I know the first time I cried at the movies. My daddy took me to see “Bambi,” a cartoon feature about a cute fawn.
What could go wrong?
To this day, I can’t understand why the Disney folks created their horrifying tale.
Bambi’s mother disappears – and we somehow understand that she’s been killed.
I loved my mommy. She was funny and playful. She was comfort. She was always around.
Was I supposed to be unmoved when a mommy died?
I cried for three days. And I later learned I wasn’t the only one.
For my article writing workshop at Penn State, one student wrote a charming piece about the campus deer pens.
We were murmuring about conservation when another student roared. “This reminds me of Bambi’s mother!”
Most of my class – in training to be hard-bitten journalists – started to weep. We shared tissues.
And now, at Christmas time, I hear about Rudolph. I admire Vixen, who’s Santa’s token female.
But it’s the orphan, Bambi, that stays in my heart.
Excuse me for a min.
I still have to go cry.
