As the sparkling energy of the holiday season permeates the air,
Seek refuge in the cozy moments afforded to you at bedtime with a sleepy tale.
You are listening to Christmas in Chicago,
A bedtime story for grown-ups that takes you on a journey through time as a guided visualization intertwines with a classic holiday tale.
Let this time of year conjure nostalgic thoughts and imaginative landscapes in a city of unique souls on a snowy night.
As another year comes to a close,
Look back with appreciation for all you have overcome as you envision what's possible in the dreamscape of slumber.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
My name is Michelle,
And tonight I am here to support you in winding down and connecting with the sparkling parts inside of you that retain the wonders of a child and the hope of a resilient soul.
Every year,
Every moment,
And every breath is different,
So connect with all that you feel in this precious time,
Clearing away anything that disrupts your right to peace and repose.
Next you are in safe hands as you surrender to comfort in the sanctuary of your room and haven in your mind.
Slip away to the realm of sleep whenever you like and craft this experience as we go along.
Let go of what doesn't work for you and enhance what does.
As you settle,
The tidings of the holiday season infuse the air in your room with the perfume of blue spruce,
Baking spices,
And wood smoke.
You feel the cool,
Damp air on your face as you inhale deeply through your nose,
Slowly sipping in and appreciating the aromatic notes as the air warms in your nose and your body expands.
Feel free to indulge in a sleep-inspiring yawn at the top of your breath,
And then let everything go through pursed lips as you exhale,
Imagine blowing away all lingering thoughts about today and expectations beyond the present,
Like snow flurries scattering across rolling snow-dusted hills.
Inhale again,
This time slower,
As if savoring your most beloved holiday confections.
Inhale again,
If you like,
And then let out this breath in an audible sigh.
Feel your shoulders come down from your ears.
Feel your body sink into the support of your pillows and bed.
Breathe in to this time for self-love and tender care as your breath resumes its normal rhythm.
You deserve to feel the splendor of the comforts that avail themselves to you each night.
And in the state of ease,
Lay back and let the story unfold with its nostalgic musings.
The Windy City feels even windier when the arctic chill of December sails across Lake Michigan and barrels through the urban canyons.
Wrapped in a scarf that rises over your lips and nose,
You revel in its fuzzy warmth.
Your coat is heavy and thick,
Long enough to be transformed into a sleeping bag if necessary,
Yet even bundled.
As you inhale the frosty air,
You feel its sharp tingle inside your nose and on your cheeks and forehead.
But there's something to be appreciated this time of year.
This chill makes you feel remarkably alive and completely in tune with your body.
There's no chance your mind will run away with intrusive thoughts as your entire being is alert to the present moment as you cope with the wintry air.
And what a beautiful present moment it is.
Bags fall on the bustling crowd who tote shopping bags in festive colors.
These bags overflow with displays of love to be bestowed on one another during holiday gatherings.
Scarlet velvet ribbons fly on the breeze,
Nearly ready to take flight.
But for their secure attachments to oversized wreaths wrapped in twinkling lights,
You walk Michigan Avenue,
An area known as the Magnificent Mile among locals and visitors alike.
Driven by the spirit of the holidays,
Songs of harmonizing carolers who stand beneath a holiday tree before a department store fill the festive snowy air.
The four singers dress in vintage burgundy costumes with ivory fur trim that evoke thoughts of a century past.
The sweet intoxicating smell of hot cocoa lures you to a street vendor who customizes each one and finishes the rich delight by toasting marshmallows with a tiny torch.
This elixir heightens your appreciation of this time as you cross DuSable Bridge and walk along the Chicago River,
Sipping as you walk.
The turquoise water carries jagged blocks of ice dusted with snow,
A reminder of nature amid the towering skyscrapers that pierce the gray skies.
And even as darkness arrives earlier this time of year,
The enduring lights of the towers and holiday decorations spread hope into the night.
It's hard to imagine,
Not so long ago,
In the span of humanity's existence,
Chicago was merely a midwestern outpost of a few hundred residents along the swamplands where the river and lake merge,
But this mystical waterway would one day link the heartland to the rest of the world by boat,
And a city was born.
Tales of the past live on in the ornate facades of historic dwellings,
Scattered among reflective skyscrapers that boast modernity.
And somehow,
During the holiday season,
All eras seem to exist at once.
You make your way to the entrance of a luxurious high-rise apartment building,
Seemingly made of austere walls of glass that reflect the snow and fading light.
Yet when greeted by the doorman,
Who ushers you into the revolving doors,
The lobby reveals itself to be a warm,
Inviting haven.
A fire burns in the heart of the lobby,
Just beyond the concierge desk that is adorned with boughs of holly and golden lights.
A neighbor walks by with her medium-sized mutt,
Dressed fittingly in matching ugly green and red holiday sweaters.
The pup enjoys the stares and attention as much as she does,
As she jokes that they are on their way to an ugly sweater party.
The concierge greets you with a package wrapped in fancy gold foil paper and a royal blue satin bow with gold trim.
He sports a mistletoe pin on his gray uniform,
While his cohort wears a flashing Rudolph nose.
The gaiety of the lobby makes you joyful to be home as you gather your package and walk to the elevator banks.
Two young children are overwhelmed by heavy bags containing hand-crafted gifts for their parents that nearly spill out of the paper totes.
The kids whisper conspiratorially to one another as their parents suppress giggles at their offspring's cuteness.
You offer to help the little tykes as you enter the elevators behind them,
And when they stubbornly say no,
Even you have to stifle a laugh.
The elevator ascends swiftly and quietly,
And you feel a slight tickle in your tummy As you watch the electronic numbers ascend on the screen,
The children and parents get off ten floors below your apartment,
All wishing you a happy holiday before the doors close and you continue to ascend.
Bing Crosby plays faintly in the elevator as you catch your reflection in the gold-tinted mirrors and note the cold air has left its mark on your face.
The warmth of the elevator brings feeling back to your fingers and nose as the doors open to your floor.
You walk down the long,
Quiet hallway,
Carpeted with a sapphire blue and gold trellis print that brings an Art Deco feel.
Much of the building captures a sense of the Gatsby era.
You make your way to the front door,
Inhaling the sweet smell of balsam and pine from wreaths that hang on apartment doors.
Once inside your apartment,
It becomes hard to imagine the frenetic energy just outside the lobby,
As inside is so calm and welcoming.
The ceilings are high,
And ornate moldings surround two teardrop chandeliers made of Edison lightbulbs.
A Christmas tree stands in the center of the room,
Rising just below the 12-foot ceilings.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame breathtaking views of Chicago,
Showcasing the grid of city streets and the icy juncture where the river meets Lake Michigan.
As snow falls on the city,
Teeming with holiday decorations and lights,
Night takes hold.
You hang your coat and scarf in a closet in the foyer and swap your boots for plush indoor clogs.
You flip one switch to turn on the holiday lights,
And another to turn on a fire,
As the city glimmers outside,
Unfolding beyond the glass,
Like a film coming to life.
You take the gold package with you as you settle in your favorite oversized armchair illuminated by honeyed firelight and the kaleidoscope of tree lights.
Once settled,
You inspect the small card on the gift,
Curious about who sent it.
The card is not signed,
And reads a typed quote by Carson McCullers.
We are homesick most for the places we have never known.
Beneath the quote,
An elegant handwritten script is the message that we can discover these places in our dreams.
Happy reading,
My friend.
You untie the bow and peel off the lustrous thick paper with care,
And within the wrapping paper,
You discover the first edition print of a collection of old Christmas stories written in the 1920s.
The gold tassel of a bookmark dangles outside the time-worn edges,
And you open to the saved page and begin to read Christmas in Chicago by Fanny Butcher.
You settle into the chair,
Readjusting the plush throw pillows around you and wrapping yourself in a fluffy blanket before reading on,
And in the soft glow of city lights,
A Christmas tree and fire,
You read the words before you,
And surrender to the journey that unfolds.
Christmas in Chicago by Fanny Butcher,
A flare of lights,
A giant tree tapering up and up until it seems to melt into the sky,
Except that the glittering star which crowns it puts to shame the gentle glimmerings in the background of the blue-black heavens,
Spangles like a circus rider's dress,
Flutter in the swish of air,
Blaze out in the footlight glare of the barrage of lights which are turned on the tree,
The family Christmas tree,
Giganticized to a tree for the family of the great city,
And underneath,
Thousands upon thousands of human beings,
Tramping about in the snow,
Listening to a band,
Watching the fluttering spangles of the spectacular tree,
A river of motors,
Slowly flowing past the picture,
Slowly,
Whether they will or no,
For there is no hurrying in the mass that drives down to see the tree,
In the melee that worms about beneath the tree,
There are men and women from the four corners of the earth,
There are faces molded in such fantastically castes that you cannot but wonder how mankind can be all one mankind,
There are voices thick with the gutturals of middle Europe,
Soft with the sunshine of the south,
And heavy with the interminable consonants of the north,
There is a medley of sound,
Human voices of all the tones of the earth's surface,
Doing that peculiarly unmusical feat of all talking at once,
And being heightened rather than subdued by the din of the band,
Trying to be heard in a bellowing of that gentle lullaby,
Silent night,
And the overtone is always the honking of impatient motorists or gaily inclined ones who feel that the best way to express approval in modern life is to make as loud and raucous a noise as possible,
And all over the city in its endless miles of boulevards and parks,
Little brothers of the great tree are glittering against the sky,
And underneath those others,
As underneath the great tree itself,
Mankind swishes and huddles and gazes and talks,
Miles and miles apart they are from the steel mills on the south,
Painting the sky a flame red to the fastnesses of suburban sobriety and sedateness on the north,
From the vast new bungalow studded southwest to the factory dotted northwest,
Merging into two flat buildings and interurbaned real estate plots,
The municipal tree of Chicago,
Whether it be the great tree on the lakefront or the offspring which each local community rears as a pledge of its own Christmas joys,
Is a triumph of civic ideals.
It is a symbol to the thousands who are strangers,
If not in fact,
At least in that pitifully intense way in which mankind can be alone in the millions that make a great city,
That the city is human,
And it has been such a short time that the city has been human,
That it has had time to be anything but a growing,
Hungry,
Physically developing giant of a child.
Out of its rompers,
Chicago is now and present at the great moment of decorating the Christmas tree of the children.
There is something adolescent and very charming and very naive about this Christmassy Chicago.
It has just reached the time when it feels that the world is taking some notice of it,
When it feels its first thrills of conquest,
When it gleans out its pockets,
Throws away the broken knife blades and the slightly worn wads of gum and the marbles and substitutes the picture of the chorus girl and the pocket comb it is washing behind its ears.
And it can blush with gorgeous naivety at the thought of making a social faux pas.
It is terribly self-conscious,
And like all growing youth,
It still has its cosmic dreams.
Chicago's delight in its Christmas tree is at the same time the delight of the child in any glittering godly lighted scene,
And the delight of the youth who remembers his baby days and his passionate belief in Santa Claus and sees in the great tree a moment to the few years that have intervened.
There is romance in that thought,
Within the memory of many men and women who walk beneath the great tree within the lifetime of one of the thousands of trees that have been brought to the making of the great tree and its lesser relatives.
The spot did not exist at all where now the gigantic realization of a dream of a Christmas tree stands.
It was a wave on its way to lap a sandy shore or caught in the fastnesses of ice.
And the shore,
When it reached,
Was a spot where children picnicked in summer,
Where horses were brought to the water's edge for a drink,
Where wagons were washed,
Where the water itself was dipped up in buckets and carried into the little houses of the village.
It was a spot where be muffled children slid back and forth in winter,
Cautiously keeping in shore.
The spot where the great tree stood the first time it was made before the outlying communities had their separate celebrations on the land just east of Madison Street and north of the Art Institute was in the very early days a public burying ground.
Rude storms from the east frequently gnawed at the earth until it had given up its hidden coffins,
Battered them into fragments,
And left scattered remains on the shore when the calm came.
Within the lifetime of a man,
It has grown from hallowed ground to the waterfront park of one of the great cities of the world.
On any Christmas Eve in those days,
And some are still alive who remember it,
The smooth,
Motor-filled boulevard which magnificently borders the city was a country road frozen in deep ruts,
Or if the weather had been mild,
A sandy morass thick and impassable,
And the streets just west of it,
The streets which are filled with Christmas shoppers with ballyhooers for jumping bunnies and sparklers and little rubber men who stick out their tongues,
And great tin lobsters which waddle around on the sidewalk,
The streets which are thick with human beings and every known mechanical device to lure them and give them comfort and excitement.
These same streets were frozen bogs of pathways barely worth the name of road,
Often with an abandoned cart mutely crying their impassability,
Signs proclaiming,
No bottom here,
Told the tale which the rivers of mud only hinted at.
The very street where an elevated wangs by overhead,
A streetcar clangs its warning to the holiday crowds,
And ceaselessly honking motors make a bedlam of the air is the scene of the classic story of the man who in the early days was up to his ears in mud,
From a spot identical with one which is being stepped over by thousands.
So the story goes,
A pedestrian offered to throw out a lifeline to the mud-imprisoned neighbor,
Don't worry about me,
He is said to have answered,
I'm on a good horse.
That story delighted our grandfathers.
The sidewalks,
Lined with gaudy windows,
Wheedling dollars from the passers-by,
And noisy with street hawkers,
Passionately supply last-minute gougas for the tired men and women who have had to shop late,
Because they had no money to shop early.
Sidewalks smooth and wide and sturdy to the tramp of millions of feet.
Not over a lifetime ago were narrow strips of wood raised on stilts with enough room underneath for children to play,
And for rats to hold continuous convention.
Within the memory of the oldest inhabitants is a scene in the early days of many a romantic moment,
When carriages and carts were drawn up to the very doors of the houses and shops,
And whatever strong male arms that happened to be present were offered to lift the women folks,
Safely from one dry spot to another.
Those early Chicago Cavaliers,
And of necessity,
Is it not a legitimate glitter of pride in the twinkling eyes of the great tree,
When it looks upon the vast and teeming loop of the city and remembers that not so long ago,
But that men now living can remember,
The whole prairie south of the river was a great bog,
Dry at times,
But always at the mercy of every rainfall,
And of the seepage from the erratic river that flowed now into the lake,
And now from it,
Ten feet lower than the land,
To the north of the river it was.
The spectacular loop of Chicago,
Which is unlike the same piece of ground anywhere else in the world,
And only the dreamers could see that it could ever be made into a city,
Is the pride out of place,
When one remembers that the first civic accomplishment of the village was the gigantic one,
Of raising the level of the south bank and its adjoining acres,
Until it was no longer sick with sogginess,
And may it not also be a matter of pride,
A matter of pride,
That that river,
So gaily going its own unreasoning way,
Now north,
Now south,
Was tamed to the quiet dignity of flowing in one direction.
Would it not give any city a Christmassy feeling of triumph to realize that the land which looks out upon its harbor,
Land which today is weighed in ounces of gold,
Where great hotels and shops harbor the riches and fripperies of the world,
Was within the memory of men and women,
Still actively a part of the city's life.
The pasture for the whole town,
South of the river,
It has been many a year since a cow wore down the grass by the roadside of Michigan Avenue,
Or munched its way about on the prairie,
But no more than 60 years ago,
All of the residents of the south side took their cows out in the morning and went for them at night.
The community practically ended at Wabash and Adams streets,
And the favorite grazing lands were the spots where the Blackstone and Stevens hotels now have their roots.
Even as late as 1871,
The year when the world was shocked by the news of the great Chicago fire,
Cows were still wandering about contentedly in the prairies.
Mayant the city will wear a mammoth Christmas tree as an adornment this Christmas morning,
When it looks upon its vastness,
When it remembers that,
From a mere handful of settlers,
Less than 90 years ago,
It has become the home of over three millions,
In hundreds of thousands of homes,
In the vast miles that make Chicago Chicago.
As large and populous as many a monarchy,
There are small replicas of the great tree,
Jeweled with many colored electric bulbs,
Sheltering gifts,
Each single one of which would have dowered a bride in the older days.
A diamond bracelet,
Dangling to the delight of some eager daughter or wife,
Is a bauble which,
In those days,
Would have bought the entire loop.
A house and an adjacent block of ground could have been purchased with the money that has been spent for one of the many shiny new motor cars that stand in front of hundreds of shiny little brick houses for the first time this Christmas morning.
In the old days,
A pair of shoes,
Woolen underwear,
Warm mittens,
And a highly extravagant fascinator,
Knitted by skillful fingers,
Were the gifts which elicited shrieks of joy from the recipients.
An orange was the height of luxury for a child,
And he had one orange.
Not a basket full of them,
One wealthy old settler tells with heartbreaking candor of his envy at the sight of a playmate who owned and devoured one large orange before his yearning eyes.
And how the memory lasted for years.
The highly humanized modern doll that does everything but think now walks under the adoring eyes of its mama and says papa and mama with equal tenderness today.
In the early days,
A little girl was being pampered by her mother when she found among her useful Christmas gifts a creature made of rags,
In which had to have all of its talking and walking done for it.
Parties all over the city,
As big as a country,
Are gay with boys and girls,
Home from preparatory schools and colleges,
And fathers and mothers,
And grandfathers and grandmothers,
All apparently the same age,
All living lives made easy by modernity.
In the great hotels that face the tree,
There are numberless Christmas celebrations where the guests are all handsomely dinner-jacketed and gowned,
All very sophisticated,
All having eaten just a little too much,
And perhaps tippled less wisely than well,
Dancing something that in the early days of Chicago would have shocked the city fathers.
And there is much conversation about the small,
High-powered roadster that this one found in his Christmas stocking,
And the jaunt to Palm Beach as soon as the Christmas gaieties are past,
And the new bridge rules.
And there is more rich food and bubbly drink,
Cosmopolitan,
Typically modern American they all are.
With yearly trips to Europe to furbish up a wardrobe or to buy knickknacks for the new house,
There is as much wealth in the persons of the guests as in the old days the whole territory west of the Hudson would have boasted in the memory of one of the grandmothers who is lending for an hour or so.
The dignity of her presence to the party,
Christmas was the homiest of the home festivals.
The whole season was a simple preparation for the only really passionately anticipated event of the year,
New Year's Day.
On Christmas,
There were family gatherings with long dinners of prairie chicken and whatever frivolities the clever housewife could concoct with no fresh fruit,
No nuts,
No out of season vegetables,
And no skilled French cooks.
The hired girl was a blessing,
Or the curse,
Of only the few wealthy homes.
The caterer had never been heard of,
And when he finally did make his appearance 50 or 60 years ago,
He supplied nothing except ice cream.
In the wealthiest households,
A fiddler might be had in,
But not guests outside the family.
Usually,
Some member of the family had enough talent to play the simple music which the dances required,
And such dances,
Square,
Sedate,
But hilariously thrilling to grandmother as well as granddaughter.
There would be no extravagantly glittering Christmas trees.
Very few families,
Except the Germans,
Had a tree at all.
Boughs of evergreen were tacked over the doors and the windows,
Gathered from the great woods north and west of the city.
The woods,
Which are now a part of the most populous miles in Chicago.
If the family happened to live on the north shore of the river,
And was bid to a family Christmas on the south shore,
It dragged itself of necessity across the Chicago River on a hand ferry at Rush Street,
Or crossed at Dearborn Street on a bridge operated by hand cables.
And whether the party were joyously gay or not,
As moral upright villagers,
They must needs be at home and in bed by 10 o'clock,
Or,
If distance and utter levity demanded,
They might possibly sneak in at midnight.
While the tree is still on the lakefront,
It will watch the mobs rushing into the city on New Year's Eve for the Bacchanal,
Which has come to be the American custom of welcoming in the new year,
In the old days,
Everyone was so excited about New Year's Day that they hadn't time to waste on its eve.
In the rare households where the ladies of the family were not receiving,
A basket was hung on the doorknob in which the callers left their cards.
Otherwise,
The ladies,
Fur-belowed in their most extravagant gowns,
Received and kept an accurate account of the number and names of the gentlemen who honored them the days after New Year's,
Were spent in comparing notes and for the bow in recovering from hot toddy and fried oysters and chicken salad,
Which the fair hostesses had probably spent half the night before preparing.
The nearest approach to the casual large group parties,
Which the Christmas holidays see nowadays,
Was in those days,
The fireman's ball.
Everyone who was anyone belonged to the fire brigade.
The young blades of the village rivaled one another in their devotion to it.
A fire was a social event of the first water.
The town was very wooden,
And fires were frequent and thorough.
Whenever one started,
The entire town dropped everything and rushed to see the fun.
The men dressed themselves up in their apéritif outfits and pumped water until long John Wentworth gave them an engine that didn't need hand-pumping,
And the ladies arrived as soon afterwards as possible with sandwiches and pots of coffee.
One met everyone at a fire.
It was neat that the fireman's ball should be the civic social event of the year.
It happened in January.
The one in 1847 was a triumph long remembered.
There were ten hundred and fifty invitations,
All written and delivered by hand.
No engravers or post for the meticulous hostesses of those days.
It was held in the firehouse,
And the elite of the city attended.
For the Christmas festivities nowadays,
The long luxurious trains which roll into Chicago from the east bring many guests who stay a day and dash on to another city in equally luxurious trains.
They don't realize it,
But the city which they are visiting so casually is the railroad center of the United States.
Mankind surges through its land gates as it surges through one of the great ports of the world.
But things were far different in the early days.
Anyone who wanted to be in the village of Chicago for Christmas couldn't decide on December 24th at 2 o'clock in the afternoon and arrive on Christmas morning from the east.
Weeks were spent in the journey.
Covered wagons served for the ordinary travelers,
But the elite came by boat for a week.
If the winds were fair,
They were uncomfortable and crowded,
And badly fed and sick while the boat hurried toward Chicago from Buffalo and the days they had spent,
Or weeks,
To get to Buffalo.
It was never considered much of a trip.
They finally arrived and found a town which well deserved its name of Garden City,
And their enthusiasm for its quiet and comfort after the long,
Hard trip must have had much to do with the increasing numbers which year after year made the arduous trip.
The Christmas feast was not planned the day before Christmas either.
Days of hunting the fowl,
Which were its backbone,
Preceded the work of the housewife.
In the darkness of the nights between Christmas and New Year's,
Nights which are now hectic with sirens of motors and the scrape of shifting gears and the continual swish of human voices and the blare of light within the memory of men and women living,
The quietness of a town safely shut in by its own fireside was in the air,
With the occasional call of the town crier,
Lost,
Lost,
Little girl seven years old.
Chicago has left those days behind it,
But memories of them make sweeter the complete security and comfort of the city in these days.
In the dazzling pyramid of jeweled green,
A giant's dream of a Christmas tree is a symbol of the child's fairy tale come true.
It is a Christmas boutonniere tucked into the proud buttonhole of Chicago.
With the fuzzy,
Warm thoughts of Christmases gone by,
You rise from the chair and turn off the holiday lights and fire.
A lofty hallway leads to your bedroom that overlooks a snowy,
Sleepy Chicago.
You draw the thick,
Velvet drapes closed and change into your pajamas.
When settled in bed,
Your mind welcomes sleep and the visions of all that was,
All that is,
And all that could be,
Strung together by the timeless strands of hope and gratitude.
Finding bliss,
Finding serenity,
Finding the holiday spirit,
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
Good night.
