Writing by Patricia Petro
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From my story, An American Girl
Christmastime meant colored lights and the smell of pine everywhere, new clothes and shoes, and dreams come true, and a stop at the soda fountain in Higbee’s bargain basement for a creamy, whipped frosted malt.
Once a year Mama and Aunt Meg took Susan and me shopping downtown. The city excited me. Its streets were alive, teeming with traffic and people. The tall buildings stood like chunks of granite against the winter sky. Euclid Avenue was a canyon in their shadow, dotted with shops . . . Fanny Farmer’s, Record Rendezvous, Kresge’s, F. W. Woolworth’s . . . all dressed in Christmas red and green. The sidewalks were crowded with holiday shoppers. Salvation Army bells rang out loud and clear. The air smelled of roasted nuts from Morrow’s Nut House.
We were caught in the rush, stepping into the smaller shops, armed with wish lists and Christmas Club money, pausing on the sidewalk only to view the popular department store displays with their magical, mechanical children and elves and fairies on fluffy cotton, all dancing in time to Winter Wonderland as snowflakes fell gently behind us on Public Square.
The colossal department stores called out to us and, tangled in the snarl at their revolving doors, we eagerly awaited our turn to enter. It nearly took my breath away, I felt so small. Inside, huge crystal chandeliers sparkled high overhead, strung with garland and ribbon, holly, and hundreds of lights and shiny red balls. There were aisle upon congested aisle of everything you could want in the world . . . silk scarves and leather gloves, cosmetics and perfumes and lady’s hats we loved to try on.
No one lived there. But I imagined the fancy-dressed mannequins came to life after dark when the stores closed. Stepping off their stands, weary from standing and posing all day, they were glad to be finally rid of us, exchanging gossip about something silly they happened to spy.
We were silly in our excitement. Susan and I oohed and aahed everything money could buy. Friendly saleswomen in the Twigbee shop were on hand to help us sneak gifts for each other, covertly wrapping a treasure we knew the other wanted above all others. We spent hours in dressing rooms happily trying on clothes, modeling them for Aunt Meg and Mama; then, rode the creaky wooden escalator to the upper floors. The higher we went, the quieter the store became. A hush descended upon departments with furniture and carpeting that were near deserted. And I wondered if the mannequins slept on the mattresses at night.
Christmas morning Susan and I rushed downstairs to find the tall bushy tree my father brought home the night before decorated with colored ornaments, glass birds with silken white tails, bubble lights, and string-upon-string of glowing beaded garland. Fresh pine and ribbon draped the doorway, mantle, the staircase. Bayberry potpourri sat in bowls on the tables. It was all very Victorian, because Mama loved all things Victorian, though she tried to make us believe it was the work of busy elves who have visited with Santa on Christmas Eve. Our stockings were packed with practical treasures—like new toothbrushes, combs and supplies for school. And tucked under the tree were dozens of gifts, wrapped in gold and green and red paper, tied with more ribbon.
Like young children, we jumped on their beds and dragged Mama and my father mercilessly through all the old rites. Christmas kisses were exchanged under the mistletoe. The hot chocolate with peppermint sticks made my father wrinkle his nose, but he drank it anyway. Aunt Meg showed up early with an armful of gifts, and my father came alive in his roll as host, rounding up Grandma McKay, helping her to a chair where she would sit, silent and smiling, as we gleefully tore through packages amid happy laughter and Christmas carols playing on the old hi fi. The fruit cake I gave Grandma McKay every year made her laugh. It was years later, I learned she hated fruit cake.
Then it was off to Christmas Day dinner at Uncle Mike and Aunt Rita’s. There would be a crown roast—it was always a crown roast, or some other elaborate concoction with paper trim or fancy garnish you could not eat. Armed with gifts and Mama’s famous pecan pie, we descended upon family. A welcome wreath on their door . . . a house full of smiling faces . . . a joyous “Merry Christmas” . . . and hugs the minute we saw each other.
I basked in the glow of the tree, the warmth of the fire, and in the love that wrapped itself around us. At Christmastime I felt brand new. New clothes. New toys. A new goose down comforter from Grandma McKay to tuck myself into bed all safe, snug and warm and wait for the fast-approaching new year filled with promise.
For a true sense of what Christmas in Cleveland was like when I was a young girl, watch the holiday classic, A Christmas Story. It was filmed in Cleveland. In the movie you will see the Christmas crowds in downtown Cleveland, the parade on Euclid Avenue, snow falling on Public Square, Santa in his winter wonderland at Higbee’s, and the very department store window where we, as children, watched the magical, mechanical elves and fairies dance.
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