Though I felt pretty traumatized by my first experience of riding the Haunted Mansion, there was definitely some curiosity there as well. Not long after that trip when I was six years old, we returned again to the house of mouse – this time for their 25th anniversary celebration. I was about nine. The castle was a giant, pink birthday cake. We were visiting the parks with my extended family. What wasn’t to like?
I mean, the birthday cake castle was a bit much.
My aunt and uncle were big into the thrill rides that were new at the time: the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror and Alien Encounter. I was curious about them but deemed too young to ride them. And, given the thing with the wedding cake topper, the adults probably made the correct call.
The most momentous thing for me on this trip was that I got to ride the Haunted Mansion again. My parents teased me relentlessly while we waited in line to ride it. Was it going to be every bit as scary as the last time I’d ridden it? Would it be better to sit in the Doombuggy between my parents instead of next to my sister? Newfound excitement filled me as we made our way to the front of the line, right up to the door…
This time, when I made my way all the way to the DEAD CENTER of the room, I realized that the ride was not only scary. It was also funny! I’d been too young (and short) to pay attention to the Stretching Room the first time I visited it. This time, I stared in awe at each portrait, appreciating the humorous – or posthumorous – stories as they unfurled before me.
Savoring the spooky silliness continued, and I came out of the ride wanting to instantly ride it again.
When I returned home this time, I wanted to share my experience with my friends. I lived in Virginia Beach at the time, and my friends had large, grassy backyards with the kind of trees that are perfect for climbing. They also had a red wagon.
One afternoon, I got the brilliant idea to stick my friend’s little sister in said wagon and pull her along for the new “Haunted Mansion” ride that I’d just made up. Using only my imagination – and the scariest voices my small self could make – I did my best to mimic Paul Frees as I led my friend’s sister through her own backyard, describing her large, white, wooden back porch in ways that made her doubt that she’d ever been on it before.
Basically, I scared the pants off of her, and I was told by her mother to stop scaring her.
The scared had become the scary.
after the laughter 