Have you followed the crisis plaguing the old Wanamaker’s building downtown?
And, yes. I do know calling it “the Wanamaker’s building” places me well within a certain age bracket. I don’t care. That’s how dire this situation is.
When news broke in January of the Center City Macy’s – née Wanamaker’s – pending closure, my stomach dropped.
I felt myself go pale. My hands shook. Why not, I don’t know. Just tell me the police found my mom wandering on Byberry Road? That my mom ran over someone with her car? That my mom has a boyfriend?
Yes. Those are all things that happened. Don’t worry. Everyone came out of those situations alive and uninjured. Except for my psyche.
The Dickens Village constitutes a major thread in the fabric of my holiday experience. It begins with Halloween on, well, Halloween and ends with It’s A Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve, with a healthy smattering of my mother-in-law’s sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving. She puts brown sugar on top instead of marshmallows. I will break your arm if you dish yourself up before me.
In between these precious activities, I weave in Christmas-themed milkshakes from Craftsman’s Row Saloon, my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies, a Christmas tree chopped down with my husband and children’s grit, apple picking, a holiday craft fair in Tamanend Park, “Blue Christmas” sung at the top of my lungs in the safety and solitude of my car, and approximately 67,125 viewings of Elf and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. And, of course, the Dickens Village.
The news of the Dickens Village has been troubling at best. The new owners of Wanamaker’s have said they failed to appreciate the area’s love for animatronic figures that, quite frankly, are probably terrifying if you’re alone, sans Christmas music, in the Dickens Village. Why anyone would underestimate a Philadelphian’s emotions about anything, I don’t know. The new owners have said the Dickens Village will run this year. They have established a fund to keep it going into perpetuity. If I were independently wealthy, I’d buy that village.
The idea of not having the Dickens Village to stroll through each December sends my holiday spirit from post-ghostly visit Scrooge to pre-ghostly visit Scrooge. I want to cry. I want to eat all of my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies, a healthy spread of my mother-in-law’s sweet potato casserole atop each one.
You can’t take the Dickens Village from my holiday. My autumn tapestry would disintegrate, unravel. It’s like going to work with no pants on. That – that might be my protest. I refuse to wear pants until the future of the Dickens Village is guaranteed. Wait. No. It’s getting too cold for that.
I have spent these last eleven months of 2025 calming that shriek in my brain, the one telling me I’m losing the Dickens Village forever. Just when I thought I had at least assuaged it a bit, more bad news came. I can find no evidence of the Tamanend Park craft fair in my Parks and Recreation Department flyer. Um, excuse me, universe. I’m just a girl — OK, OK, woman; I call it Wanamaker’s — trying to have a holiday season here. How can that happen when I’m panicking over the Dickens Village and I can’t buy a homemade candle or marshmallow dipped in chocolate and jimmies?
Oh, and Gerald Dickens announced this year is his last year doing his one-man show performance of A Christmas Carol. Last night, as I silently wallowed in my rapidly failing holiday, my mother-in-law texted me. “The craft fair is on!” she said. “I just got an email!”
I take it back. You can have first crack at the sweet potatoes. I’ll be at the craft fair.
