Vartabedian: Disney Snafu Sends Me Duck-ing

There I was in Disney World, dining with my grandchildren at one of those character breakfasts, when a duck waddled over to our table.

“Daisy!” I yelled, loud enough for the whole place to hear.

All of a sudden, I saw Goofy roar with laughter. Pluto took his tail and twirled it like a windmill. All eyes were on my table as Donald stood there stunned—a victim of mistaken identity inside the Magic Kingdom.

The “duck” stopped in his tracks and cowered with embarrassment. I would have hid under the table had there been room.

“Papa, that isn’t Daisy. That’s Donald,” my six-year-old shot back. “Daisy has a bow in her hair and wears a dress.”

Get your ducks straight, Tom. It’s a lot like searching for Bugs Bunny and finding out he doesn’t belong here. Nor any of his Looney Tunes friends. I made that mistake with Daffy.

And Donald didn’t let me forget. He took my grandson’s autograph book and signed it with a most excruciating note: “Your Grandpa called me Daisy.”

Not a good start to our Disney trip but one that will be etched in memory. It marked the start of a 45th wedding anniversary for my wife and me. My son and daughter-in-law were celebrating a 10th. Both grandchildren had birthdays imminent.

At the Magic Kingdom, my eight-year-old held my hand and calmed my nerves as we hopped aboard a runaway roller coaster called the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Peter Pan’s Flight whisked me away to Never Never Land. Back we came to roll, bounce, and float with Winnie the Pooh. The Main Street Parade continued to weave its wizardry, crowned by an awesome fireworks display over Cinderella’s Castle.

At Animal Kingdom, we took in an African Safari, zipped through Mount Everest like it was a cakewalk, trekked through the Maharajah Jungle, and discovered the tough life of a bug, including some creepy crawly moments in the dark.

For personal favorites, I like EPCOT. Where else can you tour the world in 90 minutes, never mind days? Main attractions here were too many to count, be it Mission Space where you turn into an astronaut, or riding with Ellen DeGeneres as she takes you through the dinosaur era. The Nemo and Little Mermaid shows were unforgettable, as was Soarin’—a freewheeling hand gliding adventure cross-country.

The fourth leg on our itinerary found us inside Hollywood Studios and my favorite Disney musical, “Beauty and the Beast.” Toy Story characters kept me entranced, not to exclude the—gulp!—Twilight Zone Tower of Terror which sent my heart plummeting to my feet. A more sedate attraction was the Great Movie Ride, being a classic film buff and getting to travel through Hollywood’s epic era.

For my wife and I, this proved a return visit from the one we made about two decades ago on the 15th anniversary. Disney had invited newspapers across the land and catered to media alone at no cost. Best part of this junket was no lines, though with the Fast Passes, waiting was minimized. Had we gone the week before, we would have toured the grounds in winter apparel.

The snafu with Donald bore another bookend. Being the coddling Granddad that I am sometimes, I tend to spoil the youngsters from time to time.

I was given a final warning by their parents to put a cap on buying souvenirs for the children but I do have trouble listening at times. I saw my granddaughter fingering a rack of Disney pins she wanted for her sash.

Trading pins have become somewhat of a tradition here at Disney. Employees wear them and are prepared to swap at the slightest request.

When nobody was looking I purchased a set of four and stuck it in my pocket before the clerk found a bag. “Keep the change,” I told her, hoping to remain undetected.

I invited my grandchild to take a seat outside while the others were meandering about, took the package from my pocket, and dropped it to the pavement. A moment later, my exuberance was shown.

“Look, there on the ground, a set of Disney pins. This must be our lucky day. Must have fallen from someone’s bag.”

Upon showing it to her mother and saying she found it on the ground, my daughter-in-law looked at the kiosk and dutifully replaced it on the rack, saying it must have fallen from the wind.

The $30 I had spent for the pins—and suddenly lost—had to be the work of the wicked witch.

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Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.