Chapter 1: A Skyward Reflection

As I gazed up from our apartment's swimming pool, I watched a lone airplane glide effortlessly across the clear blue sky, much like the stylus I had for an Etch-a-Sketch that I never used.

"I'll be up there soon," I mused.

During the summer of 1987, I spent countless hours observing planes, eagerly anticipating our first major family trip to Disney World. Yet, despite my excitement, the memories of that vacation are mostly hazy, resembling a page filled with erasure poetry—just a few scattered moments, with much of it obscured and forgotten.

We often treat our lives as if they're merely flyover territory, fixating so intently on our next destination that we overlook the beauty in the details. I've certainly fallen into this trap. However, next week, my family and I will embark on another Disney adventure.

This time, I’m determined to buy my son that one special item my parents never got me—a shared joke between us—and I plan to make one significant change from 36 years ago.

Actually, make that two changes. I refuse to let our most memorable experience occur in the parking lot, as it did back then.

My primary goal at the happiest place on earth isn't just to have a good time—it's something deeper.

Chapter 2: The Cost of Memories

Our last big family vacation was a beach trip two years prior. Unfortunately, our old Volkswagen Rabbit's transmission failed midway there. Car repairs can be costly, especially for young families with one parent in college.

Years later, I learned that my father had dubbed that car “Hitler’s Revenge.” My mother still recounts how he salvaged our beach plans, adapting them to fit our tight budget that had shrunk even further due to the car troubles.

By 1987, however, they could finally afford a trip to Disney. Yet, none of us can recall much about that visit, which is a shame. My own memories from that trip are limited to just a handful of scenes.

The most vivid recollections I have are secondhand accounts from my parents—who might have wished they could forget them too.

Chapter 3: Unforgettable Moments and Green Peas

Francis Ford Coppola, known for directing "The Godfather," also created the 17-minute film "Captain EO," which ran at Epcot from 1986 to 1998. Surprisingly, I rarely mention it since my own memories of the film are scarce. In 1987, I experienced my first 3D movie, but instead of focusing on Michael Jackson, I found myself looking around at the audience, baffled as to why they weren’t all staring at me.

Those 3D effects felt like they were aimed right at me.

Presented by The Eastman Kodak Company at Disneyland and Epcot—nowhere else in the universe!

Space Mountain is another memory condensed into just a line of people waiting in dim light for the rollercoaster ride. Above us, a projector displayed what were supposedly asteroids, though someone joked they were just close-ups of chocolate chip cookies. To this day, I still wonder if that was true.

Then there was the afternoon we lunched at The Contemporary, a towering A-frame hotel with the monorail running through it. My meal included green peas—my least favorite vegetable.

Oh, how I loathe green peas. I’ll carry that disdain with me forever.

I pride myself on being able to wash down vegetables, but that day was different. My drink was gone, and my father wouldn’t buy me another. I had to choke down those peas with mashed potatoes, gagging the whole time.

When asked about their Disney experiences, most people don’t typically respond with, “Oh, it was all about the green peas!”

Chapter 4: The Parking Lot Fiasco

Aside from the Mickey Mouse ice cream pop my parents refused to buy me—no one remembers why—our most cherished memory isn’t actually from the park. It originates from the parking lot on our very first day.

The Magic Kingdom's parking lot sprawls over 125 acres and can hold 12,000 cars. In such a vast area, having a landmark is essential.

After parking that first morning, my parents chose "the palm tree" as our marker.

You can see where this is going.

After a long day of fun, when it was time to retrieve our car, we realized there were countless palm trees in that massive lot. To complicate matters, no one remembered the make, model, or color of our rental car.

Key fobs weren’t around back then, so we couldn’t just click a button to locate our vehicle. Instead, we had to rely on security guards to drive us around in a golf cart until we finally found our car—while I sat in the back, battling an upset stomach.

I don’t recall these events firsthand, which might actually be for the best, but they’ve only grown funnier with time.

Chapter 5: Saving My Life, One Story at a Time

This spring, I read a book that profoundly impacted me. It inspired me to start preserving my life by recording stories.

For years, I had merely observed life, seeking inspiration but neglecting to capture the rich details that define my existence. When Matthew Dicks posed a question in his book "Storyworthy" about what I remembered from six months ago, my response was disheartening: almost nothing.

Almost nothing from my own life.

Yet he proposed a straightforward solution: Spend just five minutes each evening jotting down one or two sentences about something that happened that day. That's it; there's no step two.

As a parent to an only child, memories hold immense value—there are many things no one else will remember for me. I’d treated my own life as if the details didn’t matter, but now I feel compelled to capture them.

It’s time to focus on the little moments, like when my son said, “If they taught us about dinosaurs at school, that would be a dream come true.”

Details, not just destinations. Because our lives are not mere flyover country.

That's why I’m approaching our upcoming Disney trip differently. My aim at the happiest place on earth is not just to have fun (and locate the car)—it’s to preserve the small moments that make our lives uniquely ours.

To create lasting memories for my son.

(And yes, if they still sell Mickey pops, I’m definitely getting one!)

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