If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why?
In our house, there’s a running list—maintained exclusively by me. It’s not Santa’s Nice or Naughty list; only the big man himself has access to those sacred scrolls. No, this one is far more personal. It exists only in my daydreams, updated mentally as I wander around my backyard or stir another pitcher of sangria.
It’s my Summer Barbecue Guest List:
Who from history—or from my lifelong love of entertainment—would I invite to sit beside me in an Adirondack chair and drink handcrafted sangria under the soft glow of string lights?
I adore entertaining in the summer. My backyard is modest, but I treat it like a tiny retreat—a place where mosquito fighter candles (ok Citronella) double as décor and the wind chime sings softly. Each year I add a few touches: new flowers, a statement lantern, maybe a fresh outdoor pillow that I swear I don’t need but somehow buy anyway. And every year, as I sit outside, the breeze in my hair, I revisit the guest list.
Billy Joel has made appearances on this list—because who wouldn’t want “Piano Man” playing live next to the grill? Jerry Seinfeld would absolutely question the concept of my list (“A party for dead people? Who does that?”), which somehow makes me want to invite him even more. And then there are Eli and Peyton Manning—because someone needs to help my family settle our eternal quarterback debates.
The list is long, ever-changing, and slightly chaotic—much like me. But one name never leaves. One name is permanently etched at the top, like it’s written in pixie dust:
Walt Disney.
What I wouldn’t give to have a real conversation with the greatest imagineer of all time. What we see in his parks and films is only the surface—the shiny tip of a much deeper, more daring iceberg. His mind, they say, never slept. Maybe that’s why the urban legend lives on in that he wanted to be cryogenically frozen, ready to be revived in some future era just to see if his ideas held up. I never understood that story entirely, but what I do understand is that his creativity shaped the childhoods of millions—including mine—and continues shaping generations that follow.
Some people aren’t Disney fans.
I am not one of those people.
If I ever had the chance to meet Mr. Disney, I think I’d skip the formalities and go straight in for a hug. A real one. The kind that says “thank you” without making a scene. I’d thank him for Herbie the Love Bug, which made my young heart feel like anything could come alive with a little imagination. I’d thank him for the castles, the characters, the music, the worlds he built out of thin air and big dreams. And most of all, I’d thank him for the look on my children’s faces every time we walked into Disney World—eyes wide, spirits lifted, wonder pouring out of them like light. That kind of magic stays with a mother forever.
And since this is my daydream, after the hug and the gratitude, I’d pour him a chilled glass of sangria and ask the questions that have lived rent-free in my mind for years:
What idea were you most proud of? Which one kept you up at night? What sparked your imagination the most—the characters, the worlds, or the believing?
I’d want to hear about his failures, too—the ones he learned from, the ones that stung, the ones that eventually led to something extraordinary. Because no great legacy is built without a few burnt hot dogs and wobbly patio chairs along the way.
The truth is, none of these people will ever set foot in my backyard. They’ll never taste my sangria or laugh at my mismatched patio cushions. But that’s not the point.
The point is that imagining these conversations—dreaming about what we’d say, what we’d learn, what we’d feel—reminds me why these individuals mattered to me in the first place. They shaped the soundtrack, the humor, and the curiosity in my little life.
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