1958 Packard’s
If you grew up in Bergen County, New Jersey, the name “Packard’s” likely stirs a whirlwind of scents—freshly baked bread mingling with the earthy tang of sawdust on wooden floors—and sounds, from the chatter of bargain hunters to the clink of shopping carts. For nearly six decades, Packard-Bamberger & Co., affectionately known as Packard’s, wasn’t just a store; it was a bustling microcosm of American life in Hackensack. Nestled at 630 Main Street, this sprawling emporium opened its doors in 1933 amid the Great Depression’s shadows and closed them for good in 1991, leaving behind a legacy as the original one-stop shop that foreshadowed giants like Walmart and Costco. Today, as we mark over three decades since its shuttering, let’s dust off the photo albums, sift through yellowed newspaper clippings, and relive the magic of Packard’s—a place where you could buy a watermelon, a wallcovering, and a Bengal tiger steak all under one leaky roof.
Humble Beginnings in a Wallpaper Factory
Packard’s story begins not with grand blueprints but with a gritty reinvention. The building at 630 Main Street started life in the late 1800s as a wallpaper factory owned by Harry Harper. By the 1920s, it had morphed into Harper’s Grocery, a modest survival outpost during the economic freefall of the Depression. Enter Frank William Packard, a Yale-educated New Yorker with a retail spark ignited at Abraham & Straus department store in Brooklyn, where he clerked after graduating in 1928. Packard, born in 1907 to a family of means (his father was a bond broker), had already tasted the retail world in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, managing books before eyeing opportunities closer to home.
In 1933, at just 26, Packard teamed up with Edgar Bamberger, nephew of the famed Louis Bamberger of Newark’s eponymous department store dynasty. They bought out Harper’s for a song—rumored to be around $50,000—and transformed it into Packard-Bamberger & Co., a hybrid grocery and variety store that defied the era’s gloom. The phone number? Hubbard 7-3000, a detail etched into the memories of locals who dialed it for everything from flour to fur coats. Opening day drew crowds eager for affordability in a time when bread lines snaked through cities. Packard’s wasn’t born of blue blood; it was forged in the fires of necessity, promising “everything under one roof” before that became a retail cliché.
Frank Packard, described in a 1972 *New York Times* profile as a “bustling founder” with an infectious zest for life, infused the store with his personality from the start. A dapper man who lectured on wine at local adult education classes, he traveled Europe annually with his wife Dorothy, sourcing exotic imports that would line Packard’s shelves. By buying out Bamberger in the late 1930s, Packard became sole steward, turning a neighborhood grocer into a regional powerhouse Golden Era: From Sawdust Floors to 50,000 Weekly Shoppers
The 1940s and 1950s were Packard’s heyday, a period when Hackensack swelled with post-war optimism and suburban flight from New York City. What began as a single-story affair exploded into a three-floor behemoth, sprawling over 100,000 square feet. Shoppers navigated aisles stocked with the mundane and the marvelous: groceries on the ground floor, hardware and housewares above, and luxury goods like lingerie and furs crowning the top. Annual sales peaked at $20 million in the 1950s—equivalent to over $200 million today—fueled by 50,000 weekly visitors who came not just to buy, but to *experience*.
Innovations abounded. Packard pioneered prepackaged meats, shopping carts, and low-margin, high-volume pricing long before big-box stores made them standard. During World War II rationing, the store’s rooftop became an impromptu farm, with cattle grazing amid rooftop gardens to symbolize self-sufficiency. Post-war, expansions added a pet shop, cocktail lounge, auto service bay (yes, you could gas up your Chevy while grabbing Chanel No. 5), and even a travel agency for those dreaming of Packard’s-sourced Bordeaux vacations.
The in-house restaurant, The Print Room, nodded to the building’s wallpaper roots with floral-patterned walls and hearty fare like German sausages and fresh-baked pies from the on-site bakery. Black-and-white photos from the era capture the scene: steel towers festively lit for Christmas 1959, cars queued at the 1930s pick-up warehouse, and families spilling out with armloads of toys and tins. One Pinterest image from the 1930s shows Fords and Chevys parked curbside, a testament to the store’s draw as a social hub.
Locals’ memories paint vivid portraits. “The wooden floors and sawdust—oh, the smell!” recalls one Facebook poster, evoking the grocery section near Sears Roebuck. Another shares tales of first jobs: bagging groceries or stocking shelves amid the chaos of holiday rushes. Packard’s wasn’t sterile like modern megastores; it was alive, with barbers clipping hair while butchers wrapped cuts, and a post office branch handling wartime letters.
## Quirks, Curiosities, and Community Threads
What set Packard’s apart was its unapologetic eccentricity—a precursor to today’s experiential retail. Want a hot tub? They sold ’em. Beauty salon touch-up? Right next to the hardware aisle. And the liquor department? It snagged New Jersey’s first post-Prohibition license, stocking Packard’s prized French wines alongside domestic bargains. Frank’s oenophile passions shone through; he’d personally select vintages during two-month European jaunts, favoring Bordeaux but championing California labels for their value.
The store’s wild side peeked through in oddball offerings. A 1967 photo captures Packard and buyer Leonard Schechter debating packaged Bengal tiger meat—yes, *tiger*—sourced as an exotic novelty. Watermelons rolled beside wallcoverings, a nod to the factory origins. Community ties ran deep: during floods or strikes, Packard’s donated goods; holiday drives filled trucks for local charities. It employed hundreds, many for decades, fostering lifelong bonds. “My grandma worked the fur department,” one memory reads. “She’d sneak us candy from the stockroom.”
Frank’s global footprint added flair. Post-WWII, under the Marshall Plan, he aided Bordeaux’s vineyard revival, earning France’s Legion of Honor—a honor he parlayed into exclusive imports. By the 1970s, he’d spun off 20+ wine shops, but Packard’s remained his crown jewel, a “supermarket-specialty” mashup reflecting his eclectic tastes.
The Fight for Fair Prices: A Retail Revolution
Packard’s soul was its prices—aggressively low, defying the era’s cartels. In the 1930s, New Jersey’s Fair Trade Act mandated minimum pricing to “protect” small grocers, but Packard saw it as a consumer shackle. Selling below wholesale, he drew lawsuits from the Retail Grocers Association. His 1938 battle reached the U.S. Supreme Court, which struck down the law as unconstitutional, paving the way for discount retail nationwide. “He fought for the little guy,” a *NorthJersey.com* retrospective notes, crediting Packard with democratizing shopping. This maverick spirit echoed in every sale, making Packard’s a beacon for value in a protectionist age.
Twilight and Farewell: The 1991 Closure
By the 1980s, cracks appeared. Frank’s death in 1981 from a heart attack at 74 left sons Peter, John, and Thomas at the helm. (His second wife, Patricia Waldo Remick—mother of actress Lee Remick—outlived him, adding a Hollywood footnote.) Competition from malls and chains eroded foot traffic. In 1989, Kings Food Markets acquired it, but mismanagement tanked sales. John Packard sought buyers, but none bit.
November 9, 1992—wait, sources pinpoint 1991—the final day saw tears and empty shelves. Photos capture the pathos: rusted signs bending in the wind, a boarded-up photo hut hawking Atlantic City bus trips. The building limped on as a flea market until 2001, when demolition crews razed it for a Target—ironic, given Packard’s big-box prophecy. Bargain hunters scavenged amid the ruins, a last hurrah for the emporium’s spirit.
Echoes of an Era: Legacy in the Aisles of Today
Strolling today’s Target on that hallowed site, it’s hard not to mourn the loss of Packard’s quirky soul. Yet its DNA pulses in every discount aisle, every multi-department layout. Frank Packard’s vision—affordable abundance for all—reshaped retail, influencing from Costco’s bulk bins to Amazon’s everything-store ethos.
Memories endure online: Facebook groups brim with scans of matchbooks from the 1930s-80s, tales of sawdust-swept holidays, and laments for “the place where Hackensack felt like home.” A 2019 blog reflects on its evolution from Harper’s to a “vastly expanded” wonderland. As Bergen County urbanizes, Packard’s reminds us of community anchors: places that fed bodies and souls, sparked romances over shared carts, and fought for fairness.
In an age of click-and-collect sterility, Packard’s whispers a timeless truth: shopping was once an adventure, not a chore. Next time you’re in Hackensack, pause at that Target entrance. Feel the sawdust underfoot? That’s Frank Packard, still hustling, still innovating, from beyond the wallpapered veil.
Sources include NorthJersey.com archives, New York Times obituaries and features, and community recollections from Facebook and Pinterest.
Sources include NorthJersey.com archives, New York Times obituaries and features, and community recollections from Facebook and Pinterest.
