In The Parking Lot

My wife and I made a recent sentimental journey to Disneyland to stroll down those romantic memory lanes of our youth, when the streets of the Magic Kingdom led us from fantasy to tomorrow. This trip was a unique experience – we were going to the park with no kids in tow. Our two children are grown up and moved out now. This time we were going to be the kids.

I understand that you can never cross the same stream twice, and you can never go back “home” again. But I have always relied on Disneyland to be the one constant in my life. And to a certain extent it is. While the park has undergone numerous makeovers and cosmetic surgeries, it generally looks the feels that same as it did when I was a boy. The castle is the one unchangeable of the park, Main Street is a constant comfort, and the Matterhorn continues to nod and wink at us, with its old familiar slouch.

But one aspect of the park is horribly different from the days of my youth – the parking lot! That lovely 100-acre asphalt meadow is gone. In its place sits the inexplicable California Adventure, a hodge podge of Hollywood store fronts and back lots, thrill rides, and midway attractions. But my lovely parking lot – my beautiful Disneyland parking lot is gone.
When Becky and I got off the freeway last week and followed the directional signs, I knew at once it was wrong – so very wrong. Disneyland used to have one main park entrance, accessed from Harbor Boulevard, with an overriding arch that welcomed us. Not anymore. In addition to the main multi-storied parking garage, overflow parking lots are scattered in various remote locations. Last week we were funneled down Disney Way to a remote satellite parking lot known as the Pumba Lot, and I paid $12.00 for the privilege. It sure costs a lot to park a car these days in Southern California - a far cry from the meager $.50 I paid in the 1960’s.

The Pumba Lot is a secured open lot, partitioned with cyclone fencing draped with a mesh screen. Unmarked chartered buses idled nearby, waited to whisk us to the Disneyland drop-off. Our bus didn’t even have the name “Disneyland” on it. I had to check with the driver to be sure we weren’t being diverted to the downtown Greyhound bus terminal.

“Is this bus going to Disneyland?” I asked. The driver looked at me like I was a royal smart-ass.

“No, we are going to Knotts Berry Farm. They’re short on visitors today and sent me over here to kidnap you,” she sneered.

I got on the bus. I could not tell you where we were in relation to the park. I think we were a mile or two away. I was completely disoriented. I couldn’t see the Matterhorn, my usual homing beacon. I sat in my bus seat, looked out the window and sighed.

When I was a kid Disneyland was pretty much a straight shot down the Santa Ana Freeway. It was not such a long drive, but my siblings and I still invented games to occupy ourselves along the way. One of our standard games was to see who could spot the Matterhorn first (a game that could only be devised by kids who had been to Disneyland too many times). The Matterhorn is about 150 feet tall and stands out rather prominently on a smogless day. Still, the clutter of office towers and freeway overpasses makes a clear view of the Matterhorn from the Santa Ana freeway nearly impossible until you are almost underneath it. Once we could see the Matterhorn we squealed with delight, because we knew that the fun was about to begin.

But not quite. First we had to park our car in Disneyland’s gigantic parking lot. That is where the excitement began for me. I had never seen a parking lot as big as Disneyland. The original park itself was 60 acres in size, while the original parking lot was over 100 acres large. In other words, the parking lot was almost twice as big as the park, making it officially the biggest parking lot I had ever seen. The immense scope of the parking lot always reminded me that I was about to embark on a grand and sweeping adventure.
Nowadays gigantic parking lots are pretty common. Shopping malls, football stadiums, and major airports all have parking lots that dwarf Disneyland by comparison, but when I was a kid the biggest parking lot I had ever seen was in front of our local supermarket, where the outer fringes amounted to a mere trot to the front door. Disneyland was the Grand Canyon of parking lots. Today I have to meditate on the cosmos to feel insignificant. As a kid, the Disneyland parking lot made me feel just as small.

No matter how far away we parked, we could always see the majestic Matterhorn in the distance to set our bearings and remind us that we were in striking range. But first, the day’s adventures began with the parking lot tram. I always considered the tram the first ride of the day – and it didn’t even require a ticket.

It did require a parking fee of $.50, and I was intrigued by the parking fee concept – no, I was obsessed by it. I thought about it all the time. As I looked at the sea of cars pouring into the lot, I tried to imagine how much money the park was making just in parking fees. Actually, it comes to about $2 million a year at fifty cents per car. Even at my tender age, my mind boggled at this deliciously simple, relatively painless way to make a ton of money – well, that and the beauty of compound interest.

Anyway, depending on where we parked our car we could decide whether to walk or ride to the ticket booths. To me, the monorail marked the dividing line between the inner circle and the outer limits. If we parked inside the monorail towers, I felt pretty lucky, and we usually chose to walk. Parking at Disneyland taught me never to complain about how far away I have to park anywhere else. Today, when I am moved to self-pity over parking half-way back in the Wal-Mart lot, I just remind myself how delighted I would be if I could have parked this close to the front door of Disneyland. I even applied the “Disneyland” perspective with my kids when they griped about parking at the mall. I would say, “Don’t you wish we could have parked this close at Disneyland?” End of discussion.

As we made the trek to the entrance, I looked at all of the out-of-state license plates in amazement. You mean people drove all the way from Nebraska to get here, I thought? Good grief! I had trouble grasping that concept. What time did they have to get up? The closer we got to the ticket booths the more jealous I was over the cars who got to park up front, because I knew at the end of the day they could reach their car in no time. I never got a space so close. How early do you have to get here to qualify? Who do you have to know?

Riding the tram is a world all its own. Like I said, I considered the parking lot tram a full fledged Disneyland ride, and one not to be missed. Like the Jungle Cruise, it was one of the few attractions where the ride operator was expected to accompany the guests and entertain them during the ride. Sure, some of the speech was canned orientation, but some of it was pure improvisation allowed by management. Whether out of boredom or just practicing for their future stand-up career, some tram operators offered up very funny stuff:

Please stand back until the tram has come to a complete stop. For those of you from California – that is when the wheels stop moving.

We are coming to the next parking section – “V” as in “Victor”, “W” as in “Why”, and “Y” because we like you!

For everyone standing at the front of the line, please turn around now and start pushing and shoving the people behind you, because when the tram arrives, they will be doing the very same thing to you.

You get the idea. When he was old enough, my brother Bill took a job at Disneyland, and his first assignment was working the parking lot. He actually liked it. Where else can you get paid for riding around a parking lot all day, getting your sun tan and telling people what to do:

We are coming to Section “D” as in “Dopey”. If you are parking in this section, don’t be dopey enough to get off the tram before it stops. If you do, we urge you to tuck and roll.

A lot of the routine instructions were pre-recorded and passed along to passengers over the tram’s loud speaker. The tram workers heard the same message so often, they eventually grabbed the microphone and lip synced the message as though they were actually saying the words live. When the Spanish version of the spiel came over the speaker, they did the same, making it appear they were bilingual. The jig was up when Latino guests came up to them afterwards asking questions in Spanish.

The parking lot for me was where the excitement began in the morning and ended that night. And I have to admit, it was occasionally my lunch-stop as well. With a family of my own, and the price of Disneyland going up, I was always looking for a way to save money. So occasionally mid-day at the Magic Kingdom my wife and two kids had our own lunchtime tailgate party in the parking lot - kind of like bringing your own snacks to the movie theater. With home made sandwiches and a cooler full of soft drinks, we avoided the high cost of meals in the park, and joined our fellow penny-pinchers in the parking lot.

Last stop before entering through the gates and onto Main Street was the all-important ticket booth. And they were such cute little miniature Bavarian ginger bread houses, all lined up in a row. As we stood in line and Mom dickered with the ticket booth person, I examined the posted list of the rides closed for “refurbishment” - to me just a fancy word for “broken.” It seemed the Columbia sailing ship was always in dry dock, and who cared anyway. But, please not the Matterhorn, and oh, please not the Jungle Cruise ride, I thought. I hated when those rides were closed. If the Storybook Canal Boats closed permanently for repairs, I would be fine, and even if Alice in Wonderland was out half the year I could survive – but some rides just should never be closed.

Then I would stare out at the mobs closing in on us from behind. It’s going to be another crowded day, I thought. Then I imagined the money Disneyland must be taking in right here at the ticket booths. When I was a kid most everybody paid with cash, and with the sea of people queuing up right here, there must be piles of money inside those little booths. What a tempting target for robbers. Each ticket booth was like a tiny little bank full of cash. I wondered, has Disneyland ever been robbed? Then I breathed a sigh of relief. No, that could never happen, because the crooks could only escape by getting out of the parking lot – and that would take forever!

What Happened to the Indians?

Before the arrival of the Pirates of the Caribbean and Haunted Mansion, there was only one Disneyland ride that actually featured a murder victim. My first sighting of it as a child was deeply disturbing, but eventually became an object of morbid fascination.

The Mark Twain Steam Boat (or the Columbia on the rare day it was out of dry dock), was a “D” ticket ride that made an excursion around Tom Sawyer’s Island and the Rivers of America. Not quite as colorful as the Jungle Cruise, with all its wild animals, waterfalls, and exotic temples, it still offered an idea of what life on the Mississippi might have been like in the 19th century.
As we rounded the bend and the Frontierland dock disappeared from view, the landscape turned densely wooded, with only a brief glimpse of Fort Wilderness on the hilltop.

Once we reached the remote northern edge of the island, a scene of carnage came into view. A frontier log cabin was ablaze and a pioneer settler lay dead in his front yard with an arrow in his chest. I could not tell if he had been scalped, but he had definitely assumed room temperature, as they say. It was a grim and somber scene, and I could not look away. I tried to unravel this frontier crime scene in my mind. What happened here? Was he alone, or was his family killed with him? Was he ambushed defending his property? How long has he been dead? How far away are his nearest neighbors? When will he be missed? The burning cabin should send up enough smoke to draw attention. He needs to be buried before the wild animals start picking at his corpse.

There was no doubt in my mind who was responsible for this heinous act. Obviously, some renegade Indian war party had cruelly snuffed out his life, and it confirmed to me why the savage Red Man must be subjugated. I don’t remember feeling such animosity toward a group of people since those godless hunters had killed Bambi’s mother.

For months and years I rode the Mark Twain Steam Boat to check on the status of the dead pioneer. And every time we rounded the bend, there he lay. When, oh when would his body be discovered and receive a proper burial? There seemed no point in reporting the incident to the authorities, as they were clearly well aware of it. The narration on the steam boat faithfully pointed him out to us each and every time. And then, finally it happened. On one of my many trips to the crime scene, the body was no longer there. The cabin was still on fire (very hearty timber), but the corpse had been removed. I felt at peace knowing that this tragic figure had finally been laid to his rest . . . until I listened to the pre-recorded narration.

Earlier versions of the script told of his tragic encounter with hostile Indians, but today the story had been revised. No mention of an Indian attack or deadly arrows at all, and the cabin fire was passed off as a cooking accident in the kitchen.

I was outraged. Who were they kidding? I knew the truth from years of Disney narration that recounted the Indian attack. This was obviously a cover-up, and the innocent little kids standing around me were none the wiser. Oh, dark day, I thought. They changed the story to protect the guilty. Fine. Call it a cooking accident if you want, but I know the truth.

What happened to the Indians? I will tell you. They were absolved of the crime as part of a steady but relentless campaign at Disneyland to remove any object, reference, or symbol that might offend anyone in any way. The age of political correctness was impacting the nation, and even Disneyland was feeling the heat. An emerging dread of hurting people’s feelings was altering the very traditions of our country. Some schools were no longer issuing grades for fear that the “C” label might stigmatize little Johnny. At after-school sporting events, keeping score was considered harmful to the losers’ feelings of self worth. Christmas trees were being banned at shopping malls and other public venues to avoid alienating other religions.

The Indian lobby was among the most vocal, even going so far as to demand that professional sports teams change their names to eliminate all derogatory slang deemed offensive to American Indians. Apparently the Washington Redskins, Kansas City Chiefs, Cleveland Indians, and Atlanta Braves were just going to have to find a new name as an act of good will. So, it was not surprising that Indian activists would demand that the dead pioneer on Tom Sawyer’s Island be removed to end this ugly stereotype.

Over the years I could see the hand of political correctness at work in Disneyland. The Frontierland Shooting Gallery was originally equipped with .22 caliber rifles. Good sense prevailed, and they were quickly replaced with BB guns, a harmless but perfectly acceptable alternative to me. My Dad was an avid gun owner, an affinity he acquired as a youth on the farm, where a rifle was a tool as vital to the farmer as his tractor. Protecting your livestock and domestic animals from wild and dangerous predators was a constant duty of America’s farmers and ranchers. Living on the farm, my Dad grew up with a Winchester rifle in his hand and learned to respect its deadly power.

When I was old enough, my Dad took me and my brothers out to the local canyon for some target practice. Dad dutifully schooled us in the proper care and handling of firearms, and essential do’s and don’ts. I felt privileged at the passing of these solemn traditions from father to son. The Disneyland shooting gallery was a happy reminder of my Dad’s interest in guns. I gladly used every “C” ticket I had at the shooting gallery. When I ran out of tickets, I paid money to continue shooting. The shooting gallery was always on my “To Do” list.

As a concession to the gun control die hards who cried loudly of its dangers, the BB guns were downgraded to laser ray guns. I am sure the laser guns allow Disney liability attorneys to sleep better at night, and they may even be lower maintenance, but they have watered down this attraction and sucked out all its fun to the point that it doesn’t even belong in Frontierland. If anything, laser ray guns are the stuff of Star Wars and belong in Tomorrowland, not Frontierland. Oh, wait – they already have that attraction in Tomorrowland. It’s called Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters. But out west, Wyatt Earp didn’t settle his differences with a ray gun. As Steve McQueen made clear in The Magnificent Seven, “We deal in lead, friend.”


Disney’s Aunt Jemima’s Kitchen went the way of Sambo’s Restaurant. You probably don’t remember Sambo’s Restaurant if you were born in the 60s or early 70s. It was an old restaurant chain named after the storybook character Little Black Sambo, who ran the tiger in circles until the tiger melted into a pool of butter.
The franchise could not survive the long arm of America’s civil rights movement. When the name of the restaurant was deemed offensive, customers dried up and the chain eventually filed for bankruptcy. To avoid a similar fate, Disneyland retired the name “Aunt Jemima” in favor of The River Belle Terrace.

One of the most flagrantly politically incorrect rides in the park – The Pirates of the Caribbean – continues to endure, thanks to creative attempts at rehabilitation. From beginning to end the ride trivializes loathsome behavior, from torture to drunken debauchery, attempted rape, selling women into slavery, looting, and arson.
The ride seems to escape the chopping block because those pirates are so darned lovable. They sleep with pigs, sing merry songs, and playfully fire flintlock pistols at kegs of gunpowder. What’s not to love? Even Captain Jack Sparrow (a.k.a. Johnny Depp) makes an appearance to assure us of the ride’s good-hearted nature.


The ride has made some modifications to placate women’s groups. In the scene where the pirate was chasing a damsel, clearly with dishonorable intentions, he was modified to be merely chasing her for her armload of food. Now the scene has the maiden waiving a rolling pin chasing the pirate. Nice save, Disney.

The live bank robberies and shoot-outs on the streets of Frontierland are long gone, the Davy Crockett toy rifles are no longer sold in the park, and in 2001 the Jungle Cruise guides were disarmed so that they could no longer fire their pistols at those defenseless mechanical hippos – mustn’t set a bad example for the children. They got their guns back a few years later when public outcry prevailed. But the guides are now encouraged to avoid shooting the hippos if at all possible – you know, try firing a warning shot first to scare them off. Maybe the mechanical hippos can be reasoned with.


Ultimately, the log cabin fire was extinguished entirely. Disney shut off the gas jet, presumably to stop wasting energy. Now, let me get this straight – Disneyland consumes enough energy to power a small emerging nation, clearly the poster child for American decadence and waste. So, to demonstrate its commitment to energy conservation, it shuts off the lone gas jet fueling the log cabin flame. I am sure Disneyland’s monthly utility bill saw a big difference (not!). Today the log cabin appears to be inhabited with new settlers, with a fresh clothes line of laundry drying in the front yard. (See recent photo, to the right, of the log cabin.) The Indian tribe is camped just around the bend, so these new settlers better stay vigil.

I am trying to adjust to this brave new world. I suppose it is for the best, so I’ll humor them. But I will always know what happened at the fateful log cabin years ago – and it wasn’t no cooking accident.

The Happiest Place on Earth

I could not resist. I finally broke down last week and purchased the Thomas Kincade painting of Sleeping Beauty Castle awash in the 50th anniversary celebration of the Magic Kingdom – the original Disneyland in Anaheim, California. I first saw the painting two years ago hanging in one of those ubiquitous Kincade galleries at the local shopping mall. In the unmistakable Thomas Kincade style, this “painter of light” depicted a glowing romantic scene at the Main Street “hub” in front of Sleeping Beauty Castle.

I marveled at the way he captured the scene on Main Street, then I glanced at the price tag and choked. Don’t get me wrong – Kincade deserves every penny for his talent – even if this was just a lithograph and not the original painting. I just couldn’t quite justify the expense for something that was just going to hang in my living room. And the theme of the painting was shamelessly kitchy. Only friends who shared my devotion would appreciate this homage to Walt and Mickey. The rest would probably gawk at the painting and gaze at me with pity, “You paid how much for this?”

Then last week my wife and I were wandering through the shops in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, a touristy enclave at the base of the Smokey Mountains, when we noticed the obligatory Kincade gallery near the end of the street. Immediately I thought about that Disneyland painting I had seen two years ago and told my wife we should go inside and see if it was by any chance hanging on the wall. Sure enough – there it was. I took it as a sign from God that He wanted me to have it. This was my “do over” chance to buy it. Once again, I stood before the painting and lost myself in scene.

In the foreground of the picture stands children, parents, friends and relatives, all drawn to the golden light shining through the castle archway. In front of the drawbridge stands the bronze statue of Walt Disney beckoning to us with one hand and tenderly holding the mitted hand of Mickey Mouse in the other. The father of Mickey Mouse, Walt is fixed in a perpetual invitation to us all to share our family with his family.

The painting spoke to me. As my eyes studied the details of the scene, so much rang true, from the popcorn vending machine to the Mickey Mouse balloons to the impatiens hanging from the lampposts, to the drawbridge banners, to the purple sunset sky. I know that place. I know those people. I could smell the street. I could hear the calliope of the King Arthur Carousel. I could feel the energy of the crowd. Kincade had captured what Walt declared, and I knew to be, “the happiest place on earth”.

The painting now hangs in my living room, and I am perversely tickled to see my guests’ reactions when I proudly point it out to them. It is not Monet’s whimsical “Water Lillies” or a bold Gainsborough landscape. It is a painting of an amusement park. They don’t know quite what to say. They don’t get it. No matter.

My connection with Disneyland runs very deep. My existence has been twisted and shaped from a life of Disneyland wrapped around it, like the red stripe of a candy cane. Growing up in Southern California, the park and I were like comrades, childhood buddies, companions, friends, and allies. I was born in 1952 and Disneyland was born in 1955. Like brothers, we grew up together.
I spent my childhood and youth in the San Gabriel Valley, a mere 30 minute drive to Disneyland. The second week the park was open my family passed through its magic portals (I was not quite three years old), and for the next 50 years I made that journey over and over and over again. We watched each other grow up, mature, evolve, adapt, renew, refurbish, renovate, and endure. I rode its rides, ate its food, wiled away the hours, sought refuge in its recesses, retreated to its chambers. Within its boundaries I found comfort, inspiration and joy. I reflected, imagined, reveled. In my childhood I came with family, in my youth I explored alone, as a suitor I escorted my dates, as a husband I brought my wife, as a father I accompanied my children. (Here is a shot with my two kids in 1990 in a rare moment with Minnie Mouse). When I become a doting grandfather I will see myself in my grandkids as I chase them down Main Street and treat them to tales of the glories of Disneyland long long ago.

Now, over 50 years later, I look at my reflection in the mirror and ponder the journey. I examine my lines and wrinkles, the grey hair, sagging skin, age spots, and scars. I don’t look at all like I did in the carefree 1960’s. (Here I am at a recent journey to the Anaheim Magic Kingdom.)
Then I look at Disneyland and how she has changed over the years. She doesn’t look like she did in the 1960’s either. But then I have to remember she is over 50 years old as well. I guess we are both aging gracefully, but we are both under constant refurbishment.

Despite its age, people just don’t seem to tire of Disneyland. With everything else to do in Southern California, The park still averages about 14.8 million visitors a year. And I have single-handedly helped those numbers along. With a quick drive down the Santa Ana Freeway, I could be from my house to Main Street in a half hour. And, oh yes – you could call me a “regular”. I stopped counting the number of times I walked through the gates after 100 visits. One year I remember going to Disneyland ten times – maybe not a record by fanatic standards, but I could have been a tour guide by the age of 10.
(Here I am looking bored on the Carousel). I knew every drinking fountain, every bathroom, every eatery, the walking distance from the Jungle Cruise to the Matterhorn, the best places to catch a nap, the air time in the sky buckets, and the ultimate short cut from the Keel Boats to the Mad Tea Party.

But it wasn’t just my proximity to the Magic Kingdom that compelled me to repeatedly answer its siren call. I had a willing accomplice in my mother. She was 27 years old when Disneyland opened in 1955, but she was a complete kid at heart, and still is today. Last week at the age of 80 she sat down at a table full of kids and grandkids and played a rousing game of Loaded Questions until way past her bedtime. I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t ready to play. Growing up, our closet was full of table games – Monopoly, Scrabble, Life, Chutes and Ladders, Parcheesi, Clue - and the king of all card games: Rook. Saturday night Rook tournaments at our house were legendary, even attracting our high school principal (who thought he was a genius) to compete with us. I have to admit, he did introduce us to the “double deck” variation to the game. It was necessary to play with two decks with so many people at the table, or else everyone would only be dealt five or six cards, but it was a bitch trying to keep track of two of everything. With two decks you were allowed to call for a partner, whose cards then became part of your joint holdings. “OK, I want the One of Green as my partner” I would call out, and hope his hand had more to offer in our quest for glory.

When we weren’t playing table games, we were at the movie theater, and Mom was right there with us. Her slogan was “You fly – I’ll buy.” With Mom as the bank, how could we refuse? She loved going to the movies, and recounted for us the movie-going “glory days”, when the gentlemen wore suits and the ladies wore evening gowns to the opening night of the latest Hollywood offering. Theaters were once elaborate palaces, with search lights marking their location, and audiences stood and applauded at the closing credits.

Until I was old enough to drive, I relied on my Mom’s zest for fun to serve as chauffeur. I can’t say for sure why Disneyland gave her such a buzz, but I suspect that her fantasy button was pushed with all the costumes worn at Disneyland. If nothing else, Disneyland is one gigantic costume party for grown-ups. Literally every employee wears a costume from Austrian lederhosen to Caribbean pirates to safari traders to frontier dandies. Even if you sweep up trash, you have to wear a costume at Disneyland. I loved to see all these grown-ups playing make believe, and I think my Mom felt the same way. You have to know one thing about my Mother – she was the costume queen of our family. She would sew them together and we would wear them, especially me. I think I was her personal costume guinea pig. When I was only five years old, she created an elaborate Dutch Boy costume for me to wear at some church program, complete with satin vest, puffy shirt, blooming satin pants, and actual little Dutch wooden shoes. (Here I am in my costume.) Where do you even go to buy wooden shoes?
When I was in the third grade my class put on a Spanish program for the school, and my Mom made a gaucho hat out of poster boards for everyone in the class to wear. For my high school costume party, the theme was “Alice in Wonderland” and my Mom sewed together a Mad Hatter outfit for me, complete with the oversized top hat. By the time I had graduated from high school our costume closet was a storehouse that would rival a Hollywood rental shop. We had colonial finery, wild west cowboy garb, witches and goblins, Indian maidens, medieval peasant rags, wigs, clown shoes, oversized glasses, fake noses, and hats galore. As you might guess, Halloween was our day to shine.

I am convinced my Mom came by this love of fantasy honestly. Her father was a bigger fan of Disneyland than any of us. In his retirement years, he could think of no greater delight than to sit on the front porch of Main Street’s China Closet all day long and watch the crowds walk by, a pastime he enjoyed at least once a week until he passed away in 1966.

My Dad, on the other hand, was quite the opposite of Mom when it came to play. I do not recall a single time that Dad joined us on a trip to Disneyland my entire life. He may have led the initial expedition to the Magic Kingdom when it first opened in 1955 just to see what all the hub-bub was about, but I was not even three years old yet and have no recollection of it. I am sure that once he saw it, he was satisfied that it was not for him.

My Dad grew up in the Depression and lived on a farm until he was 24. He came from a one-parent family: a mom with four kids that she could not afford to feed. So she split up the family, shipping my Dad and his brother Paul off to live with friends on a farm in another state. My Dad was only 12 at the time and I have no doubt his abandonment wound was deep. The farming life was harsh, with brutal hours, endless work, and little time for play. But he grew to appreciate the farming life, and determined that one day he would own his own farm.

But you need a lot of money to buy a farm, and my Dad looked around and saw that doctors made a lot of money, so in his tortured reasoning he decided to become a doctor so that he could become a farmer. At the age of 24 he entered high school, completing it in two years. He went on to complete college in three years. World War II was in full swing, but since he had lost a kidney in a farming accident, he was deemed unfit for the military, so it was off to medical school. In 1950, at the age of 35, he earned his medical degree, got married, raised a family, and somewhere along the way let go of the farm dream.

Instead, he turned his attention to saving Southern California from disease. He opened an office on Whittier Boulevard, in East Los Angeles, and became one of a dying breed, the doctor who made house calls. He was up and left the house before I was awake, and came home at the end of the day after I had gone to bed. It seemed there was no end of sickness that needed treating. To his credit, he ministered to the rich and poor alike. Many was the time he would be paid with a homemade dish of tamales when his patients had no money to give. Like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, he accepted all forms of payment.

So, what did he do for fun? Dad was very selective with his free time. He enjoyed watching the Los Angels Rams play at the Coliseum. For several years he had season tickets on the 50 yard line, and I joined him for precious moments of one-on-one. But the Rams stunk back then. Roman Gabriel was the quarterback, and it seemed that his play book for every four-down series was to run the first two downs, then throw an incomplete pass, then punt. But I did catch the football itch from Dad, and followed the Rams until they broke my heart when they moved to St. Louis in 1995. Then, wouldn’t you know it, that’s when they became famous and won the Super Bowl in 2000.

Dad was a bowler. He and my Mom joined a bowling league when I was very young, one of the few things I ever saw them do together. But Dad was always on call for delivering babies, and he left his number at the bowling alley where he could be reached. Often the loud speaker would summon him to the phone, and he would have to leave the game and his fellow players in the lurch.

The one other thing my Dad did for fun was gamble. He loved Las Vegas, and settled on craps as his game of choice. He never won at the game, but could not be dissuaded by the house edge. I don’t know anyone who is a consistent winner at craps. I learned the game under Dad’s tutelage, and studied it for several years to understand the allure, and to take part in one of my Dad’s few recreational interests. But I finally gave up on craps. My Dad never gave up on the game. He played it into his 80’s, despite his conclusion that God did not want him to make money “the easy way”.

In the realm of “fun” there seemed to be a line that my Dad would not cross. He never joined the family at an amusement park, the county fair, the zoo, the circus, or miniature golf. Southern California is full of diversions, from the Movieland Wax Museum, Knotts Berry Farm, Pacific Ocean Park, Magic Mountain, Disneyland, Marineland, Seaworld, and Universal Studios, but Dad could not be enticed to burn up a whole day with any of these frivolities. I think he had a little boy inside of him that died a long time ago, and whatever remained could find no pleasure in these activities.

As kids, we tried over and over to talk Dad into joining us, but he always refused. And he did it without ever actually saying “No.” It was a clever yet diabolical side-step that disarmed me as a kid. As an adult I have practiced it and attempted it on various occasions, with mixed results. Here is what he did. When we would approach him with a request – any request – that he found disagreeable (such as “Dad, let’s all go to Disneyland tomorrow!”), he would burst out in feigned laughter, like he just got the joke. For added effect, he would squint at us as though to say, “You were kidding, right?” That was it. The request was handily disposed of by simply treating it as a laughable absurdity. We came to know that this was his way of saying no. We could pursue the request, since he had not actually nixed it, but we generally chose to leave things on good terms. For urgent requests, I might appeal the veto:

“No, Dad, I am serious.”

At that point his smile would usually fade and he would squirm uncomfortably as he would attempt to reason with me.

“You know we can’t do that.”

End of discussion.

Oddly enough, he never discouraged the rest of us from pursuing these ventures, and was more than happy to bankroll Mom and the kids for the diversion de jour. Eventually I realized it was the price he gladly paid for his freedom, that day and every day. This was a great sadness for me. It made every trip to Disneyland bitter-sweet. While I looked forward to the festivities, I always wanted my Dad to hold my hand and take me through the park himself. As far as the eye could see, Disneyland was full of fathers enjoying the day with their kids, just not my father.

So, with us kids, there was only one parent to persuade into whatever we wanted to do. With Mom at the helm it didn’t take much coaxing to orchestrate a trip to Disneyland. We had the money, the time, and the proximity. Sometimes I wonder how long it takes for other families to plan a visit to Disneyland? I have to smile at TV commercials I see today depicting a mother and father hunkered over a computer screen, making notes, reviewing the Disneyland website and reassuring each other, “Oh, yeah, we can afford this.” Some families prepare for months, some for years, to mount a 5-day, $1,500 assault on Disneyland. For my family, it was a $4.00 ticket book impulse. On a lazy Sunday morning at the breakfast table, we might look at each other and ask, “What shall we do today? The answer, more often than not was, “Let’s go to Disneyland.”

I would have to say that the only member of my family more smitten with Disneyland than me was my youngest brother Bill. He is nine years younger than me and came to the Disneyland “party” late. (Here he is on my shoulders at the park entrance in 1965). His first recollection of the park was at the age of 4. By then I was already a Magic Kingdom veteran at the age of 13. But he played catch-up fast. Grandpa needed a companion to join him on his many visits to the park, and Bill was always available. Over the years Bill fell in love with the place, and when he was old enough, he actually took a job at Disneyland for three years.

I loved hearing his stories of the inner workings of the park, the politics of employee assignments and promotions, and insider news of future park development. Bill was so hardcore that when he was studying to become a nurse, he seriously considered applying to Disneyland to join the park’s medical staff. Today, his living room pays homage to the Magic Kingdom, with framed Disneyland attraction posters, and his Christmas tree is surrounded by miniature Monorail track and a working Monorail train that circles the tree.

He and I share Disneyland stories and challenge each other with trivia questions. And we can get pretty esoteric. For example, how many rides at Disneyland have minimum height restrictions, and which one(s) have the shortest height restriction (Hint: the height restriction is only 36 inches)? Answer: seven rides, and the two with the shortest restrictions are Matterhorn and Gadgets Go Coaster. The ride with the tallest minimum height requirement is Autopia – you must be at least 52 inches tall to ride it alone.

Several years ago an imaginative economist wrote an article classifying all of America’s discretionary income purchases into eleven broad categories. They included such categories as entertainment, restaurant dining, vacation travel, clothing, and so on, and he showed how Disneyland has sought to compete for your wallet in every one of those eleven categories.
In other words, the Disney organization has determined that if you have a spare dollar, they want you to spend it with them. They will even host your wedding, and they have their own cruise ship waiting for your honeymoon.

Other than the graveyard outside the Haunted Mansion ride, about the only enterprise that Disney has not ventured into is the mortuary business. And I don’t know why not. It seems to me that some land should be dedicated next to Disneyland for the loyal following that have passed on, for a final resting place where their eternal souls can hear the rumblings of the Monorail passing overhead. Maybe it could be something like Arlington Cemetery, restricted only to the faithful few, like the Magic Kingdom Club Members. If such a feature were available, then with apologies to Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, I would ask that they bury my heart at Disneyland