With her blue suitcases packed and sitting next to the front door, Mom was ecstatic that the day had finally arrived for a long-anticipated dream trip to Southern California. She and the church choir were traveling on a big tour bus to Anaheim for the invitation-only dedication of Walt Disney’s famous theme park. Disneyland was built on 160 acres of former orange groves. It featured five themelands: Main Street USA, Adventureland, Fantasyland, Tomorrowland, and Frontierland. This exciting grand opening was a momentous occasion, attracting nearly 28,000 guests and celebrities such as Art Linkletter, Fess Parker, Buddy Ebsen, and Ronald Reagan, to name a few. The dedication was also broadcast live to an estimated 90 million viewers, making it one of the largest of its time.

It was July 1955, and I stood solemnly next to my dad in the church’s parking lot to bid farewell to Mom and the other jubilant choir members. With that, the double-decker Greyhound Scenicruiser pulled away slowly from the church and made its way down the frontage road. A smile quickly appeared on my face. I’d be staying home with Dad, and everything had the makings of a picnic in my own theme park. 

Of course, I didn’t wear any of the clothes Mom laid out for me, but instead selected my own for the next few days while she was gone. Nothing matched. Dad didn’t even care that I wore my black patent leather Sunday school shoes, lace-trimmed socks, red-flowered shorts, and an orange-striped T-shirt—every day—for a week. Best of all, he didn’t mind that I played with Marie, who was four years older than me and several inches taller. Dad and I ate different things, like hot dogs and root beer floats from Fosters Freeze, instead of food cooked in the kitchen. Regular bedtimes were replaced with falling asleep on the sofa while watching Gene Autry, Wyatt Earp, and Death Valley Days with Dad. Needless to say, baths were few and far between. I was living the dream.

As fate would have it, my Disney dream was short-lived. When Mom got home a week later, I was ushered straight to the bathtub. My shorts, T-shirt, underwear, and lace socks went equally as fast to the laundry room. My black Sunday school shoes were scuffed beyond repair and thrown in the trash. In no time, my hair was washed, curled, and pulled back with matching barrettes. My clothes were color-coordinated once again. The aroma of fried chicken and biscuits wafted from the kitchen. Mom was back, and with her reappearance came the warm feeling of life as it was supposed to be. 

Once everything returned to normal and was nicely in order, Mom surprised me with a little blue record player, an assortment of Disney records, and Mickey Mouse ears. I was in heaven. The sound of Cinderella singing, “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes,” was heard throughout the house for the next several weeks.