I miss him like it was yesterday. I miss the way he always was there for me, like a best friend. I miss the way he helped celebrate birthdays, my wedding, and the weddings of all my dearest friends, baby showers and barbeques. And the way he celebrated Christmas.
No one celebrated Christmas like him. No one put the time and the effort into decorating for the holidays like he did. No one—no one—had a bigger, a taller, a grander, more beautiful Christmas tree.
No one opened his doors to so many people, so many different people, from all walks of life, from every corner of the globe like he did at Christmas. Visiting his main house at State Street and Randolph downtown Chicago was nothing less than magical. The way he decorated his windows brought tears to the eye of even the most cynical, most heart-hardened Scrooge. People would get dressed up—ladies in their gloves and beautiful hats and winter’s finest, men in their top coats and their top hats, little girls would dress in their special holiday outfits with white tights and black patent leather shoes. Even little boys would wear their Sunday suits under their winter coats, all just to come see how he’d decorated the windows. People would stop and stare with wild wonder and delight. You could see groups of people gleefully pointing to things in those windows that perhaps no one else had noticed. “Oh, look at this,” they would say. “Look at that.” It was akin to watching fireworks shoot up into the sky and explode into a rainbow of color on the 4th of July.
People would stand 10 deep just to get even a glimpse of his beautifully decorated windows. They would snap family photos in front of them and under his great clocks and under the plaque announcing the history of his home. People would come back year after year regardless of how wickedly cold or snowy or windy it was to see how he’d decorated the windows this time.
His windows told stories of his family. Uncle Mistletoe, Aunt Holly and their friends Olio, Molio, Aunt Judy, Skippy Monkey, Obadiah Pig, Tony the Pony and Humphrey Mouse. You may never have met them, but after a few years, it felt as though you had known them all your lives. They may have come ’round only for four years, but you were sad when they had to leave because it was as if part of your own family had left you.
But eventually, you got used to the new stories he told in his windows. Even if they were simple Disney stories or stories about book characters.
Because, after all, it was Marshall Field, and he could really do nothing but good at Christmas. He was like Santa, bringing you memories and gifts that touched the heart and that truly would last a lifetime.
It was amazing the things Marshall Field offered at Christmas. Anything you could possibly imagine…real cashmere sweaters, dazzling diamond jewelry, handsome timepieces, an array of ties for dad that took one’s breath away, personalized stationery, beautiful writing utensils, the best luggage and trunks for fine world traveling, even pots and pans and vacuum cleaners…Marshall Field had it. And if he didn’t have it, he knew who did and how you could find it.
Oh, and the way he treated us ladies. “Give the lady what she wants,” he always said. “Give the lady what she wants.” No one says that anymore.
He welcomed people into his kitchen and dining room, which he called the Walnut Room. And it was in the Walnut Room where one’s parents or grandparents taught us about manners and how to be a lady or a gentleman, which fork to use first. Which spoon was for soup and which fork or spoon was for dessert. And it was in the Walnut Room where the Great Tree stood, standing tall and proud and shining with what seemed like a million starry lights and almost as many glorious ornaments. At some three stories high, that tree always took my breath away.
He left us though—through no fault of his own, mind you. And someone took Marshall Fields’ place. And Christmas never, never has been the same. When Marshall Field left Chicago, left his homes in the suburbs…a part of Christmas left, too.
People protested, people begged him to stay. But the evil Mayor Richard Daley said, for lack of better words, “Be gone with you.” And he let this…not even a person, not a local face…this New Yorker come in and kick out Marshall Field.
It still hurts. I still miss him. It’s been four years. Four years, and it feels like yesterday. And Christmas…well, Christmas has never been the same. I don’t know what to do with myself at the holidays. No one offered up the holiday goodies like Marshall Field, and no one ever will. They say everyone is replaceable, not Marshall Field.
No one made my heart race at the holidays like Marshall Field did. No one made my heart sing at Christmastime like Marshall Field did. When Marshall Field left, so did some of my Christmas spirit. I still can’t bring myself to visit his replacement. I can barely say his replacement’s name…Macy’s.
Yes, that Macy’s, of “Miracle on 34th Street” fame. Macy’s of some 150 years of history. Marshall Field had been around Chicago since the 1860s in some form or another. Yes, Macy’s may have a lot of history. But it’s not Chicago history. It’s not my history. Marshall Field is my history.
Marshall Field was my go-to at Christmas. Not just for the things he offered, but also for the way his family treated me…like a lady, always—always—like a lady. Marshall Field believed the customer was always right. Who these days still believes that?
Marshall Field may have been just a place, a store to some people. Not to me. Marshall Field was home for the holidays.
And the holidays…well, they just aren’t the same without Marshall Field.
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Copyright Bulldog News Services December 2009. All rights reserved.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
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