A year later, and it still chaps my hide. Looking at the name "Macy's" on what is truly "Marshall Field's." Call me stubborn. Call me sappy. Call me crazy. But I don't think I'll ever be able to get over it.

I won't even argue anymore the historical significance of the building and how I'm disheartened that in this fine city, commerce has outweighed tradition.

But what is evident as I visit this old gem -is that while the name may be gone, the old friends remain. And while I so appreciate them and what they represent, this sentiment is not echoed by everyone.

I come here often. To the basement of the old Field's on State Street.


I write grocery lists. I contemplate my life's plans. I people watch. I imagine what it used to be like years ago when my mom was a salesgirl here. She was a knockout. I imagine this classy teenager, her svelte 5'9" frame in the fashions of the 60's. I imagine her chatting with the handsome teenage and twentysomething salesmen in their suits. In pictures I've seen, things seem to have been so much more elegant some 40-plus years ago.

On this particular day on which I'm visiting, an immaculate-looking lady in a turquoise coat is perusing the Frango mints. She is at least 75. Her perfectly-coifed hair is salt and pepper, mostly the former. She wears black-rimmed glasses and pearl earrings, and holds a black cane to match her elegant black "high-heeled" shoes.

There is a young male sales associate handing out samples.

She inquires as to the flavors. There is one that her old ears just can't seem to grasp.

"French Silk Pie!" the sales associate says. "French Silk Pie!" he repeats. She just can't seem to get it.

"I can't yell it any louder," he ultimately states, seemingly exasperated.

Later, a less-put together woman-- but of the same generation as the Turquoise Coat, approaches the same unsuspecting candy man. She is missing a tooth or two, and is referencing the days "when it was 'Marshall Field's'." She says she used to get samples of chocolate with her purchases. "How many can I get? she asks him. One of each, he responds. There are three trays, so she's eligible for three samples.She mumbles something about "bad business" as she putters away.

He appears to be oblivious to the uniqueness of these women. Chicago landmarks in their own right. Little pieces of history. Treasures.

There are those who will argue that there can't be an oversentimentality when it comes to these things-you know, inanimate objects like buildings. Or even old people. It's a new generation, they'll say. You've got to go with the flow.

After all, "everything must change", the song says. "Nothing stays the same".

But Chicago has never seemed to be a city where anything or better yet, anyone, is made to feel expendable.

And now it appears that even in Chicago, to everything, there is a season.

Elizabeth Sandoval is a freelance writer whose work has been published in Newsweek, USA Today, the Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Daily News, San Gabriel Valley Tribune and other L.A.-area papers, and on Chicago Public Radio.