You’re not rich until you have something that money can’t buy.
The Price of Disneyland
June of 1975 arrived warm and bright on the little island of Alameda, California. The last school bell had rung, and summer had officially begun. A cool breeze drifted in from the San Francisco Bay, carrying the salty smell of the water through our neighborhood streets and softening the heat of the sun.
Our block felt like its own small world.
Bikes rattled up and down the sidewalks from morning until dusk. Big Wheels squealed around driveway corners, their plastic wheels grinding against the concrete. Sprinklers spun lazily across front lawns, sending arcs of cool water across the grass while neighborhood kids dashed through them in shrieking bursts of laughter.
The houses on our street were a patchwork of styles and personalities. A tall Victorian with fancy trim stood proudly on one corner. Down the street was a cozy cottage tucked behind rose bushes. There were sturdy Craftsman bungalows with wide front porches where neighbors sat in lawn chairs in the evenings, and one elegant Spanish Revival house with curved stucco walls and a red tile roof that made us feel like we lived somewhere exotic instead of a quiet Navy town.
Most important, the neighborhood was full of kids. On any given day, someone always had a friend to play with.
As summer settled in, a familiar conversation drifted from porch to porch.
Vacation plans.
Some families were heading south to Disneyland. The lucky kids on the block talked about it endlessly—about Space Mountain, giant teacups, and the magical castle where fireworks exploded every night. Their excitement carried across the street as they described rides and cotton candy and meeting Mickey Mouse.
For us, Disneyland felt like another universe.
Our family was the largest crew on the block. That summer there were five of us kids, ranging in age from five to fourteen. Our house buzzed constantly with noise, laughter, squabbles, and the clatter of dishes. With a family our size, expensive vacations weren’t really part of the plan.
But our parents were good at creating adventures.
Instead of week-long trips, we explored the world in smaller pieces. We piled into the car for day trips up and down the Northern California coast. We picnicked beside rocky beaches where the wind tangled our hair and gulls cried overhead. We wandered through state parks, climbed driftwood logs, and chased waves until our pant legs were soaked.
Sometimes we even went to local amusement parks, which felt thrilling enough to us.
All of us were involved in scouting—our parents included—and scouting opened the door to even more adventures. One of my brothers, who had Type 1 diabetes, attended a special two-week summer camp each year for kids with the same condition. That camp meant the world to him.
Even though we didn’t travel far, our summers were full.
Still, that particular summer, I noticed something about Mom.
Whenever the neighborhood conversations turned to Disneyland, a quiet worry crept across her face.
One afternoon, my two youngest brothers, Keith and Danny, burst through the screen door, dusty from playing outside.
Keith looked up at Mom with wide, serious eyes.
“Mom,” he asked, “how much would it cost for our whole family to go to Disneyland?”
Mom paused. She looked at their hopeful faces and gave a small sigh.
“Well,” she said gently, “for all of us, it would probably cost around a thousand dollars.”
To us kids, a thousand dollars sounded like an impossible fortune.
Keith and Danny nodded thoughtfully.
“Okay!” they said together.
Then they ran back outside as if they had just received perfectly reasonable information.
Mom shook her head and looked at me.
“I wish we could take you kids to Disneyland,” she said softly. “It would be so much fun. I hate always having to say no.”
I walked over and wrapped my arms around her.
“You worry too much, Mom,” I said. “You’ve already given us a great life.”
She smiled, but I could tell her heart was still heavy.
Soon lunch was ready. Peanut butter sandwiches appeared on plates, along with glasses of bright red Kool-Aid. The little boys grabbed their food and headed straight for the backyard where they spread out a blanket under the shade tree for an impromptu picnic.
Mom helped them carry everything outside.
Tommy, my older brother, took his lunch to his bedroom, where wires, tools, and tiny electronic parts covered his desk. He was working on his latest invention.
Dave flopped onto the couch and turned on the television just in time for a rerun of Gilligan’s Island.
I stayed in the kitchen with Mom so we could eat together.
Even while she chatted with me, I could see that same worry lingering behind her eyes.
After the boys finished eating, they called for Mom to come help clean up their picnic. I followed her outside to gather the plates and cups.
As we picked things up, Keith suddenly looked thoughtful again.
“Mom,” he asked, “how much would it cost to have a new baby?”
Mom blinked, clearly surprised by the question.
Then she laughed.
“Oh,” she said playfully, “about the same as a trip to Disneyland.”
Keith immediately turned to Danny. The two of them exchanged excited grins, as if they had just solved a very important problem.
Keith puffed up his chest and made the announcement.
“Well,” he declared, “since they cost the same… we decided we’d rather have a new baby!”
For a moment, everyone froze.
Then the backyard exploded with laughter.
When I glanced at Mom, I saw tears shining in her eyes—but this time they weren’t tears of disappointment.
Something had lifted from her heart.
In that simple, innocent moment, she realized something she hadn’t fully seen before.
We didn’t need Disneyland.
Standing there in the backyard, surrounded by sticky Kool-Aid cups, sandwich crumbs, and the loud, joyful chaos of five children, she could see the truth plainly.
Her riches were already right in front of her.
And though she may not have realized it then, we knew it perfectly well.
Our greatest adventure was simply growing up in her love.
Photo by Jorge Martínez, instagram @jmartinezz9 on Unsplash
Tales of a Family 
