Foreword

by Melinda Heller Nellos, Homer Brightman's Granddaughter

I grew up hearing stories. After all, my grandfather Homer was a storyteller, both by nature and by vocation. He told me stories, laughing, about the pranks he pulled on his two daughters: my mother, Connie, and her younger sister, my aunt Pam. There were simple things, such as replacing their regular breakfast milk with pure buttermilk, and more complex tricks, like when he put an inflation device under my mother’s dinner plate and each time she would start to take a bite, her plate would rise! He loved gags!

There were only two things my grandfather loved more than a good gag; one of those was the sea. Sailing was his first love and his lifelong love. He was born October 1, 1901, in Port Townsend, Washington, on the edge of the Pacific coast. His father, Homer H. Swaney, the president of Seattle Iron and Steel Company, died in those rough waters when my father was two years old, the result of a tragic ferry boat accident. As an adult, Grandpa Homer decorated his house with pictures of magnificent sailing ships on stormy seas, water crashing over the decks. We would stand together and talk about those paintings.

“Was it really like this, out there?” I would ask, finding it hard to believe, sure there was exaggeration on the canvas.

“That’s the way she was,” he would reply, telling stories of the sea from his Merchant Marine days.

He told me the story of how he ran away from home at fifteen to join the Merchant Marines. He loved sailing to the Orient and spoke highly of the skilled dentist in Shanghai who put the gold between his teeth. Over and over, I heard how his life was saved on one trip to China by a giant sea turtle. A huge wave took him overboard, when he was the third mate and the night watchman. He was just about to give up—three hours in the cold water—not able to tread water one minute longer, when out of the churning sea came this giant turtle. He was able to hold onto it until the boat came back for him.

My favorite story, however, was the very short story of his birth. Every one of us heard this story whenever we asked him where he was born. Port Townsend never once came out of his mouth.

“I was not born. I had no parents. I was found strapped to a log, floating in the sea.”

We were never quite sure if that was the truth, so we all kept asking! I was, however, sure about the sea turtle story, and I never tired of hearing it. Growing up, I often thought my own life would not have been, had this turtle not saved him!

He was so convincing when he spoke! He acted out every story, throwing his arms in the air like waves, flapping his hands like wings, as he told me the story of the waterlogged bee he saved, flying directly at him and putting him in the pool fully dressed.

There are many references in the volumes of Disney biographies to Homer Brightman being quite demonstrative in the telling of his stories during his days working at the Disney Studio as a storyboard artist. One recounts his telling of a Donald Duck cartoon and the entire room going to pieces in laughter. Walt turns to his stenographer and asks her if she is laughing at the story, to which she replies, “At Homer!”

If tuberculosis had not gotten hold of my grandfather in the 1920s, he might have stayed sailing the seas his entire life. A doctor landlocked him in a sanatorium in Chicago. A few months later he sent away for a basic drawing course. He recovered and began sending cartoons to the Saturday Evening Post. As you will read, he made his way to the Disney Studios in the 1930s, where he worked for free the first few weeks and then for $15 a week.

It is there, in southern California, where he brought stories to life for Walt Disney, and settled into his own life with the other thing he loved more than gags: his family. He and my grandmother, Rosalind Smith Brightman, raised my mom and my aunt on Lee Drive. Homer became a member of a small group of men who were known as the Disney storyboard artists. This is where he reinvented fairy tales and gave his characters a voice. He told me in his later years his favorite creation, favorite character of all, was the shy, plump mouse, Octavius, known as “Gus Gus”, from the movie Cinderella. He wrote all the mice into the story, giving them personalities and bringing them to life. When I watch his movies or cartoons I feel I am once again sitting beside him, listening to his stories and laughing. His personal characteristics of kindness, generosity, and his original sense of humor shine through in his work. It is in the movie Mickey and the Beanstalk, in particular, that I recognize him. My grandfather’s personality is there in Donald, Goofy, and Mickey as they sit at the kitchen table, slicing the bread and the very last bean!

In my family, one also heard stories of that famous man on the television, Walt Disney. My grandfather clearly loved his work, but not working for Walt. There is always more than one side to a story, and, as we learned, more than one side to Walt Disney. Yes, he was the smiling man on the television Sunday evenings. However, I heard stories of how he behaved toward his employees, never giving them credit, grumbling as he walked down the hallways smoking a cigarette, or scowling at them when he bumped into them in the restrooms at the Studio. Walt was the kind face and warm voice I enjoyed on TV, but Grandpa Homer described a very serious, driven, and unfriendly man, off-screen. Life in the “Mouse House”, as my grandfather called it, could often be unpleasant and stressful. Good thing my grandpa Homer always kept his sense of humor.

My grandfather lives on in time, through his stories and characters, through his children and grandchildren. The Disney Studio grew over time and became a large company with a life of its own; however, when you return to its foundation, go back to the Golden Age of Disney, you will find Homer Brightman and a group of hard-working, talented “gag-men” who came together and gave the world the gift of their stories.

Preface

by Pamela Etzler and Connie Heller-Zeiger, Homer Brightman's Daughters

High on a shelf, in a dusty old box, alone in a closet, sat a story waiting to be told for over thirty years. The story contained our father’s experiences over a fifteen-year period when he was employed at what he loved to call the Fantasy Factory—the Disney Studio. It was not until this spring, when Didier Ghez, a long-time Disney enthusiast and historian, tracked my sister and I down, in search of one more hidden memoir of the long-lost artists that were in the employ of Walt Disney during those wonderful Golden Years of the 1930s, that the book came out of the box.

In January 1904, en route to Victoria, British Columbia, for business, Homer’s father, Homer Swaney, was aboard the steamship Clallam, carrying over ninety passengers. During the night, the Clallam encountered hurricane-force winds, leaving her adrift until she finally sank in the Straits of Juan de Fuca, only miles from Victoria. Mildred, left with two small sons to raise (Homer had one younger brother John who was born in 1903), moved to Seattle, Washington. Years later, she married Frank Brightman, adding two daughters to the now lively family of four. Our father always had dreams as a young boy, now living on Mercer Island, of being a sea captain sailing the world. He would take his mother each week across Lake Washington on the family skiff to Steward Park to catch a horsedrawn buggy that would carry them to the Pike Street Market for their weekly shopping. He often told of how he would see himself in that skiff, sailing the seas with heroic stories of pirates, adventure, and far-away lands. At the age of seventeen, he attended a Maritime Academy in Seattle, where he received certification in high seas navigation and a second-mate license.

After completion of his studies, he was employed by the Robert Dollar Steamship Lines, based in Seattle, working as an apprentice on sailing ships. Then, in 1919, he boarded the A.V. Gregory, bound for Sydney, Australia. Often we would listen to the heroic and scary stories of the crew as they sailed around Cape Horn in wintry conditions. Later in his career he was raised to the position of second mate, sailing on large freighters across the Pacific to the Orient. Dad was soon offered a position in the Shanghai offices for two years, and then transferred to Hong Kong and later to Singapore, where he was under employ for eight years.

Upon returning to New York on business for the Dollar Steamship Lines, he met up with his folks for a much-needed visit. It was at that time his family saw that he was not well and scheduled him to see their family doctor. Our dad received the diagnosis of an advanced case of tuberculosis and was given six months to live. Needless to say, he had staying power. It was during those many years of recovery that he would formulate stories of his travels to the delight of many of the patients that were working toward recovery themselves.

After three years of convalescence in a sanatorium in Tucson, Arizona, he was discharged and traveled back to Chicago to be with his family. It was there that he met our mother, who had recently graduated from Beloit College in Wisconsin and was working as a fill-in secretary for our grandfather. He adored our mother, and they were married on July 24th, 1935, in Chicago. They had a long, wonderful forty years of marriage, leaving both my sister and I with incredible role models. Our dad would often say, years after mom’s death, that he would never marry again, since “When life gives you the best friend and wife ever, why would you want for more?”

Every Sunday was our day: girls’ day out with Dad! We loved it! Often, he would take us to Griffith Park to ride on the carousel, for what seemed hours at a time. We would then go to the zoo to make it a day, and sometimes stop by downtown Glendale on the way home for hot fudge sundaes, or, better yet, stop by this tiny little take-out stand, run by a local school teacher, for sliced barbecue beef and ribs. He claimed it was the best barbecue he had ever eaten in his life, and I have to agree—it was special.

Dad loved to swim, and had a swimming pool built in our backyard. When he came home from work, he would always make a grand entrance with a huge splash and play with our friends, tossing us in the air, and always turning time in the pool with giant races; races, of course, that he never won.

He always loved animals and our home, at times, seemed to have just too many pets. We had a cat named Tuffy; a dog, whom we adored, named Billie; and every Easter we each would get a pink and blue baby chick, much to our mother’s chagrin. We also had two miniature turtles that lived in a bowl with plastic palm trees that sometimes found their way out of their cramped surroundings, and it was always a task locating them. One day they just disappeared, never to return, and I always felt Mom had something to do with that.

Our father was always a born storyteller, even from a young age, and both my sister and I would sit with the fondest memories of our time spent with him as he would go over his storyboard drawings like he was handling a deck of cards. Often, he would stop and say, “Why didn’t you laugh?”, and when we would explain he would drop that gag and go back to the drawing board. He always wanted to make us laugh, and he was never short of jokes and fun antics.

Our parents loved to dance, and both my sister and I loved nothing more than going to the Oakmont Country Club for dinner and getting to dance with Dad. They had this very tiny, little organ that an older lady would play for hours. We loved watching Mom and Dad dance while waiting our special turn with Dad. Those were memorable times, when we could feel all grown-up, waltzing around the dance floor with Dad all to ourselves. Dad was devoted to his family, but our time with him did come with a hidden cost. My bedroom was close to the kitchen and often, when I would get up in the middle of the night, Dad would be sitting, hunched over his drawing board, at our kitchen table, coming up with a story and gags to make children laugh. He spent a great deal of time working at two and three in the morning, yet always seemed full of pep the next day, coffee in hand, talking with Mom while she prepared breakfast for us before heading out to school. It wasn’t until later in life, when both my sister and I became parents ourselves, that we did marvel at what a kid at heart our father was, and how and where he always found the time for us, be it combing the beach at Balboa for shells, teaching us to jump rope, ride bicycles, climb trees. It was his wonderful way of showing us his love.

Dad never tired of telling stories and making people laugh, and in his later years, while living in a retirement home, he would help others who were less fortunate than himself. Several such men who sat at his table for meals were stroke victims and had lost the use of their voices. It made ordering a meal laborious and hard for them, so at each meal Dad would bring to the table his old grease pencils and draw pictures of each menu item on the paper tablecloths, along with the condiments and salad dressings, so they could point to the item of choice. Of course, the items he drew sometimes did not make the food look delicious, depending on what Dad liked or disliked, so it was not uncommon to see our father in serious discussion with the head chef, much to the delight of his silent friends. They loved him, as he made their disability a little more tolerable, adding humor to their struggles.

Introduction

by Didier Ghez, Disney historian

Most of the talented artists who knew and worked with Walt Disney are gone. Those who have never or seldom been interviewed took their precious memories to the grave.

Or did they?

Thankfully, for Disney history addicts like myself, there are still hidden autobiographies and memoirs to be unearthed: from the legendary 1938–1948 diaries of animator Ward Kimball; to the not-yet-released autobiography of concept artist Mel Shaw, Animators on Horseback; or the recently discovered notes of Eric Larson for his book 50 Years in the Mouse House. Needless to say, those documents are extremely rare and of uppermost value to Disney historians and Disney enthusiasts alike.

So when I found traces of a memoir written by a story artist of Disney’s Golden Age, in the archives of Disney historian Michael Barrier, I knew that I had hit “pay dirt”. The story artists worked closer to Walt than any of the other artists, and they were at the center of the Studio’s creative process. The ’30s were the most exciting creative period at the Studio. And Homer Brightman, despite having collaborated on dozens of shorts and quite a few features, was one of the lesser-known artists of that era. I knew that his book would be fascinating and enlightening.

After tracking down Homer’s daughters, Pamela Etzler and Connie Heller-Zeiger, and after reading the book, I was glad to confirm that its contents are indeed exhilarating from a Disney history standpoint.

There are dozens and dozens of stories in this volume which are either brand new or shed new light on what we already knew: hilarious memories of fellow story artists Harry Reeves, Perce Pearce, Roy Williams, Webb Smith, and many others; new information about the career of animator Frenchy de Trémaudan; new details about the events of the 1941 Studio strike; and, almost on every page, new elements that help us “connect the dots” when it comes to artists and events. In other words, I learned something exciting and fun in each chapter.

But there is also a darker side to Homer Brightman’s memoir. One can feel that his fifteen years at the Studio were not a happy time professionally and emotionally. The man we discover is one who, while at the Disney Studio, suffered due to internal politics, constant fear of losing his job, and artistic frustrations. This unhappiness leads to a very dark portrait of Walt. We all know that Walt was not a saint and could be a harsh taskmaster. Many of Homer’s colleagues, however, had a very different point of view on Walt as a boss and as a human being. Many of those positive perspectives are shared in the pages of the book series Walt’s People.

In other words, as is always the case when reading an autobiography, it is important to keep in mind that Homer Brightman’s perspective is subjective. His point of view is nonetheless a very important one, his story fascinating, and his prose so clear that his book, from day one, is a delight to read.

When he completed his book in 1986, Homer decided to hide the names of his co-workers behind pseudonyms. Homer’s daughters, Pam and Connie, felt that the body of the book had to be released exactly as Homer had left it, with the only addition of a few endnotes to clarify a few facts and the rare faulty memories. Thankfully, both also realized that the book takes another dimension when one knows who are the artists hidden behind the pseudonyms. I am therefore enclosing below a list of the names of the individuals we believe we identified, thanks to notes left by Brightman as well as some additional research completed while working on this manuscript. I strongly encourage you to make reference to this list while reading Homer’s memoir.

Life in the Mouse House is an enlightening adventure, which for Homer ironically started on a grey morning of February 1935…

The "Cast" of Life in the Mouse House

Homer Brightman gave aliases to the Disney artists and animators in his book because at the time he wrote it most of them were still alive, and his characterizations were often harsh. Brightman's daughters wanted to keep the aliases intact, per their father's wishes. As a compromise, I included a "legend" in the book that matches aliases with real names. Here's our cast: