We are used to mourning people when they die. We have ceremonies and rituals. We bring food [if you’re Italian you bring a deli.] We send Mass cards and flowers. We erect memorial headstones for remembrance. We weep, and we embrace. And we write obituaries. It’s very cathartic.
But what do we have when history dies? What rituals exist to mourn the passing of an inanimate object, which, through lived experience and affection, becomes an animate creature? What ceremonies help us grieve the loss of our secular temples, places that hold our invisible footprints accumulated over decades of familiarity?
When I heard that Macy’s was closing its store in Center City, I felt a visceral pain in my stomach. It felt, literally, as if I’d been punched. This was gut-wrenching news. To anyone under 40, this may seem a grossly exaggerated reaction to the termination of a lease. To these Philadelphians, who are used to shopping online and don’t understand the concept of “window shopping,” the idea that a giant conglomerate is shedding a few urban locations is no big deal.
They don’t get it. They were born at a time when the internet was already sending its toxic roots into our community marketplaces, making it easier, cheaper and less annoying to purchase the things we needed, and the things we didn’t, by removing the middleman. Stores started to become unnecessary. Brick and mortar was passé. I blame Amazon for much of it, but the laziness of the American shopper is also part of the problem. Jeff Bezos thrives only because of his contented clients.
But I predate that psychology. I was born at the end of the department store heyday when you could still walk into a stand-alone edifice and browse. This was even before the malls which I once blamed for ruining the shopping experience and for which I now feel affection. At least there were real stores in Springfield, Granite Run, King of Prussia, Deptford, Neshaminy and Cherry Hill, not “www.whateveryouwant.com.”
I am devastated that Macy’s is cutting the last link Philadelphia has with the first and greatest department store in the country: Wanamaker’s. I can almost forgive it for bowing to market pressures and closing the grande dame of East Market Street. Rents are high, foot traffic is non-existent since COVID. People work from home, and I’m sure that petty crimes and losses to retail theft are on the rise. I get it. It’s not personal. It’s a business decision.
But I feel as if a limb is being cut off. I feel as if my mother, who worked in the bookkeeping department, is being reduced in memory by an infinitely small measure. I feel as if my father’s ghost, which accompanied me when I sat at the Eagle and paused to take a break from my daily rush, is removed. I feel as if my grandmother, who would have lunch with me in the Crystal Tea Room, will be harder to conjure in my childhood dreams. I feel as if John Facenda, whose voice as rich and comforting as mink and narrated the light show of 30 of my Christmases, is saying in Heaven, “Goodbye Frosty, Goodbye. And goodbye, Philly.”
Perhaps, this will seem melodramatic to many who say, “It’s just a store and it hadn’t been Wanamaker’s in decades.” Those people will never understand, and they’re not worth my time. This is for the ones who do. This is my attempt at an obituary for all of us who mourn.
Let’s gather together, and weep for what we’ve lost. I’ll meet you at the Eagle.
