The Quest

Writing about my grandfather the other day reminded me of another fond memory of my childhood. In August 1969 The Haunted Mansion at Disneyland opened, and being that the two things I dug the most in those days were ghosts and Disneyland, there was little else that could have excited me more.

In early 1970, there was a special on The Wonderful World of Disney with Kurt Russell, The Osmond Brothers, and E.J. Peaker in which actual footage of the interior of the Haunted Mansion was featured, and all through the show I could barely contain my enthusiasm. When it ended, I begged my parents to take us to Disneyland the next weekend so that we could see it. My father squashed the idea with cold hard facts; it cost him fifty dollars to take his family of five for a day at Disneyland, and he wouldn’t be able to afford that kind of dough until the next summer.

As any ten year-old child will tell you, a few months is equivalent to “forever”, especially when that child is waiting for his birthday, Christmas, or a trip to Disneyland. I was no different, and I was sure I would never get to see the ghosts waiting for me in the spooky old house I had seen at Disneyland since I was six.

I am not sure when I first discovered that Disney released the Haunted Mansion album, but I was once again overcome with joy when I did learn of it. In my little ten year-old mind I relished the idea that I could buy the album, and then enjoy the ride over and over whenever I felt like it. Sure, it wasn’t the same as going to Disneyland, but hey, a 33 1/3 vinyl simulation was as good as a DVD in those days, and so I promptly got on the phone, and dialed up every record store I could find in the yellow pages. I called each store and asked the same question:

“Hi, do you guys have the ‘Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion’ record?”

“The what?”

“The ‘Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion’.”

“Is that a record?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of record is it?”

“It’s like a story about the new ride at Disneyland.”

“Oh yeah, I heard of that ride. They made a record out of it?”

“Yeah, do you have it?”

“Lemme look…. No we ain’t got it. Do you want to order one?”

“No, that’s OK, thanks anyway.”

I had that conversation about a half dozen times with every record store within a thirty-mile radius of where we lived. Then I had it another half dozen times with every department store in the same area. To my dismay, not one store carried the record.

I couldn’t believe it. How could there not be at least one copy in the entire town? I was feeling defeated. Then my mother told me that my grandparents had invited me to go for a visit at their house in Azusa. My parents knew how important it was to me to find that album, and I suspect now, with an older and clearer mind, that the trip to grandmas that weekend was a conspiracy hatched by them and my grandparents to help me get the album so I would finally shut up about it. I think this because after my folks dropped me off my grandmother quickly got a phonebook, flipped to the record store section of the yellow pages, and showed me the store she felt most likely carried “kid’s records.” I never got the chance to ask her, but I bet she already called around until she found a copy.

I called the store she suggested, and asked my rehearsed question. The guy on the other end told me to wait while he checked. After what seemed like hours, he came back and said, “Yeah, we have one copy. You want I should hold it for ya?” “YES.” I squealed. “We will be there right away! My name is Jeff, PLEASE don’t sell it to anyone else!” “Don’t worry, kid. It will be here when you get here.”

I was elated. I told my grandmother that they had just one copy left, and that we needed to go right away before he sold it out from under me. My grandmother obliged. She and my grandfather went to the store with me, and sure enough, there it was. I gave the man my eight dollars, and he gave me my precious album. We drove straight back to my grandparent’s home.

My grandfather had a high end, Hi-Fidelity phonograph, and he allowed me to play my new treasure for the first time on it. I can still relive that afternoon in my mind. It was a hot day, and there were a pair of old metal fans humming hypnotically in the background. My grandmother drew the shades of the big picture window that faced the backyard, and closed the door between the well-lit kitchen and the entry way so that the living room where the hi-fi was would be as dark as possible. My grandfather carefully placed my album on the turntable, and we all listened to the album for the very first time. My grandfather sat in his chair and smoked his pipe, and my grandmother sat in her chair eating one of the banana splits she made for us. I sat on the floor with my banana split in front of the speakers, lost in the story I waited so long to hear. It was wonderful. When it ended, my grandmother gave me her portable phonograph, and I went in the spare room and listened to it again, and then again.

Since that day every time I listened to that record I remember that afternoon with my grandparents, listening to my record, eating my banana split, and building a memory that has lasted a lifetime.

Posted by Jeff at May 7, 2004 11:40 AM