Memories & Magic

Encantado has been on hiatus for a month as we pursued a different kind of adventure in another enchanted land: Hawaii, and a dream deferred for two years. Here's that story.

Disneyland opened two years before I was born. It was about 50 miles from where I grew up in Woodland Hills, so a day trip was not out of the question. People might wake up on a Saturday, say, and decide, “Let’s go to Disneyland today.” The way I might decide to go to the beach or San Francisco now.

There was a huge amount of hype leading up to its opening, apparently. Having a built-in cross promoter in The Wonderful World of Disney meant thousands showed up for its launch day in July of 1955. Things did not go well. The “happiest place on earth” was overwhelmed, understaffed and completely unprepared for managing the logistics of the onslaught. People were decidedly unhappy. Nonetheless, from the get-go, the place thrived. Disneyland was a part of my childhood.

It was not, however, a part of Cooper and Carson’s childhood. We took them there once, and to Disneyworld once--but that second one was only because it was a boondoggle paid for by Cal’s work.

So I have been mystified by Cooper’s passion for all things Disney. This seems common among Northern California millennials. Great America is OK. Disneyland is da bomb. As an adult, Cooper continues to love the movies, characters, merchandise, and especially, the park. When it came time to pick a life partner, he chose someone who is just as passionate about it as he is. Coincidence?

A place our kids did go a lot growing up was Hawaii. I had family there and visited a lot. I taught English to immigrant kids one summer and worked as a YWCA camp counselor another time. My kids were shipped off to Hilo and Honolulu regularly to see their Auntie Suz. Cooper has a small amount of Hawaiian blood in his ancestry.

So when it came time for Cooper and Ashley to get married, where else would the wedding be? Disney + Hawaii = The Disney Aulani Resort, 15 miles west of Honolulu. That’s not a match made in heaven. It’s even better. It’s a match made in the Magic Kingdom.

In April of 2020 we were steaming toward the blessed event, as predictably as a Jungle Cruise vessel will be menaced by aggressive, animatronic, river-dwelling animals. About three weeks out, a mother of a hippo tipped our boat over. Covid.

The kids were crushed. The mother of the bride was crushed. Given that the world was gripped by a big, scary pandemic unlike anything our 20-somethings had ever seen, everybody tried to be a good sport, to keep things in perspective, to believe (in the words of Jiminy Cricket) “Anything your heart desires will come to you.”

Except it didn’t. Not through two years, four reschedules, one backyard “mini-mony” and a Matterhorn-sized mountain of angst.

Perhaps this is why we all hoped for magic in April of 2022.

Aulani is hard to describe. It is a gorgeous, tropical, flower-scented, waterfall-laden paradise. It is real and fake at the same time. It has clever marketing, exquisite crowd control and customer-service second to none. It has been developed with a true respect for Hawaiian culture. The word Aulani means “messenger of the chief.” (Who is the chief, I wonder? Walt himself? Has his cryogenically preserved head been reincarnated in this place?). The Disney touches are subtle: you enter an elevator, hear a song sung in Hawaiian that you know you recognize from somewhere, and then it dawns on you: Ah. “Be Our Guest”. “Under the Sea.” “When You Wish Upon a Star.” All in Hawaiian. Children swamp those elevators in the mornings, dressed to the nines, chattering like over-excited Cinderella mice. “Character Breakfast?” I ask one weary father, who laughs and says yes. You’re likely to run into Mickey or Minnie, or Lilo, Stich, Goofy or Belle roaming the property, posing for pictures. This is the only place on earth where you will see full-grown adults wearing mouse ears without a trace of irony.

There are millions of kids at Aulani. Bright faces. Joyful squeals. Eager lines waiting for water slides and inner tubes and thematic ice creams. Everywhere you turn, families are having fun. But--kids get tired in a place like this, don’t they? They melt down. They lose it. And yet, you never hear crying at Aulani.

The other joyful warriors here are the employees. They beam and chat and go out of their way to connect, like there is nothing they desire more than having a personal moment with you. I go into interview mode (as is my way) and ask them about working at Aulani. They say—sincerely it seems—that this was their lifelong dream, and they can’t believe it came true.

It really is the happiest place on earth. And Hawaiian, all at the same time.

The wedding celebration gave me a collection of crystalline moments from our three days, my precious jewels to keep. Here are a few.

The sunset snorkel cruise the first night, with the rest of the bridal party. In a welcome departure for me, no seasickness!

The early morning round of golf the next day, which Cooper requested as our special time together.

The welcome dinner we hosted Friday night at Monkeypod restaurant. The food was amazing and, served family style, promoted sharing and connection. The group was just the right size to get to every table, meet every person, and have good, convivial fun.

And from the wedding day itself:

The primping session with the bridesmaids. Ashley invited me to join this, and while I am not sure how much it did for my appearance, I loved watching Ashley interact with her friends. In their matching bridesmaid pajamas and marabou slippers, they laughed and squealed, sharing memories from their years together. It helped me understand one thing Ashley felt she missed with our tiny backyard ceremony. She wanted her friends around her. Cal got a matching guy thing—some kind of super-duper shave.

The “first look”. This is something the Disney wedding plan has ritualized for the sake of taking perfect pre-wedding photos, before heat and wind and tears wreak havoc. Cooper, handsome in his Hawaiian wedding shirt, looked down the leafy tropical path and saw Ashley emerge in her exquisite wedding dress; truly, the prettiest bride I have ever seen. The look on his face is a memory for a mother’s heart.

The box Ashley pressed into my hand right before the procession. She murmured “this is for you.” Inside was a bracelet with a crystal charm that read “My other mother.”

The wedding procession which, in a surprise twist, Cal, Cooper and I led. Arms linked, we led the party to the tropical arbor overlooking the ocean. This got added the night before at the rehearsal. I loved it. Cooper, who sought bare bones simplicity in all things, not so much.

The language of the ceremony. I often get teary at weddings, when the officiant calls on those gathered to love and support the couple through whatever lies ahead. When the bride and groom are young, I often think: they have no idea what these words really mean. But those of us who have been at it for three or four decades do. They are words that bind a community together, and create a thread through time.

An aching sadness that recurred throughout the weekend. A longing for the one who should have been there but was not. But also, a knowledge—hard won--that though the sadness would come, it would also pass. It would not extinguish the light of this day.

My exchange with Reverend Kimo, who presided with casual, quintessential Hawaiian joie de vivre. “You have a tender-hearted boy there,” he said to me, referring to how Cooper cried through much of the ceremony. “Yes I do,” I replied. “And when he cries, I cry. And so does his dad.”

The mother-son dance. This also was not planned. But the father-daughter dance was suddenly occurring, so Cooper and I were called into the game. I was enchanted. Cooper was horrified.

The full moon rising through the palm trees as we danced on the beach. The bridal party—beautiful young women in their coral gowns and handsome groomsmen in their aloha shirts-- leapt up to take the floor, yodeling with abandon as they recognized some song. I think the title was “We know how to party in California.” We oldsters joined soon enough, and the savvy DJ cleverly toggled between millennial favorites and boomer fare. Families gathered on the walkway above, little kids and parents creating a dance party of their own. Sweetest wedding crashers ever.

As the three days came to a close, and we winged off to Maui to recuperate, I thought about rituals.

A minister calls upon a community to love a new couple through what lies ahead.

A nervous best man rises to his feet and delivers a testament to the power of love and friendship.

A family gathers in front of their TV on Sunday night to watch the latest installment of enchantment on offer from Disney.

Rituals matter, and they can come from anywhere—the centuries-old code of human society; or a company that has gotten really good at packaging and selling happiness.

Sometimes, they bring magic. I have gotten better at seeing this as I have gotten older; at not questioning the origin or judging the authenticity. Magic is magic. You can’t force it. You can’t make it happen the way you want. But when it does show up, you can say: “Oh there you are. I am so glad you are here. Come on in and let’s see what happens next.”