I was almost five years old the very first time I went to Disney World and though I hardly remember anything from that time in my life, a few moments stand out like those images and memories were initially captured in a colored film stock while the rest of it was all recorded in a stark black and white.  I recall being very excited that the monorail ran straight through the lobby of our hotel.  I know that I waited on lines for Peter Pan and Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride for hours, my nostrils all but shoved into the ass crack of whichever strange adult was standing in front of me, and I did it without complaining.  I remember being very afraid to go into the Haunted Mansion and steadfastly refusing to enter those doors on day one of our visit, but privately gathering my confidence and requesting – to my parents’ shock – if we could begin our last day in the Magic Kingdom at the ride that had the ghosts, and I remember trembling something fierce as those doors flew open but I also remember what it felt like to get through it and to feel that pride of facing my fears.  I can close my eyes and I can see us all having dinner at the Hoop-Dee-Doo Musical Revue and I have never forgotten that my waiter’s name was Byron and that he kept bringing me mini strawberry shortcakes to my delight and, besides John Travolta, Byron might have been my first crush.  I remember being pulled onto Space Mountain with my father and going almost catatonic from the speed and from the drops and how someone asked me what my favorite part of the ride was and I answered immediately, “The end.”