Dream It! Do It! (Disney Editions Deluxe) by Martin Sklar Page B
Authors: Martin Sklar
Tags: Disney Editions Deluxe
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Guests jumped from their chairs to avoid the mess. We ran out the door, down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the backdoor, to my car, and back to Disneyland.
Then we started to breathe again.
After a few minutes, the Indians got in their cars and drove home. I did the same. A few days later, we ran into Fred. He seemed angry and said that the group had told him they would never come back to the hotel again. Fred complained about the china and glasses that had been broken; the linen napkins, carpeting that had been stained with wine and food; and the broken chair. Then, he got a little grin on his face, his eyes lit up, and he said, “That was sure a better show than if that damned accordionist had shown up.”
Jack and I love to recall one of our favorite memories of the late 1950s in Anaheim. From a Santa Ana dealer of questionable ethics, he had purchased a 1947 Cadillac with a special habit: it blew head gaskets on a regular basis. But Jack loved that Cadillac, so he (and we) dealt with it. One day on the way to lunch, Jack drove us up West Street and turned onto Ball Road, when the Cadillac’s motor suddenly burst into flames. We jumped out of the car, and someone raced to the corner gas station to alert the fire department. But before they could place the call, less than a minute after we stopped, we saw Fire Chief Ed Stringer’s car across the road; thirty seconds later, Chief of Police Mark Stephenson arrived. One more, and we’d have a quorum for a city staff meeting.
I became so excited that I ran into the orange grove at the closest street intersection to the park. My emergency, unlike Jack’s, was that I had to relieve myself. That orange grove was destined for extinction, because the location was so strategic. But when the trees suddenly began to die a few weeks later, Jack credited me.
* * * * * * * * * *
I had two great offices in the late 1950s; one on the second floor of the City Hall, and the other in what is now part of the Guided Tour service. If you veer left when you enter Disneyland (as most people do) and walk under the railroad trestle, the first building you encounter is that small office. When the park opened, two light fixtures at each side of the stairs identified the building as the “Police Station.” It was not; it was my office.
Two experiences, both of which were to happen on many occasions, influenced much of my future Disney career—and, I believe, had a key role in communicating to the public about Walt Disney’s Magic Kingdom. The first resulted from my mistake: one day I neglected to lock my door that led onto Town Square, allowing several guests to enter the “Police Station.” Suddenly, I was confronted by questions about the park that were the province of trained hosts in Disneyland’s City Hall. As I pondered the half-dozen questions those early guests asked, it occurred to me that this was a prime source of useful information for those of us charged with making the public aware of what Disneyland was all about. Remember, this was the late 1950s; it wasn’t until the big expansion of 1959 that the park’s yearly attendance exceeded five million. From that open-door day forward, whenever I was in that Police Station office, my front door was never locked.
Just as important were my ventures to the nearby Main Gate to watch and listen to what guests were asking at the ticket windows. That was the biggest surprise of all. Often the questions went like this: “I want to go on the Jungle Cruise, the Rocket to the Moon, and the Mark Twain Riverboat— but I don’t want to go on any rides! ” What did that mean?
As we analyzed these comments, we realized that Walt had done such a great job of telling his television audience about Disneyland that the public had separated its offerings from the old amusement parks of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. In their minds, the whips, shoot-the-chutes, whirl-agigs, and lose-your-lunch thrills of those amusement parks were the
Then we started to breathe again.
After a few minutes, the Indians got in their cars and drove home. I did the same. A few days later, we ran into Fred. He seemed angry and said that the group had told him they would never come back to the hotel again. Fred complained about the china and glasses that had been broken; the linen napkins, carpeting that had been stained with wine and food; and the broken chair. Then, he got a little grin on his face, his eyes lit up, and he said, “That was sure a better show than if that damned accordionist had shown up.”
Jack and I love to recall one of our favorite memories of the late 1950s in Anaheim. From a Santa Ana dealer of questionable ethics, he had purchased a 1947 Cadillac with a special habit: it blew head gaskets on a regular basis. But Jack loved that Cadillac, so he (and we) dealt with it. One day on the way to lunch, Jack drove us up West Street and turned onto Ball Road, when the Cadillac’s motor suddenly burst into flames. We jumped out of the car, and someone raced to the corner gas station to alert the fire department. But before they could place the call, less than a minute after we stopped, we saw Fire Chief Ed Stringer’s car across the road; thirty seconds later, Chief of Police Mark Stephenson arrived. One more, and we’d have a quorum for a city staff meeting.
I became so excited that I ran into the orange grove at the closest street intersection to the park. My emergency, unlike Jack’s, was that I had to relieve myself. That orange grove was destined for extinction, because the location was so strategic. But when the trees suddenly began to die a few weeks later, Jack credited me.
* * * * * * * * * *
I had two great offices in the late 1950s; one on the second floor of the City Hall, and the other in what is now part of the Guided Tour service. If you veer left when you enter Disneyland (as most people do) and walk under the railroad trestle, the first building you encounter is that small office. When the park opened, two light fixtures at each side of the stairs identified the building as the “Police Station.” It was not; it was my office.
Two experiences, both of which were to happen on many occasions, influenced much of my future Disney career—and, I believe, had a key role in communicating to the public about Walt Disney’s Magic Kingdom. The first resulted from my mistake: one day I neglected to lock my door that led onto Town Square, allowing several guests to enter the “Police Station.” Suddenly, I was confronted by questions about the park that were the province of trained hosts in Disneyland’s City Hall. As I pondered the half-dozen questions those early guests asked, it occurred to me that this was a prime source of useful information for those of us charged with making the public aware of what Disneyland was all about. Remember, this was the late 1950s; it wasn’t until the big expansion of 1959 that the park’s yearly attendance exceeded five million. From that open-door day forward, whenever I was in that Police Station office, my front door was never locked.
Just as important were my ventures to the nearby Main Gate to watch and listen to what guests were asking at the ticket windows. That was the biggest surprise of all. Often the questions went like this: “I want to go on the Jungle Cruise, the Rocket to the Moon, and the Mark Twain Riverboat— but I don’t want to go on any rides! ” What did that mean?
As we analyzed these comments, we realized that Walt had done such a great job of telling his television audience about Disneyland that the public had separated its offerings from the old amusement parks of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. In their minds, the whips, shoot-the-chutes, whirl-agigs, and lose-your-lunch thrills of those amusement parks were the
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