyland was a true Magic Kingdom that expanded my vision a thousandfold and shaped the direction of my life.
Imagine a time when television, all three channels of it, seemed like the most brilliant invention ever, just ahead of Coke and Tater Tots. It's impossible to overstate how much TV meant to a small-town child back then, impossible to describe the gargantuan stature of any person, place or thing that appeared on the screen. And when those images were of Mickey Mouse's clan and Sleeping Beauty's fairy-dusted castle located way out in golden California, the effect was nearly overwhelming. Better than Oz, even.
That's why, after Mom and Dad piled my older brother Dave and me into a '59 Plymouth one July morning and embarked upon our Great Trip Out West, natural wonders along the way such as the Grand Canyon and the Painted Desert didn't stand a chance. Disneyland was the only destination that mattered, although eventually the entire three-week journey would spur my passions for travel and Americana.
We got there when the gates opened. Dad groused about the prices (a Disney archivist says that in 1963 it cost $1.60 for admission to the park and $4.95 for a book of 15 tickets to various attractions). But he had driven 10 days to get there, and there was no turning back.
We were desperate not to miss a thing, and I doubt that we did. We spun in the Mad Tea Party saucers. Soared with the Dumbo Flying Elephants. Bobsledded down the Matterhorn. Rode mules through Nature's Wonderland and cruised in a submarine at 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. And gaped at the Enchanted Tiki Room's talking tropical birds. (Can you remember your first robot?)
I was swept up in a half-dozen fantasy worlds that I previously had glimpsed only through a box in the living room. Only now they were real. I imagined people back in Ohio watching me.
Nothing, however, could outdo the real-life drama of the Skyway ride, which carried people in bucket-shaped cable cars high above the ground between Fantasy Land and Tomorrow Land.
Somehow, Mom and Dave had gotten far ahead of Dad and me in the line and boarded their bucket first. Eventually, Dad and I climbed into ours. Just as we cleared the platform, which seemed a mile high, the ride lurched to a halt, leaving us dangling in the breeze. For hours and hours and hours. Or at least 20 minutes.
When we were finally reunited on the ground, Dad praised me for my bravery. But my brother's story topped mine: He and Mom had been suspended directly over the giant pool of water for the submarine ride. In time, I forgave him.
By nightfall, I was exhausted. I remember rallying to see Tinkerbell glide down that wire from the Matterhorn, pass over the castle against a backdrop of fireworks and disappear into the darkness. I never did see Walt or even Mickey, but it didn't matter. I had touched Neverland.
Disneyland memories stay forever young
By Robert Shriver
When I read of the battles being waged by soulless egomaniacs for control of the Disney entertainment empire, my mind instinctively retreats to the pre-Beatles 1960s when there was just kindly old Walt and his Wonderful World of Color enchanting my family on a black-and-white TV screen on Sunday nights in Ashland, Ohio.
Walt Disney was a god, conversant in the dialects of ducks and mice, and if Machiavellian mischief was afoot in his universe, word of it never reached my youthful ears.
Those memories are especially poignant this year given that Walt's greatest early creation, Disneyland, will celebrate its 50th birthday.
So will I, which means that I can relate to the struggle to stay relevant amid a jaded public that is bloated with empty cultural calories.
I don't have kids, but I fear that today's young visitors to the Anaheim, Calif., theme park view it as simply that: an Anaheim theme park and not much more.
The supercharged, thrill-ride-laden competition at parks across the country seems just too powerful for a park designed for gentler family outings.
If that is true, then it is a tragedy. Because for me, during my visit in 1963, Disneyland was a true Magic Kingdom that expanded my vision a thousandfold and shaped the direction of my life.
Imagine a time when television, all three channels of it, seemed like the most brilliant invention ever, just ahead of Coke and Tater Tots. It's impossible to overstate how much TV meant to a small-town child back then, impossible to describe the gargantuan stature of any person, place or thing that appeared on the screen. And when those images were of Mickey Mouse's clan and Sleeping Beauty's fairy-dusted castle located way out in golden California, the effect was nearly overwhelming. Better than Oz, even.
That's why, after Mom and Dad piled my older brother Dave and me into a '59 Plymouth one July morning and embarked upon our Great Trip Out West, natural wonders along the way such as the Grand Canyon and the Painted Desert didn't stand a chance. Disneyland was the only destination that mattered, although eventually the entire three-week journey would spur my passions for travel and Americana.
We got there when the gates opened. Dad groused about the prices (a Disney archivist says that in 1963 it cost $1.60 for admission to the park and $4.95 for a book of 15 tickets to various attractions). But he had driven 10 days to get there, and there was no turning back.
We were desperate not to miss a thing, and I doubt that we did. We spun in the Mad Tea Party saucers. Soared with the Dumbo Flying Elephants. Bobsledded down the Matterhorn. Rode mules through Nature's Wonderland and cruised in a submarine at 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. And gaped at the Enchanted Tiki Room's talking tropical birds. (Can you remember your first robot?)
I was swept up in a half-dozen fantasy worlds that I previously had glimpsed only through a box in the living room. Only now they were real. I imagined people back in Ohio watching me.
Nothing, however, could outdo the real-life drama of the Skyway ride, which carried people in bucket-shaped cable cars high above the ground between Fantasy Land and Tomorrow Land.
Somehow, Mom and Dave had gotten far ahead of Dad and me in the line and boarded their bucket first. Eventually, Dad and I climbed into ours. Just as we cleared the platform, which seemed a mile high, the ride lurched to a halt, leaving us dangling in the breeze. For hours and hours and hours. Or at least 20 minutes.
When we were finally reunited on the ground, Dad praised me for my bravery. But my brother's story topped mine: He and Mom had been suspended directly over the giant pool of water for the submarine ride. In time, I forgave him.
By nightfall, I was exhausted. I remember rallying to see Tinkerbell glide down that wire from the Matterhorn, pass over the castle against a backdrop of fireworks and disappear into the darkness. I never did see Walt or even Mickey, but it didn't matter. I had touched Neverland.