Two Mary Poppins: The Book(s) vs. The Movie(s)

Posted on November 21, 2025 by Bob Adams

I was six years old in the summer of 1964 when my mother took me to see my first movie in a theater. The lights dimmed, the curtains parted, and there she was – Mary Poppins, floating down from the clouds with her parrot-headed umbrella, about to change the Banks family forever. That experience imprinted itself on my memory: Julie Andrews’s crisp British accent, the animated penguins, the magic of it all. For decades, that was Mary Poppins to me. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered P.L. Travers’s original books and realized I’d only met half the story.

For most people, this is the definitive Mary Poppins – cheerful, warm, and practically perfect in every way. But P.L. Travers, who created the character in 1934, had a very different vision in mind.

Of course, it was necessary to pop back into my Mary Poppins library to refresh my memory in preparation for writing about a newly-released book, Making Mary Poppins (article coming soon).

The Mary Poppins of the Books

P.L. Travers introduced Mary Poppins to the world in her first novel, simply titled Mary Poppins, and continued her story across seven more books spanning over five decades, concluding with Mary Poppins and the House Next Door in 1988. In these pages lives a Mary Poppins who would likely terrify the children who grew up watching the Disney film.

Travers’s Mary Poppins is vain, brusque, and often downright rude. She is obsessed with her appearance, constantly admiring herself in shop windows and mirrors. When the children ask her questions, she frequently responds with a sharp “I never explain anything” or denies that magical events ever happened, even when the children witnessed them firsthand. She is enigmatic and unknowable, maintaining an emotional distance that keeps everyone – including the reader – perpetually off-balance.

This Mary Poppins doesn’t coddle. She expects immediate obedience and has little patience for nonsense. Her severity is palpable; she can silence a room with a glance. Yet despite her stern demeanor, the Banks children adore her with an intensity that borders on desperation. They fear her departure more than anything, knowing instinctively that she appears and disappears according to her own mysterious rules, carried on the East Wind and departing on the West.

The magic in Travers’s books is strange and often unsettling. Mary Poppins takes the children to visit her uncle who floats helplessly near the ceiling when seized by laughter. They meet the Bird Woman, communicate with infants who still remember the language of sunlight and wind, and journey to the edges of the world where mythological figures reside. These adventures feel ancient and mythic, drawing from folklore and fairy tale traditions where magic is powerful, capricious, and not necessarily kind.

Travers, who studied mythology and mysticism throughout her life, imbued her nanny with archetypal power. Mary Poppins is less a caregiver than a liminal figure – a bridge between the mundane world and realms of wonder, part governess and part goddess. She belongs to no one, answers to no one, and her true nature remains forever just out of reach.

The Mary Poppins of Disney

When Walt Disney released his film adaptation in 1964, he created something entirely different – a Mary Poppins designed to charm American audiences and become a beloved family classic. Julie Andrews’ portrayal transformed the character into someone warmer, gentler, and far more accessible.

Disney’s Mary Poppins still has high standards and maintains a certain formality, but she’s fundamentally kind. She smiles readily, shows genuine affection for Jane and Michael Banks, and clearly enjoys their company. When she arrives at 17 Cherry Tree Lane, she brings not just magic but joy. Her adventures – jumping into chalk pavement drawings, having tea parties on the ceiling, and visiting Uncle Albert’s laugh-filled floating sessions – are whimsical and delightful rather than mysterious and slightly dangerous.

This Mary Poppins teaches lessons explicitly rather than through enigmatic experiences. She sings about staying positive (“A Spoonful of Sugar”), seeing potential in everyone (“Sister Suffragette” notwithstanding), and the importance of finding wonder in ordinary life. The film adds the subplot of Mr. Banks’s redemption, making Mary Poppins instrumental in healing the entire family, not just entertaining the children.

Perhaps most significantly, Disney’s version explains her magic and makes her motivations clear. She comes to fix the Banks family, and once her work is complete, she leaves – sad to go, but satisfied. The film gives her emotional transparency that Travers’s character never possesses. Julie Andrews plays her with twinkling eyes and barely suppressed delight in her own cleverness, making the audience feel they’re in on the joke.

The musical score by the Sherman Brothers became inseparable from the character. Songs like “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” and “Chim Chim Cher-ee” are now cultural touchstones, their melodies instantly recognizable decades later. This Mary Poppins is Technicolor optimism incarnate, a nanny who makes everything better through a combination of magic, music, and good old-fashioned love.

Disney’s commitment to their version of Mary Poppins has only deepened over time. The 2013 film Saving Mr. Banks dramatized the contentious relationship between Walt Disney and P.L. Travers during the original film’s development, revealing how fiercely Travers fought against Disney’s softening of her character – a battle she ultimately lost but never accepted. More recently, Mary Poppins Returns (2018) brought Emily Blunt to Cherry Tree Lane as an older Mary Poppins returning to help the next generation of Banks children. While Blunt’s portrayal incorporated slightly more of Travers’s tartness than Andrews’s version, the film remained firmly in Disney’s magical, musical tradition, proving that their interpretation has become the definitive one in popular culture.

Why She Endures

So why has Mary Poppins – in both her incarnations – captivated audiences for over ninety years? The answer lies in what both versions share despite their differences.

At her core, Mary Poppins represents something children desperately need and adults nostalgically remember: the presence of someone utterly competent and unflappable who makes life extraordinary. Whether stern or sweet, she possesses absolute confidence and capability. In a chaotic world, she is certain. She knows exactly what to do in every situation, and she does it.

Both versions offer escape into wonder. Whether through Travers’s mythic strangeness or Disney’s musical whimsy, Mary Poppins proves that magic exists alongside the ordinary. She validates children’s intuition that the world contains more than what adults acknowledge—that truth and wonder aren’t opposites but companions.

Additionally, Mary Poppins serves as a bridge between childhood and adulthood. She respects children’s experiences and emotions while maintaining adult authority. She takes their concerns seriously without diminishing her own power. This balance is rare in children’s literature and film, and it resonates deeply.

Finally, there’s the bittersweet element of her departure. Mary Poppins never stays. This temporary quality makes her precious – a golden season that must end, teaching children about impermanence while giving them something beautiful to remember. She proves that endings don’t negate meaning; rather, they concentrate it.

Whether you prefer the mysterious, mythic nanny of the books or the singing, smiling governess of screen and stage, Mary Poppins endures because she embodies a timeless promise: that somewhere, somehow, there exists someone who can make everything better, at least for a while. And in that promise lies a magic more powerful than flying umbrellas or enchanted carpetbags – the magic of hope itself.

In August 2016, during a month-long, daily teaser to my children and grandchildren prior to our week-long Walt Disney World Trip, here was the image and text 17 days prior:

In 1964 Walt Disney combined unforgettable performances, memorable songs, and wonderful special effects into one of Hollywood’s biggest hits, “Mary Poppins.”

Mary Poppins is a proper British nanny who is “practically perfect in every way” and can do almost anything. Flying via umbrella into the Banks household at No. 17 Cherry Tree Lane, Mary Poppins arrives to help put the household back in order. Along the way, we are introduced to a wonderful cast of characters including Bert, Constable Jones, Admiral Boom, the Banks household staff, Uncle Albert, the directors of the Dawes, Tomes, Mousely, Grubbs Fidelity Fiduciary Bank, and a host of animated characters.

Those special effects work on “Mary Poppins” was the most challenging Disney Studios had ever attempted. With live-action characters popping into chalk drawings, amazing musical and choreography, and a heart-tugging story, “Mary Poppins” remains one of Disney’s most beloved family films.

At Walt Disney World Mary Poppins can be found in Town Square at the Magic Kingdom and in England at Epcot.

On a personal note, “Mary Poppins” is GrandBob’s favorite Disney live-action movie, and he has been known to turn the family room into a theater reminiscent of the movie’s premier at Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

With facsimile tickets.

Really.

The Unexpected Fulfillment of the Tuba: A Story of Brass and Belonging

Posted on November 12, 2025 by Bob Adams

Sam Quinones’s book, The Perfect Tuba: Forging Fulfillment from the Bass Horn, Band, and Hard Work, is a deeply captivating journey that elevates the low-pitched brass instrument from a punchline to a powerful metaphor.

The narrative uses the history, culture, and dedicated players of the tuba as a lens to explore themes of purpose, community, and the rewards of hard work in modern America. After years of chronicling the darkness of America’s opioid crisis, Quinones shifts his focus to a pursuit of light, finding it in the dedicated people who master the cumbersome, often-overlooked tuba. His core argument – that true fulfillment comes not from instant gratification, but from the slow, communal process of hard, persistent work – deeply resonated with me.

That’s because, unlike the glamorous trumpets and melodic flutes, the tuba and its cousins – the baritone horn and the euphonium – are instruments of humble service. They demand dedication, physical strength, and a willingness to be the anchor rather than the star. I know this firsthand; for years, I hauled the tenor voice of the low brass, first a baritone horn and later a four-valve euphonium (also known as a tenor tuba), through the chaotic world of high school and community bands.

From Cornet to Conical Bore

My mother, a music teacher, ensured my brother and I picked an instrument in elementary school and stuck with it at least through high school. My brother chose the alto saxophone; I started my musical life in the 5th grade on the cornet, enjoying its bright, mellow tone. But by 7th grade, the band director needed more depth, and I shifted to the baritone horn, pitched an octave lower and playing the critical tenor harmony line. It was here, in the heart of the low brass section, that I began to understand the quiet power of support.

The baritone horn offered no instant gratification. You couldn’t wail solos or dazzle a crowd with flashy finger work. Your part was the foundation, the quiet, harmonic filler that blended with the rest of the bass instruments to give the melody its depth and weight. It was the aural equivalent of the unsung road crew that paves the highway for the celebrity motorcade.

Yet, this lack of celebrity bred a certain camaraderie among the low brass. We were the ballast of the band – and we knew it. We had to work harder than anyone else just to be heard clearly, not to mention perfectly in tune. My fondest high school memories aren’t of scoring a winning point in a game, but of those exhausting, sweaty band camp practices under the summer sun, where we meticulously drilled the rhythmic march patterns. The sense of accomplishment culminated in the summer of 1975, when my band participated in a national competition, including marching in Walt Disney World’s “America on Parade,” celebrating the nation’s Bicentennial. That shared, unforgettable experience was an early, invaluable lesson in purpose. The goal wasn’t just to play the notes right; it was to hold the entire structure of the music together. When the band director, who procured a brand-new euphonium before my senior year, would stop practice and say, “The low brass is carrying this,” a silent, deep satisfaction would run through our section. The five of us were not the stars, but we were essential.

Finding Community in the Commitment

Quinones dedicates significant space in his book to inspirational stories, such as the visionary high school band directors in Roma, Texas, who used band programs to instill discipline, pride, and opportunity in a challenging environment. This echoes the experience of countless band kids who find a sense of belonging and structure outside the main social currents of high school. The band room became a haven – a place where the hard work was respected and the only currency was effort.

The pursuit of the titular “perfect tuba” – two mythical 1930s York instruments now held by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra – is a compelling quest in the book, yet Quinones finally concludes that the perfection is unattainable and therefore, irrelevant. What matters is the striving -the dedication of the craftsmen, the long hours of practice, and the selfless collaboration.

This commitment transcended my school years. Following graduation, for several decades I continued an on-again, off-again relationship with the horn, playing in an assortment of church ensembles, TUBA Christmas events, and much later, joining a community orchestra and even serving as a substitute band teacher for a couple of years. These groups, often comprised of retired professionals, local teachers, and lifelong hobbyists, are the living embodiment of Quinones’s counter-narrative to modern distraction and commercialism. No one is paid. No one is seeking fame. Everyone shows up simply for the love of the work and the communal joy of making music.

I still remember the satisfaction of performing a particularly challenging (for a 50 year-old hobbyist!) piece at a concert in Birkdale Village. My supporting euphonium part was a fast-moving succession of sixteenth notes – a constant churning of sound that felt impossible to execute perfectly. But after weeks of diligent practice, I nailed it. No one in the audience cheered my performance specifically; they cheered the magnificent sound of the entire band. That feeling – the intoxicating sense of having contributed my utmost to a shared, beautiful creation – was the ultimate reward. It was, as Quinones notes, a feeling entirely earned from within, not bought or found instantly.

The Unexpected Heart of the Bass: Tennessee Tech

One of the ultimate testaments to the dedication Quinones celebrates is the unlikely international phenomenon created by R. Winston Morris at Tennessee Technological University – my school! Starting in 1967 at an institution renowned more for its engineering and sciences than its fine arts, Morris founded the Tennessee Tech Tuba Ensemble (TTTE). This ensemble not only carved out a niche for the low brass but virtually invented the modern tuba ensemble movement worldwide. I had the distinct pleasure of participating in TTTE Tuba Symposiums in 1974 and 1975, along with several hundred low brass players from all over the south.

Over more than 40 years, the depth and breadth of their work has been staggering: they are the most-recorded collegiate tuba ensemble in history (with over 30 commercial albums), have performed in major venues like the Kennedy Center and eight times at Carnegie Hall, and have commissioned or inspired over 1,200 arrangements and compositions. The TTTE’s repertoire spans from classical arrangements and original concert works to jazz (including arrangements of Duke Ellington and Chick Corea), proving that the versatile, foundation-laying tuba is capable of both humble service and astounding virtuosity.

As I read through the book, the inclusion of the TTTE was a pleasant surprise, and a fitting tribute to the work of Morris and the hundreds of tuba and euphonium players who have enriched the program at TTU, many I knew from my college years there.

The Antidote to Modern Life

Quinones suggests that the slow, deliberate work required by the tuba is the “mirror opposite of addiction.” My experience confirms that sentiment. The dopamine hit of mastering a difficult passage, the resilience built by accepting failure and starting over, and the profound connection felt when a hundred people breathe and play as one – this is a narcotic of genuine fulfillment.

In an era of instant access, fleeting trends, and mass distraction, the tuba, baritone horn, and euphonium teach us a radical and beautiful idea: The most valuable things in life are those that require patience and sacrifice. To truly succeed, you must commit to the grunt work, be willing to be the anchor in the back, and trust that your quiet contribution is what allows the entire performance to soar.

The physical horn might be heavy and unglamorous (a fact I confront now in my current on-again, off-again relationship with the instrument due to medical issues limiting my playing), but the lesson it carries is one of the lightest and most enduring: Find your “tuba” – that one hard, noble thing you can devote your creative energy to – and in the striving, you will find your self-worth and your community. The perfect sound might be a myth, but the perfect feeling of having earned it is absolutely real.

The Perfect Tuba is far more than a book about a musical instrument. It is an exuberant ode to tenacity, craftsmanship, and the quiet dignity of a life spent in service to a demanding but rewarding craft. It is highly recommended for anyone looking for an inspiring, profoundly human story about how humble effort can lead to self-fulfillment and a stronger sense of community.

Part of a regular series on 27gen, entitled Wednesday Weekly Reader.

During my elementary school years one of the things I looked forward to the most was the delivery of “My Weekly Reader,” a weekly educational magazine designed for children and containing news-based current events.

It became a regular part of my love for reading, and helped develop my curiosity about the world around us.

John Williams: The Composer of the Soundtrack of Our Life

Posted on November 5, 2025 by Bob Adams

There are certain melodies that define a generation. For those of us who grew up in the latter half of the twentieth century, no composer has shaped our collective memory quite like John Williams. From childhood TV shows to teenage adventures at the cinema, from raising our own children to sharing stories with grandchildren today, Williams has been there, his music weaving through the fabric of our lives. It’s no exaggeration to say that John Williams is the composer of the soundtrack of our life.

With a music teacher mother, music was always a part of my early life, and I was captivated by its many forms. I remember sitting in front of our family’s television set in the 1960s, completely mesmerized by the themes of TV shows as arranged by a composer who would go on to define what movies should sound like. Williams cut his teeth in television during those golden years when families gathered around the glowing screen together. He composed for “Lost in Space,” “Gilligan’s Island,” and “Land of the Giants” – shows that became fond memories of my childhood. That distinctive “Lost in Space” theme, with its otherworldly electronic sounds and driving rhythm, promised adventure in the great unknown every single week.

But it was the movies where Williams truly became part of our DNA. In 1975, when “Jaws” hit theaters, we learned something profound: two simple notes could create visceral terror. That ominous, pulsing theme didn’t just accompany the shark – it became the shark in our minds. Swimming in the ocean has never been quite the same since. Williams won his first Academy Award for Original Score for that work, but more importantly, he demonstrated that film music could be a character unto itself.

Then came 1977, and everything changed. When the opening crawl of “Star Wars” appeared on screen, accompanied by that triumphant, brass-heavy fanfare, we didn’t just hear music – we felt the universe expand before us. Williams had reached back to the grand symphonic traditions of Golden Age Hollywood, to composers Erich Wolfgang Korngold and Max Steiner, and made them relevant again for a new generation. Coming at the end of my freshman year in college, my friends and I left the theater humming those themes, unable to articulate it at the time, but knowing we’d experienced something transcendent. Williams had given us a musical language for heroism, for the Force, for an entire galaxy far, far away.

The late seventies and eighties became the John Williams era, though we barely noticed how omnipresent he was. “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” taught us that five notes could represent communication with the infinite. “Superman” gave us a theme so perfect, so purely heroic, that it defined what nobility sounds like. Personally, the love theme from “Superman” – “Can You Read My Mind” – became “our song” for my wife and I. “Raiders of the Lost Ark” brought back the spirit of adventure serials with a march that made us want to grab a fedora and seek ancient treasures. “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial” broke our hearts and mended them again with music of such tenderness and wonder that many of us wept openly in darkened theaters. Williams’ work for the 1984 and 1988 Olympics and the 1986 100th Celebration of the Statue of Liberty brought the spirit of America to the forefront with its bold, brassy sound.

As we moved through the nineties and into the new century, the music depth and breadth kept expanding: the “Viet Nam” trilogy – “Born on the Fourth of July,” “JKF,” and “Nixon;” “Saving Private Ryan;” a new Star Wars prequel trilogy; the initial Harry Potter movies; and “The Patriot,” among many more.

Certainly for our family, Williams music has accompanied us from college to kids to grandkids. As our generation raised families of our own, Williams was there too. We introduced our children to Indiana Jones, watched them wave toy lightsabers while humming “The Imperial March,” and saw their eyes widen during “Jurassic Park” as those majestic dinosaur themes swelled. In our house, three generations have now grown up with Williams’ music as their reference point for how emotion and image combine.

What many forget is that Williams has also been a champion of concert music. For a decade and a half, he conducted the Boston Pops, bringing orchestral music to millions and proving that the boundary between “serious” music and film scores was always artificial. His Olympic fanfares and ceremonial pieces have marked important moments in our national life. He’s composed concertos for violin, cello, and other instruments – even the tuba! – ensuring his legacy extends beyond the screen. Dozens of celebration pieces have given a memorable sound to a wide-ranging list of events from the wedding of Japanese Crown Prince Naruhito and Crown Princess Masako (“Sound the Bells!”) to a commemoration of the Boston Red Sox’s 100th anniversary (“Fanfare for Fenway”).

Williams has composed for seven decades, earning five Academy Awards, four Golden Globes, and over fifty Oscar nominations – more than any living person. He’s worked with Steven Spielberg on nearly thirty films, creating one of the most fruitful artistic partnerships in cinema history. Yet numbers don’t capture his true impact.

The real measure of Williams’ genius is this: his music has become inseparable from our memories. We can’t think of summer blockbusters without his heroic brass. We can’t imagine childhood wonder without his soaring strings. We can’t conceive of movie magic without his harmonic language.

For those wanting to delve deeper into the life and craft of this remarkable artist, John Williams: A Composer’s Life offers an comprehensive look at both the man and his methods, exploring how he created the scores that shaped our cultural landscape. As I read through the book, I would often pause and play a specific tune just referenced, and the memories came flooding back each time.

As this was being written, a surprise announcement was made: John Williams is scoring Steven Spielberg’s new, untitled movie, set to be released in 2026. This will mark the duo’s 30th film together, and if history is any indication, this 93-year-old film music icon’s collaboration with one of the most celebrated directors of our time will be another classic.

We Baby Boomers have been fortunate. We’ve witnessed the moon landing, the digital revolution, and profound social change. Through it all, John Williams has been our constant companion, giving voice to our dreams, our fears, our sense of wonder. When we close our eyes and hear those familiar themes, we’re not just remembering movies – we’re remembering who we were when we first heard them, and who we’ve become since.

That’s the mark of a true master: John Williams didn’t just compose film scores. He composed the soundtrack of our life.