When the novelty wore off, the family moved the wind-up Victrola to the kid’s room. That was me. Wow, a phonograph of my own, and all the family’s records, in my own room. Just watching the turntable spin wildly at 78 rpm was a treat.
When I had listened to Sailor Jack, William Tell Overture, or classical music hundreds of times I needed new material.
The movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was about to be released, and the music had been recorded in an RCA album. It was a soundtrack recording, right from the film, and I could listen to it right in my own room.
It took overtime wheedling, but I was taken to the music store, and there it was: for $7.98. But that was in 1935-dollars, which were hard to come by.
My mother said, “I’m really sorry, but I just can’t pay for the RCA-Victor album.”
I was offered a compromise. Frank Luther, whoever he is, had made a version of Snow White, by his writers, played and sung by his musicians, on Bluebird Records, for $2.95. It was a Hobson’s choice: this or nothing. I may have been a purist, but I was a kid. I caved. I got the Bluebird records.
“Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho,” sang Luther’s musicians. “Halt. Somebody’s shoes are a-squeekin’.”
Squeaking? There’s no squeaking in Disney’s Snow White. Who said that? Doc? Grumpy? Surely not Dopey. That complaining dwarf is an imposter.
So I had to live with Frank Luther and his band of fake Bluebird dwarfs. They are probably still a-squeekin’ in the storage shed with my Orphan Annie de-coder rings, and my Ovaltine drinking cups and the other shattered dreams of my childhood. The adultery of childhood may be as bitter as the adultery of adulthood.