The Secrets of Lazarus

Where I grew up anyplace worth going took at least an hour of driving to reach. Towards the end of every year, my family would take the mecca trip to the shining city. We'd pile up my grandmother, my mother, my father, and I into the Oldsmobile and head north on the highway.

The crowds and traffic took expert navigation, and I would hold my breath in my small, five-year-old lungs as my father carefully manuvered into the parking garage beneath the plaza. As soon as the tires stopped I leapt from the car and jumped up and down in excitement, waiting for my parents and my elderly grandmother to disembark.

My grandmother led the mecca trip. I remember her setting the itinerary and carrying her heavy purse - it held both the purse strings for our excursion as well as an ancient camera, loaded and ready to shoot.

We started by heading into the elevators, which carried us up, up and away into the heart of the sprawling building of glass and steel. All above my very short head, metallic red orbs and tinsel glistened in the bright lights and displays. The mall held dozens of shops, but the one we always headed to first stood at the very end of the giant megaplex.

The Lazarus.

Usually a department store holds only merchandise and mannequins, but once upon a year the Lazarus held so much more. As we rode the escalators up through men's clothing and women's undergarments we reached the first stop - the magical Talking Tree.

As a child I held few illusions about reality, but the Talking Tree commanded respect. Carved into the wall, his eyes would blink and look side to side as his soft, puppet mouth moved in time to his speech. It was expected that every child would rush up to stick their hand in his mouth, as if to test his intentions. But the felt held no teeth, and the result was always a giggle and a rush back to the wooden simulations of stumps around him. Sometimes he read books, or sang songs. Sometimes he told bad jokes. Every time, he made the store feel like more than just a store. He made it an adventure.

Once grandmother had taken her precious photographic evidence at the Tree, we moved on towards the next stop on our journey - Old Father Christmas. Like the minotaur, they kept him in the center of a dark maze of temporary walls, winding around to keep lines of children placated with poster displays of familiar carols or stories. Music would play above our heads as we shuffled slowly along. I used to enjoy the winding journey more than the destination, which ended with the usual lap photo - yes, more photographic evidence, even with grandmother's camera - and then a candy cane of unfortunate peppermint flavor.

Having paid respects to the Tree and Saint Nick, the final stop on our tour took us to my very favorite place in the world. Sandwiched between two stores on the outskirts of the Lazarus stood a very peculiar little door - not tall enough for an adult, only for a child. A window at adult-height stood out front and my parents and grandmother would speak with the elvish lady inside it for a few moments while I prepared myself. Every year I waited for this moment. My entry back into the Secret Santa Shop.

Any spoiled child can circle every toy in ye old Toys R Us Wishbook. The Secret Santa Shop provided a different kind of joy - the joy of giving. The elvish lady met me on the other side of the doorway with a small basket, a list, and a calculator preset to the budget provided by my family at the window. Inside the Secret Santa Shop stood shelves of small, inexpensive knick knacks - mini screwdriver sets, paperweights, ornaments, inexpensive jewelry, and more.

My quest? To scourge the shelves for the perfect presents for all my family members on my list, while staying within the total amount on the calculator. My family held no less than seven people - my grandmother, great-grandmother, mother, father, aunt, uncle, and little cousin - so the task seemed Herculean to me. Yet I felt so excited. This was my chance to show my family that I, too, could play Santa. Since I knew Santa's signature matched my grandmother's meticulous handwriting, I never saw the old elf as the bringer of Christmas joy. I knew that responsibility lay on my family - and I wanted to take on my part.

After an hour of indecision, placing and replacing items in my little basket, and fiddling with numbers, I finally chose my seven gifts. Once done, my elven escort led me up to the front counter where each of my small tokens was carefully boxed and tagged for its intended receipient. The adult-sized elves then stacked up my boxes into a large but lightweight bag for me to carry back into the world outside.

My family sat on a bench, carrying wrapped packages of their own they had purchased while I shopped. The Secret Santa Shop provided both my parents and me the chance to surprise each other. Not that the surprises would last long - in my excitement, I would secretly whisper to each member of my family what I had chosen that year for the others. If they ever compared notes they never told me. At least on Christmas Day their faces would never betray them.

Burdened with bags, we trudged back down the escalator and the elevator to the car. The sun had long gone, but I couldn't tell until we exited the brightly lit mall and pulled back out into the night time sky. My little heart beat happy and excited for another year with the people I loved.

And my little secrets, all boxed safely in the trunk, would hold my joy for the next few weeks until we all came together again.

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The Lazarus is gone now. It closed its doors fifteen years ago, absorbed by Macy's and then worn down by the new reality of online shopping, and the slow decay of traditional brick and mortar stores. Old photos of the Talking Tree, the Secret Santa Shop, and the window displays are still saved in museums and online news clippings. In fact you can read about them here: https://ohiohistoryhost.org/ohiomemory/archives/1509

But the magic I felt as a child entering that place has gone. There are no more mecca trips to the shining city. Just fond memories, and boxloads of grandmother's dutifully collected photographic evidence.