Grad Night

            1968. Disneyland hosted an all-night grad night for high school seniors in South California.

About twenty classmates and I dropped LSD for the first time, on the bus to The Magic Kingdom. The little pills were called Blue Flats. Pharmaceutical. Word was they were made at UCLA. We were lucky, intent by chemists was still as pure as the product.

By the time we got off the bus, reality ran parallel to reality and we switched from colors to sound to touch, and exclaimed, “Far out.” Something streaked overhead and I tasted orange blossoms. We headed for the rides.

On Mr. Toad’s Ride, I was killed by a freight train; smattered, dead, bloody on the tracks, still screaming. But Small World put me back together whole—loving characters singing to me. Pirates of the Caribbean started out as a cruise. But then one pirate started threatening me with a knife. I kept an eye on him, left an eye on him—even as the ride ended. Before I could walk away, I had to go back and get my eye. Not an easy task. Common sense, no bigger than a piece of lint, kept me off the Tea Cups. I hate circle rides. No telling what long-lasting malady might have resulted from that form of spinning.

I fell in love and forgot. And fell in love again. I don’t remember with whom, but it was real while it lasted. Near sunrise, our group of travelers walked around like lost penguins, bumping into each other, reassured by what looked like familiar faces, beginning to look forward to a bus ride home.

            Once you’ve taken LSD at Disneyland, you can never go back. To either one.

This is my first story prompted by Betsy Sarason’s memories of Interlochen (National Music Camp). My parents made me go there even though I liked my old camp, I loved it and they used to remind me “Aren’t you glad we made you go”. Of course my brother Johnny, a talented pianist, had gone there. I was the artist in the family so that was my “major” but I loved dance and operetta more. I loved the atmosphere, the friends I made, being an insider when outsiders from all over the country visited. I even loved the corduroy knickers and knee sox we wore (in the summer). My first year I met Cathy Jaffe, from Long Island, and we became lifelong friends. She would call me in Detroit and ask “Is Mawcy there” and we all knew it was her. She died in 911, which still is unbelievable. We had visited each other many times and had been together a few years before at an “Interlochen” reunion. Very special memories now. Who knew?