by Cliff Potts

Long before the Macy’s parade marched across our television screens, Chicago already had its own kind of miracle. The city glowed every December, a forest of lights rising from stone and snow. You didn’t need a ticket or a parade route—you just needed a good coat, cold fingers, and someone to walk with down State Street.

Carson Pirie Scott, Marshall Field’s, and the downtown Sears transformed their windows into living stories. Wooden trains chugged past cotton snowbanks, elves hammered toys that sparkled under colored bulbs, and mannequins in red wool coats smiled at crowds that stretched half a block deep. Those windows weren’t just displays—they were promises, reflections of what a city could be when it paused long enough to believe in joy.

I remember pressing my mittened hands to the glass until the breath from my nose fogged the scene. I wasn’t wishing for what was inside; I was part of it, part of that shared ritual of looking and marveling. The smell of roasted nuts, wet wool, and popcorn filled the air. The clatter of the El mixed with brass bands playing “Silver Bells.” Even the elevators inside Field’s seemed to chime in key.

And every year, when the crowds thinned and the cold crept back in, we’d go home and watch WGN’s Family Classics. The movie was always the same—Miracle on 34th Street. It was New York’s story, but WGN made it ours. For one night, Kris Kringle belonged to Chicago too. He spoke with a local warmth, the kind you found in the Walnut Room under Field’s giant tree, over cocoa so rich you had to sip it slow.

I can still picture that tree in Field’s main hall, rising straight up through the Walnut Room, lights climbing toward the ceiling. I used to crane my neck until it ached, just to see the angel glowing on top. Somehow that seemed enough—to know she was there, watching over all of us hustling through the cold.

One year—sometime in the late ’60s, I couldn’t tell you exactly when—Grandma Potts came up from Oklahoma for Christmas. She was a kind woman, a hard believer, not much for Santa or city sparkle. But that year, we took her downtown. The windows glowed, the crowds hummed, and somewhere between the cold and the carols, I saw her face soften. For the first time, Grandma smiled at the magic. Sometimes, the light rubs off.

That’s what I remember most about those winters. Not the toys or the lines or even the snow—but how a city could feel like a shared heartbeat. The miracle wasn’t on 34th Street. It was on State Street, in every reflection, in every pair of eyes that stopped to see wonder together.

Maybe we remember it because we need to. If the lights ever come back, may they look a little like that.

Keep the light alive.
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Author Bio:

Cliff Potts is the author of 50 Years in the Trenches and creator of The Dead Republic series — stories that remind us what America was, what it became, and what it might be again. Read more at https://Occupy25.com and https://books2read.com/ap/xqY50L/Cliff-Potts.