An exploration of our Disney park micro-obsessions
There’s no doubt about it: Disney people like weird things.
And I don’t mean the stereotypical “weird things” most non-Disney fans like to point to when making a case for why Disney adults are lesser beings, like crying at the sight of a castle, finding childhood wonder looking up at fireworks in the sky, or spending what some think is entirely too much money on Dole whips and souvenirs.
No, the kind of weird things Disney people like go far beyond Mickey ears and a few happy tears on Main Street USA.
I am talking about the micro-obsessions we get fixated on at the Disney parks. Something that others might find frivolous or overlook altogether.
My first introduction to the idea of a Disney micro-obsession came from my dad when I was just 11 years old. He was the one who took my brother and me to Disney just a handful of times, no doubt saving his pennies to make the trip a reality from our home base in Oregon. I remember watching him come alive when we were at Disneyland, becoming like a kid himself as he danced to the music and waved to characters as enthusiastically as we did.
But what I remember the most about my dad was the way he loved weather vanes.
He’d say to me things like, “Always look up! They put so many great details up there!”
And so, because of my dad, I started to look up. I lifted my eyes to a world designed with treats and treasures that I would never have seen without his encouragement. I started to notice windows with storytelling in Fantasyland, like how the villagers that resided inside the castle walls turned on their lights at night, like we do when the sun goes down. I read witty dedication windows on Main Street, gazed at enchanting twinkle lights in the trees, and pondered a stopped clock at the entrance to Fantasyland, wondering if it was the only land where time stood still so that we never had to truly grow up.
All the while, my dad snapped photos of weather vanes. Mr. Toad in his motor car. The Tick-Tock Croc. A masted ship atop the Haunted Mansion. And each one he showed me was like he’d found a gold nugget in a stream, so pure was his excitement over the levels of detail the Imagineers created.
There were four, to be exact, according to John Hench. For instance, if you were approaching the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland, you’d first notice New Orleans Square as the place where it resides, with jazz music drifting through the air and a beautiful little city wrapped around the crescent waterway. Then, for the second level, you’d notice a stately mansion in the distance and move toward it, taking in the gated entryway, the costumed maids and butlers, and the sense of growing unease. As you got closer still for level three, you’d notice the yard, the emptiness of the estate, the mourning wreath on the front of the mansion, and the architectural details.
But the fourth level is where the magic is.
Because as you get close to the mansion, you can feel the coolness of the Birds of Paradise design on the ironwork. You can read weathered tombstones and see the antique boot brush on the front porch. And as you enter the house, the details only multiply tenfold with chandeliers, gilded wallpaper, and a spider web-like floor pattern that fully immerses you in the environment.
You become part of the story being told, and there is no doubting where you are, because the details are so convincing that you couldn’t possibly be anywhere else.
It’s this fourth level that creates the micro-obsessions.
While my dad preferred weather vanes, the longer I studied Disney history, the more I added my own weird loves to the list.
It started with crates that had hidden surprises, like references to Imagineers or additional storytelling that one would only understand if they researched the meaning behind the words displayed. Then I moved on to lamps and lanterns, fascinated by the style at first, and later the level of thought that went into them. Like the safety lanterns in Big Thunder’s mine shafts, meant to prevent explosions with a small metal sleeve absorbing the heat from the flame. Or the lamps hanging in front of Pirates of the Caribbean and sprinkled around New Orleans Square that are quietly carrying the gas lamp tradition of The Crescent City.
Over time, I became obsessed with Disney parks rocks, trees, benches, and Belamy eagles, in turn. And, somewhat oddly, I am currently working my way through the vast plethora of woodstoves hiding in the corners of almost every Disney Park. (And by the way, yes, I AM still salty that the Round Oak one in Big Thunder Mountain in Walt Disney World is mistakenly from 1912 instead of the late 1800s, like the year the story is set).
Another Disney historian friend of mine is absolutely obsessed with Disney’s disappearing hallways, both in the exit corridor of the Tower of Terror, and also the secondary pass-through on the right of Cinderella Castle that has been closed off for years.
I’ve known people who spend the majority of their time looking for survey markers in the ground, photographing Disneyland’s mailboxes, and have spent hours singing along with Sonny Eclipse like they’re his Space Angels. Some know everything about the engineering and function of Disney’s trains, or the monorails, or the vehicles on Main Street. Others spend hours lingering in queues of their favorite attractions and marveling at the treasures they find.
There’s no doubt about it: Disney people like weird things.
But… why?
Because level four is our happy place.
If I discover how Disneyland’s Fantasyland benches moved to the Magic Kingdom, it gives me joy to have both solved a mystery and found a piece of hidden treasure in the process. If I notice the tiny shoes in the forced-perspective corridor of the Tower of Terror or observe the cottage in the looking glass in Snow White’s Enchanted Wish, it turns me into a little kid again with wonder and excitement.
Simply said, it brings me joy to know that someone put those there for me to discover. For us to find.
The Imagineers paid attention to the details because they know we will, too.
And we feel cared for because of it. Seen, because someone envisioned our experience when they created these gold nuggets for us. And I imagine they are just as excited as we are when we cry out “Eureka!” at our unearthing of these small gifts.
So yes, we like weird things. But the weird things were created for us to like.
And in the process of admiring them, we look up.
We raise our eyes from our own troubles. Lift our gaze to lovely sights instead of down at the daily plodding of our feet. We look up and discover places that allow us to mentally leave today and enter another world. A world where being weird is beautiful, and all of us are happily micro-obsessed together.
So unapologetically like the weird things. Celebrate them. Share them. Take all the photos you want, again and again.
Because they were made for you.
And your joy fulfills their purpose as much as it fills your soul.
If you are looking for more Disney history and encouragement, my latest non-fiction book So This is Love: What Disney History Teaches Us About Love is available in my bookstore, with an exclusive audiobook version only available here at disneycicerone.com!
