Getting the historical details right

Now that Thanksgiving is over, I have a confession to make.

The Macy’s parade—which just celebrated its 100th anniversary with especially high ratings—may in fact be “America’s favorite tradition” (as Macy’s so modestly claims on its website). But I’ve never actually watched it. Certainly never in person, although I’ve lived in New York City for decades. And not even on TV, except perhaps as background noise in another room while I did meal prep in the kitchen. I am not a parade person.

Which is why it’s ironic that in researching my current project, I spent a LOT of time the last month trying to figure out the origins of this practice of having a parade on Thanksgiving Day.

An important part of writing historical fiction is getting the details right, to not have the fiction overshadow the history. In my case, those details involve Newark, New Jersey in the 1920s, which I’ve been learning a lot about. A lot of “big” things, of course: the name of the mayor, the date the airport opened, the location of the main public library. But also a lot of small things: the kind of shoes people wore, the type of desserts they ate, the cost of a new car.

As part of my research, I discovered that, for many years, Bamberger’s—at the time, Newark’s premier department store—had its own Thanksgiving parade. But timing is everything, and for one particular scene, I needed to figure out when exactly the Bamberger’s parade began. Which sent me down the rabbit hole of parade lore.

Apparently, despite Macy’s current dominant role in the Thanksgiving parade business, it was actually the now-defunct Gimbels department store in Philadelphia that hosted the inaugural Thanksgiving parade in 1920 as a marketing ploy to kick off the holiday shopping season. Bamberger’s and other department stores took notice and, no doubt eager to boost their sales as well, soon launched their own parades.

Not surprisingly, many of the articles I read about the Bamberger’s Thanksgiving parade downplayed the Gimbels role in starting the beloved tradition. Instead, perhaps reflecting the never-ending competition between New York City and New Jersey, the focus was on the relationship between the Macy’s and Bamberger’s parades.

There’s no doubt when Macy’s started its tradition; on November 28, 1924, the New York Times reported that Santa had made an appearance during the store’s first parade. And although it’s difficult to tie down the precise year the Bamberger’s parade started, thanks to a wonderful biography of Louis Bamberger by Linda B. Forgosh, I discovered that several letters to the editors of the Newark Star-Ledger submitted by the son of a former Bamberger’s executive set the date as 1925 or 1926. So, despite some hyperbolic language from the New Jersey side, there’s no proof Macy’s “stole” the parade from Bamberger’s. And there’s also no proof Macy’s bought it from Bamberger’s. What Macy’s bought was Bamberger’s itself, not just the parade, and not until several years later. That’s a story for another day. For my purposes, all that matters is that, in all likelihood, Bamberger’s did in fact have a Thanksgiving Day parade in November 1928, when my scene takes place.

Which is another key aspect of writing historical fiction: knowing when to stop researching. Details matter, of course, but not EVERY detail, and too many will just detract from the story I’m trying to tell. After all, I’m writing a novel, not a master’s thesis on the origins of Thanksgiving Day parades. And frankly, there’s only so many particulars a non-parade person like me needs.