I actually published this last year, but am posting it again since my Gran's birthday is just around the corner.  

“Hurry up, Sweetie. Today’s the day!” I opened my sleepy eyes to find my Gran standing over the bed, hair still in curlers, smiling broadly.

“You’ll need to wash up and dress quickly. Your breakfast is ready and as soon as you’re finished, we’ll be on our way. Big day, today. Big day!”

It was to be a big day indeed. For today, my Gran would introduce her five year old grandson to a place that was filled with wonderment. Today was the day that I would first discover Lazarus Department Store on South High Street in Columbus, Ohio.

I fumbled with the buttons on my navy blue sweater as Gran fussed with my cowlick that wouldn’t behave. She made sure that the laces were tied on my Buster Brown corrective shoes and wrapped a flimsy scarf around her head to keep her freshly set hair in place. She finished a cup of black coffee drained from the stainless steel percolator on the kitchen counter, put on her jacket, and away we went. This was indeed to be a very big day. It was my birthday and I was spending the week in the city with my Gran – mostly to keep me out of trouble while the adults were getting the farm ready for spring.

Since neither of us drove a car, we walked hand in hand up Welch Avenue to the High Street intersect to catch the COTA bus that would take us uptown. My Gran plunked coins into the meter, found us a seat, gave me a piece of Dentine gum, and with a woosh, the bus belched a puff of grey diesel fume and roared its way into the city. I read the overhead ads for Wrigley’s, Gold Bond Powder, and Ultra Bright Toothpaste. After a few blocks, we found ourselves outside of the store. There were pretty ladies standing very still wearing nothing but fancy underwear in some of the big picture windows and well appointed living rooms in the others. I didn’t think it was polite to stare, so I kept my gaze steady only briefly peeking from the corner of my eyes. I figured they must get awfully tired standing all day and wondered why they just didn’t go and sit down on the sofa in the next window. Gran took hold of my hand and we walked through the art deco revolving doors that made a quiet swish as she pushed. I was filled with amazement at all of the organized chaos that was inside. Hushed voices, the squeak of hangers on metal, the click-click-clackety-clack of cash registers, and the heady mix of perfumes that filled the air. Gran’s stylish yet sensible low healed shoes softly padded the cool, rose colored marble floor and I knew right then that this was to become one of my favorite places in the whole world.

And it did. Once a week, Gran would make the trip to Lazarus to spend the day shopping. She occasionally would buy an item or two, get a watch fixed, or try on shoes; but for the most part she would simply wander the store, dreaming. When either me, my siblings, or my cousins would stay we’d be treated to a day at Lazarus, lunch in the Heritage room or perhaps the Woolworth’s lunch counter across the street, and once we reached the tenth floor, an endless ride down to the first floor in an elevator with glass doors finished off the day.

There wasn’t anything you couldn’t find at Lazarus. They had it all. The first floor was dedicated to the latest women’s fashion and cosmetics. On the second floor there was more women’s junk. The third floor was where the men would go to buy suits, ties, and underwear. On the fourth floor I would be outfitted in my school uniform, those stupid corrective shoes that made my feet clumsy, everyday clothing, and in later years my boy scout uniform and my first pair of sneakers. (They were red!) If you needed house wares, the fifth floor was where you wanted to be. They sold china there too. The Sixth floor housed linens and bath items. On seven, furniture galore arranged just like the pictures in Better Homes and Gardens Magazine. The eighth floor was by far my favorite because that’s where all the toys, televisions, and transistors were sold. It was the eighth floor that would, at Christmastime, be magically transformed into Santa Land where elves wearing red and green velveteen jumpers would escort you into Santa’s Cabin, sit you on his knee, and take your photograph. They even had the Secret Santa Workshop into which no parents were allowed to enter. It was here that I carefully chose Old Spice for my Dad, cheap earrings for my Mom, and gauzy headscarves or handkerchiefs for my Gran to wrap and place under the Christmas tree.

Let’s see, I think we are on nine now. Ah, this was the floor where you could buy jewelry, have a watch repaired, have a shoeshine, or check the bridal registry. The most important thing on the ninth floor, however, was The Chintz Room. Unlike the Heritage Room where you were served Salisbury Steak, green beans, and mashed potatoes under the watchful gaze of the patriotic portraiture of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Betsy Ross; The Chintz room was elegantly dressed in chintz (well yeah!) and fine ladies wearing big hats sipped tea and nibbled on petite sandwiches with the crusts cut off. It was in this room where, on my fifth birthday, my Gran and I split a chocolate éclair in celebration. A tradition we would keep twice a year on each of our birthdays.

The tenth floor was where all of the offices were and of course the gift wrapping center where you could watch the skilled wrappers truly make your purchase into a gift. I always thought I would grow up to be a gift wrapper at Lazarus. Sadly, no, that did not transpire.

As I grew up, Lazarus grew with me. They built more stores in each side of town and anchored all of the suburban shopping malls. But I always preferred to shop at the uptown home base, usually with Gran in tow. Time passed and I found myself living in a rented double just a few blocks from my Gran’s house which made it easier to take care of her. We made our weekly pilgrimages to buy sheet music, or a shirt, or socks, or a book, or just check out what was on sale; opting to let me drive down the circular exit from the parking garage rather than take the descent in the glass door elevators. We spent a lot of time together in that store but it took her much longer to get around than before and she tired out much more quickly.

When we found my Gran, she had been getting ready for Church. There was a Lazarus sales flyer on her bed with a couple of items marked in red ink. She was buried in a pink dress that she had bought there about a year before. Soon after, Lazarus was bought out by Macy’s and the home base uptown was closed. A fitting tribute to my Gran, I think.

But that’s not what I picture when I remember my Gran. I picture her at the perfume counter buying Estee Lauder, or trying on a pair of shoes, or perhaps I remember one of the last times I saw her. It was the afternoon of her eighty second birthday and we were in the Chintz Room, splitting a chocolate éclair.

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