But on a shelf of old children’s books, culled from the mixed-lot boxes my mother bought at farm auctions, was a copy of Bambi: A Life in the Woodsby Felix Salten, bound in green cardboard stamped with figures from children’s books. Even if my mother had judged me able to handle the death of Bambi’s mother on film (which I doubt), she would no more have left me at a movie theater without an adult than given me the keys to the car. It was the younger boy calling from the theater lobby payphone, outraged: “You don’t expect us to sit here and watch Bambi’s mother being dead, do you?”Īcross the country in suburban Baltimore, I was seven, too. Their parents drove home, and as they walked in the door, the phone rang. My husband likes to tell a story from when he was eight years old, in Los Angeles, in 1975: His parents dropped him and his seven-year-old brother at the movies to see Disney’s animated 1942 classic Bambi, then in its fourth re-release. Sign up for our newsletter to get submission announcements and stay on top of our best work.
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