My grandmother and Walt Disney have never met face to face. Which is a pity, for the old lady has always been one of his warmest admirers and one of his keenest critics.
Despite the fact that she long ago decided against the aspidistra as an outward symbol of respectability, and regretfully replaced the Venetian blinds with casement curtains, she often does find it difficult to adjust her ideas to the rapidly changing standards of the nineteen-thirties. Being born in 1850 is rather a handicap at times.
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What I am leading up to, after giving a brief word-picture of the attitude of an elderly lady whose wonderful laugh sets quivering like an upholstered jelly some sixteen stone of lovable humanity, is that my grandmother had nothing to do with the respectabilification of Walt Disney.
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No, it was the Women's Clubs of America who cleaned up the Silly Symphonies and forced the creation of Donald Duck to be the scapegoat of the cartoon world. No bad thing, this, until Donald himself began to quieten down in a most disheartening manner.
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