Real Magic -- Jennie

As my kids count the days (6) until our trip to Disneyland, I remember my own anticipation before visiting the Happiest Place on Earth as a seven year-old. Amy, my younger sister, and I had side-by-side twin beds with Betsy Clark quilts. Every night after our mom read us a chapter of Little House on the Prairie, Amy and I stayed up for hours, whispering about the Disneyland rides we had heard about, the characters we might see, and the treats our organic mom might let us have.

Like my kids, I had my suitcase packed weeks ahead, but with Dolphin shorts, and Saltwater sandals. Though it was late fall in northern California, it was still warm in the southern half, something else to look forward to.

Amy and I loved each other but bickered a lot over everything, especially who made the mess, and having to wear matching outfits. Plus, I had been having sleep issues, and dreaded the clock’s creeping toward bedtime. But in the mystical days before our Disneyland trip, I couldn’t wait to crawl under the quilt, get past the reading, then enter the world my sister and I had created. We had no idea how big the park was, or what was in it, or what it would look like, but we were delighted to imagine it all.

Finally, it came: the last night before the big trip. Amy thrashed around excitedly in her bed, but I was surprisingly sad. The late-night whispering would be over. So would the trip. And what if the Disneyland we had made up wasn’t as good in reality?

When our parents picked us up from school and drove the long eight hours to the Howard Johnson Hotel, I was nervous. But that all disappeared inside the gates, with its charming Main Street. When Goofy swaggered up to us in his big hat and big shoes, I was enchanted. Each moment was better than the last: the Country Bear Jamboree, the Mickey Mouse pancakes, the Electrical Parade, the Small World mermaids.

Even the scary things were thrilling: the Haunted House and the Pirates of the Caribbean. During the old Journey Through Inner Space, I was equally horrified and ecstatic to be shrunk to the size of an atom.

With the one dollar our dad had given us, Amy and I bought matching name plates: Mickey Mouse, with his arms behind his back, and our names in square letters. When we got home, I stuck mine on my headboard.

For years, even after our mom had finished the entire Little House series, I would stare at that glowing name plate. But instead of remembering the pirates, the pancakes, or the parade, I remembered the real magic: how it felt while I was waiting to go.