Gather round, young cyber shoppers, and I’ll tell you a tale of Christmastime past, when gifts under the tree required a massive undertaking of physical prowess, change counting expertise and psychological endurance.
Call me sexist, but in my experience, this seasonlong workout was endured primarily by women.
It began each year on the day after Thanksgiving, moms and sisters and girlfriends and daughters would rise before dawn, peruse the local newspapers for budget-stretching coupons and leave the quiet of their warm, comfy homes to spend what seemed like a lifetime, Walking. The. Mall.
If her departure seemed lonely, it was quickly reversed when she turned into the parking lot and realized she’d have to walk half a mile, through slushy snow, to the nearest entrance. This always presented a dilemma: leave the coat in the car and risk frostbite on the way in, or wear it and suffer the arm strain that came from bending one’s elbow for hours.
A typical strategy began at an anchor store, such as Sears or JC Penney or Montgomery Ward, which often offered steep discounts on things like woks and toaster ovens. Then, after circling the store several times to ensure there was nothing better to be had, she’d haul those puppies out to the car, lock them in the trunk and trudge her way back into the war zone.
There were 70 more stores to peruse.
Among them were the walls of chaos known as the toy store. Securing Cabbage Patch dolls, Furbys and Game Boys often meant going mano-a-mano with other shoppers. Combat skills translated to Christmas morning delight.
After that, it was on to teen treasures — roller blades, Walkmans and anything emblazoned with the words Lisa Frank. Almost every adult list included a watch, from Casio to Seiko, none of which could track your daily steps, which for shoppers would have been considerable.
Savvy gifters often devised a grab bag system or took advantage of lay-away, a kind of reverse credit card system of making payments in advance.
In their attempt to cash in on the season, retailers would overstuff shelves and aisles, allowing only single file passageways. Many a shopper was horrified when her bag or backside derailed a display. The claustrophobia was compounded by the agonizing strains of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” on a loop.
Ah, these were the days before online shopping, next-day shipping and speedy e-gift card purchases. Back then, even a gift certificate demanded the buyer show up to the designated shop during store hours, stand in line and wait while the cashier filled out the paperwork.
While shopping with others had its advantages — someone to hug you when the whole thing became too much — it also meant you had to go in search of their coveted items, too, making the day even longer and the load even heavier.
Needless to say, the experience was both exhilarating and exhausting, bonding and damning. On the one hand, it was Christmas. On the other were 30 pounds of unwieldly plastic bags.
The season required the strength of Mr. Universe, the stamina of a long-distance runner and the bladder of a surgical nurse.
Several hours in, the depleted shopper’s mission would change to survival.
After enduring the long line at the mall restroom, she’d head to the Food Court. This is where having a shopping partner came in handy. One person would become food seeker, while the other the protector of the table, fending off aggressive attacks on “saved” chairs.
It all sounds horrible on paper, but most of the women I knew merrily rose to the challenge of getting the behemoth called Christmas off the ground.
Perhaps because it included a stop at what I called the Emerald City of department stores.
Marshall Field and Co. was an oasis in the chaos, a veritable mirage at the end of the mallway.
The lighting seemed calmer, the music softer, the displays more organized. And, of course, the staff, from cashier to janitor, seemed kinder and gentler.
Other shoppers, too, seemed to become less aggressive when they stepped into Field’s, as if the store demanded civility.
Purchases, from sweaters to baubles, were treated like treasures, neatly folded in tissue and gently placed in keepsake shopping bags. Boxes were a given freely. Gift wrapping? Why, of course.
Even if a shopper could only afford to buy a box of Frangos, she was deserving of the best customer service.
If the lure of a suburban Field’s was strong, a trip to the flagship store in Chicago’s Loop was an intoxicating family affair.
Oh, the festive windows. How merry to ride the escalator up and down the poshly decorated floors. Don’t forget a picture in front of the big tree at the Walnut Room.
A trip to Field’s seemed to soften the madness of a retail Christmas.
It was a reminder that the memory of material gifts and shopping madness would come and go.
But the warm feeling of being treated kindly would last forever.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.