I was led into the following reminiscence by a series on Jack and the Beanstalk I’ve been creating in the Folktales & Legends section. I’m wrestling with the reality that in our age of monstrous powers and principalities—nuclear bombs, artificial intelligence, oligarchic collusion, Flock cameras, armed drones, Vladimir Putin, Donald Trump, and much, much more—we are all of us Jacks and Tom Thumbs and other little people staring up at Giants itching to consume us.
Back in the ’50s and ’60s, Sunday mornings were a blur of breakfast, Brylcreem, and brand new shoes that pinched our feet and starched collars that chafed our necks. It was time to go to church, by God, and so,
“Would you hurry up in there? I have to brush my teeth!”
and, “No, you cannot wear your jeans!”
and, “Put the funny papers down now! Your father’s already started the car!”
We kids were gussied up to look good for God, who, we were told, loved us unconditionally but was also ready to smite us at the slightest provocation, you know, like wearing a shirt that didn’t cut our throats.
Almost as bad were the Sunday afternoons that followed church, desolate stretches of sepia solitude made more insufferable by endless black and white TV programs about which nobody but nobody gave a shit. I’m sure your grandparents have told you that “back in those days we only had three channels” (until National Educational Television came along with a complete waste of airtime). There was no football to speak of, at least not any games you could count on; no cartoons; no color anything—just dreary footage of golf matches with sotto voce announcers and reruns of shows like Lawrence Welk and Sea Hunt and moribund movies rescued from obscurity into indifference.
What to do? Go outside and play? With whom? There were no other kids out and about. And why were the other children imprisoned in their homes? Perhaps to make the Monday morning return to school more palatable? Perhaps to prepare us children for the miseries of adulthood? Perhaps to associate forever the tedium of homework with the ennui of Sunday (for to this day, I lump church, Lawrence Welk, and arithmetic in the same category)? All we kids knew was that Sundays sucked, though that expression had yet to be coined.
Then, remarkably, merrily, even momentously, a miracle happened precisely at six: Fireworks trailing white sparks arched over the turrets and flags of the Magic Kingdom to explode against an ebon sky, whereupon the ever erotic Tinker Bell fluttered in to transform our sufferings with her magic wand:
Walt Disney Presents came on!
Avuncular and mustachioed, compassionate and reassuring, Walt escorted us into a bright (albeit black and white) vision of all that was good. There were cartoons (we all tried to talk like Donald Duck); there were the adventures of Davy Crockett (I even had a coonskin hat); and there were behind-the-scenes glimpses into the construction of Disneyland, the heavenly home for all good girls and boys.
Kids across America sat at TV trays with tepid bowls of Campbell’s tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches made of Wonder Bread and Kraft singles, and frothy glasses of Borden’s milk to bask in the warmth of Walt, and though we did not know it, we were secretly contrasting the God of Sundays with His penchant for starched collars and confusing sermons with Walt and his affable storytelling. Sad to say (though we never would have said it), God fell short of the glory of Walt.
Anyhow, if we were really lucky, a Mickey Mouse cartoon would be featured, and if we were not just lucky but blessed beyond measure, Mickey and the Beanstalk would come on. Mickey Mouse played the part of Jack, and Donald Duck and Goofy had supporting roles as hungry peasants, and oh, what joy filled our young hearts when Sterling Holloway began his warm and wumbly introduction to the story. We danced with the little animals when the beautiful harp sang, “Oh, what a happy day!” and we shuddered when the shadow of the Giant fell upon Happy Valley. I may have read “Jack and the Bean Stalk” in a book of fairy tales, but I learned to love the story through Walt Disney.
In short, Walt Disney redeemed Sundays, and the Disney redemption continues apace even today.