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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