Chapter 24

Disney’s interest in “The Dinosaur Parade” arrived on a Tuesday morning, delivered by a sleek black town car that pulled up Jacob’s gravel driveway. The team who emerged—one executive, one creative director, one lawyer—came bearing a professionally bound presentation folder and polite smiles that didn’t quite mask their agenda.

Rebecca Chen, Jacob’s music attorney, had arranged the meeting at his farmhouse rather than their Burbank offices, knowing her client’s preference for familiar territory. She sat beside Jacob at his kitchen table as the Disney representatives made their pitch.

“We envision ‘The Dinosaur Parade’ as the centerpiece musical number for our upcoming animated feature,” the creative director explained. He flipped through slide after slide of concept art, showing colorful prehistoric creatures dancing across lush landscapes. “The song’s educational elements align perfectly with our studio’s values. Its proven connection with children is exactly what we’re looking for.”

The legal representative smoothly transitioned to financial specifics—a substantial six-figure offer for complete rights to the song, plus additional compensation for potential sequels, merchandise and theme park applications.

Jacob listened quietly; his scarred face unreadable as he studied the materials. When they finished, he asked only one question: “And you would own it completely?”

“Standard acquisition,” the legal representative confirmed. “Full transfer of rights—though, of course, your name would remain as the original composer in the credits.”

Jacob glanced at Rebecca, who had already advised him of her concerns about Disney’s typically all-encompassing rights acquisitions. She nodded slightly, confirming his understanding of what was being proposed.

“I don’t sell my songs,” Jacob said simply. “But I might consider licensing it.”

The Disney representatives exchanged glances. This was clearly not the response they had expected after flying from California with what they considered an exceptionally generous offer for a song.

“Mr. Whitney,” the creative director began carefully, “our standard practice with musical properties is full acquisition. It simplifies the creative process and ensures we can adapt the material as needed for...”

“I understand,” Jacob interrupted gently. “But that doesn’t work for me.”

Rebecca stepped in smoothly. “My client is open to a comprehensive licensing arrangement—one that allows Disney appropriate creative flexibility while maintaining his connection to the work. The song has significant personal meaning to Mr. Whitney, particularly given its relationship with children facing health challenges.”

What followed was a negotiation unlike any the Disney representatives had previously conducted. Jacob remained firm in his unwillingness to sell outright, but showed surprising flexibility in how the song might be adapted, extended, or re-imagined for the film—provided the core elements that resonated with children remained intact.

“The dinosaur sounds and stomps stay,” he insisted. “And the educational facts. Those aren’t negotiable.”

The meeting concluded without resolution. The Disney representatives promising to confer with their superiors about this unprecedented arrangement. As they departed, the creative director paused at the door.

“You know,” she said, studying Jacob with genuine curiosity, “most songwriters would jump at this opportunity—most consider selling to Disney a career pinnacle.”

Jacob nodded in acknowledgment. “I guess I’m not like most songwriters.”

As they drove away, Rebbeca spoke up. “They won’t be back. That’s not the way Disney operates.”

Jacob smile. “No great loss. That offer felt wrong in so many ways.”

A week later, the evening breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle across Jacob’s porch as he worked through a new composition—what he called his “grandpa song,” inspired by watching David Wilson’s father reading a story to little Amy while she sat on his lap enthralled. The melody was gentle, contemplative, exploring the quiet wisdom passed between generations without grand declarations or dramatic moments.

He was so absorbed in refining a particularly tricky bridge section that he didn’t notice the car approaching until it was already pulling up his driveway. It was a modest sedan, unlike the luxury vehicles that had become increasingly common visitors since “The Dinosaur Parade” had captured national attention.

From it emerged Joseph Habberman—Maggie’s husband, the Hollywood producer whose name appeared on blockbuster credits but who himself rarely sought the spotlight. Tall and lanky with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had nothing to prove. Jacob had met him once while working with the kids and the dinosaur song.

“Evening, Mr. Whitney,” he called out, approaching the porch with unhurried steps. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

Joseph was Maggie’s perfect counterpoint—as reserved as she was exuberant, as thoughtful as she was impulsive. While she commanded rooms with her energy, he observed them with careful attention. It was a balance that had sustained their marriage through decades in an industry that devoured relationships as routinely as it created celebrities.

“Please, I’m just Jacob. Have a seat. You’re not intruding at all,” Jacob replied, setting his guitar aside. “Just noodling a song.”

“Sounded good,” Joseph said, settling into the porch chair Jacob gestured toward. “New piece?”

Jacob nodded. “A story about grandfathers.”

Joseph smiled slightly. “I came to talk about fishing and a project close to my heart, and maybe yours.”

Over the next hour, as darkness settled fully around the farmhouse, Joseph outlined a vision that had been forming since he’d witnessed the impact of “The Dinosaur Parade” on the children at Nashville’s hospital. He spoke not with the polished pitch of a Hollywood producer but with the measured consideration of someone who had seen enough superficial glitter to value genuine substance.

“An animated special,” he explained. “Not a Disney, not a major studio. Something independent that I’d produce personally. The Dinosaur Parade re-imagined as a journey through a prehistoric world, with educational elements woven throughout. But here’s the difference,” Joseph leaned forward slightly, his passion for the project clear despite his quiet demeanor. “I’d enlist the children of A-list stars to do the speaking and singing parts.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this unexpected approach.

“Those kids—they’ve grown up with privilege, with opportunities most children never see,” Joseph continued. “This would give them a chance to use their parents’ connections to give back and raise money for something meaningful. Every penny of proceeds would go to a foundation dedicated to building and modernizing children’s cancer wards into child-friendly ‘dinosaur places’—environments where kids go to get strong rather than just receive treatment.”

The concept was compelling—transforming sterile medical facilities into spaces of imagination and adventure, helping children see their cancer journey not just as surviving an illness but as growing stronger through challenge.

“We’d create interactive elements for the wards based on the animation,” Joseph elaborated. “Dinosaur-themed medical equipment, immersive room designs, applications that connect children across different hospitals in shared dinosaur adventures. Imagination serving technology serving healing.”

As he listened, Jacob recognized in Joseph’s vision something that aligned perfectly with his own approach to creativity—art serving purpose, imagination meeting genuine need, form following function rather than ego.

“I’d like to license your song to the foundation,” Joseph concluded. “Not to me, not to a studio—to the nonprofit entity itself. For one dollar, forever.”

The nominal fee was a legal necessity rather than a financial consideration—a formal acknowledgment of rights being transferred while ensuring the song’s use would always serve its intended purpose.

Jacob was silent for a moment, considering. Then: “I’d like to be involved. Beyond just the song. In designing the spaces for the kids.”

Joseph’s face broke into a genuine smile. “I was hoping you’d say that. Your perspective—as a songwriter, as an artist, as someone who understands visibility and difference—would be invaluable.”

They shook hands, sealing an agreement based on shared values rather than commercial potential. As Joseph prepared to leave, he paused. “One more thing. Completely unrelated to dinosaurs or cancer wards.”

Jacob waited, curious.

“I have a boat. Nothing fancy, just a good solid fishin’ boat. I go out most Saturday mornings on Old Hickory Lake. Been doing it for years, usually alone.” Joseph hesitated, then continued with the slight awkwardness of someone unaccustomed to extending personal invitations. “Thought you might want to join me this weekend. Weather’s supposed to be perfect.”

The invitation caught Jacob by surprise; he had assumed Joseph’s visit was purely project-related. “I don’t fish much,” he admitted.

“Neither do I, really,” Joseph confessed with a small laugh. “Mostly I just sit on the water and don’t think about movies or deals or Hollywood politics. Sometimes I catch something, mostly I don’t. That’s not really the point.”

Jacob understood immediately—the appeal of purposeful solitude, of activity that required presence without performance. “What time?” he asked.

“Five-thirty. I’ll pick you up. Bring coffee.”

That first fishing expedition marked the beginning of what would become a sacred ritual for both men—an anchor in their increasingly busy lives. Joseph would arrive before dawn in his weathered pickup, Jacob would emerge from the farmhouse with a thermos of strong black coffee, and they would drive in comfortable silence to the marina where Joseph kept his boat—a well-maintained but decidedly unglamorous fishing vessel named Second Draft.

“First drafts are where you make all the mistakes,” Joseph had explained when Jacob asked about the name. “Second drafts are where you start getting it right.”

On the water, they found a companionship that required little conversation but fostered deep understanding. Sometimes they discussed their creative projects—Joseph’s upcoming films, Jacob’s evolving music. Other times they shared observations about nature, about changing seasons, about the quality of light on water at different hours. Often, they simply existed in compatible silence, two naturally reserved men who appreciated the absence of expectation to perform or entertain.

“This is the only place I’m not a producer,” Joseph confided during their third outing. “Not a name on a credits list, not Maggie’s husband, not someone people want something from. Just a guy with a fishing rod hoping to catch something.”

Jacob nodded, understanding completely. “Same reason I write songs. To just be.”

Their Saturday morning ritual became sacrosanct. Joseph turned down breakfast meetings with stars, Jacob rescheduled music sessions. When weather made fishing impossible, they still met—sometimes at a greasy spoon diner far from Nashville’s entertainment districts, sometimes in Joseph’s home workshop where he built intricate wooden models of historical sailing vessels, sometimes at Jacob’s barn studio listening to records from Joseph’s extensive jazz collection.