As I mentioned in a previous column, my Dad had a heart attack in 1972. I was six years old at the time, and naturally didn't understand the full scope of what this meant. After leaving the hospital, Dad recuperated at home and to pass the time, he built models. But he didn't just glue pieces together; he painted them as well, and that was where the magic happened. Whether he knew it or not, I became a student of his work. The incredible amount of detail he rendered in the various vehicles is what elevated them from mere toys to exact replicas of their full-size counterparts.

At Christmas time, Dad would, on the big living-room window that looked out onto the front yard and the street beyond, re-create a tableau from A Charlie Brown Christmas – where all the kids are singing around the sad little Christmas tree while Snoopy dances on Schroeder's piano. And it was letter-perfect. I once asked him how he was able to do it, and his response was simply: "I don't know. I just do it." That statement spoke volumes to me about Dad: If there was something he wanted or needed to do, he just figured it out and did it. From building models to repairing cars, fixing household appliances or constructing the most amazing Halloween costumes our neighborhood had ever seen, the man is truly an artist, although he'd never admit to it.

Under Dad's tutelage, I built my first model during the time he recuperated and I have to say, it was an absolute mess. With time, my skills improved and in my teens, I even won a couple of contests for my creations. I've been building and painting models for nearly thirty-five years, and each time I take on a new project, I'm reminded of Dad's words: "I just do it." Using this approach, I completely sidestep the fear of not knowing how to do something, and it's served me well as I've tackled everything from building furniture to building dollhouses, from making candles to creating a special Christmas ornament for my best friend, who had his first child back in May of this year. I've even tried writing once or twice, and I haven't the foggiest idea of how to do that.

The lesson I have taken from my Dad is that it is in the details that we find life. Of course, there is a big picture that brings everything together, but it's easy to forget that the big picture is made up of a great many small things. It is the small things that bring us close, that tie us together. At the holiday season, it's not the promise of presents that draw us close to family; it's the memories we have built over the years that make us want to be with those people, in those places, again and again. And the memories themselves are made not of huge events, but of small things. The scent of mulled wine in a crockpot, a certain piece of holiday music, the sight of the family room when all lights are out but those on the tree.

Right about now, you're probably thinking: Wait a minute, this is supposed to be a Disneyland article, but he hasn't mentioned Disneyland yet! Read on; I'm gonna tie it all together and put a pretty bow on it. You can even stick it under the tree, if you like. I hope it doesn't clash with the drapes.

I continue to marvel at the thought that went into creating Disneyland; the painstaking attention to the smallest details, the minutiae that many people don't even notice, at least not directly. From the use of diminishing scale of the buildings on Main Street and Sleeping Beauty's Castle to the awe-inspiring queue for Temple Of The Forbidden Eye, it's all there, if you look for it. And for me, it is most apparent in the work that has gone into Storybook Land. The precision, the craftsmanship of the houses and buildings typifies Uncle Walt's intrinsic understanding that without believability in the small details, the whole façade will tumble. I can't say that I would notice these things if Dad hadn't instilled in me the importance of details, no matter how insignificant they may seem. "No one might notice the work you did, but that doesn't mean you didn't do it," Dad told me, so many years ago.

And maybe that's why I choose to refer to Mr. Disney as Uncle Walt: I can see a kinship between him and my Dad and through their dedication to the finer points, I am able to see all the exquisite details that make up every moment of the lives we all live. Thank you for being such a great teacher, Dad. I love ya, big guy.

Merry Christmas.