Growing Up in the Golden Age of Hills

My buddy Shawn recently posted some old Hills department store ads on his site and they brought a ton of memories flooding back for me. I’m always nostalgic for Hills, but those ads put me into overdrive, so I wanted to share some thoughts about why I always loved Hills so much back when and why I still miss it terribly today.

Hills was woven into my childhood in a way few places ever were. When I think back on growing up, I can still see myself walking through those front doors, the ones that opened with that soft whoosh that felt like they were greeting me personally. Hills had a certain warmth to it, a feeling that wrapped around you the moment you stepped inside. It was not just a department store. It was a place where entire afternoons unfolded, where I could wander without rushing, where every visit felt like a small adventure waiting to happen.

I always made a straight line for the toy department. That was my destination, my home base, the place where my imagination felt like it had room to stretch out. Hills had a toy section that felt larger than life. It was bright, colorful, and overflowing with possibilities. The mid to late eighties were a golden age for toys, and Hills carried everything that mattered. Masters of the Universe lined the shelves with He-Man, Skeletor, and all the wild vehicles and playsets that looked like they had been dreamed up by someone who lived on another planet. G.I. Joe figures stood in perfect rows, each one ready for battle, with tanks, jets, and bases stacked nearby like miniature military installations. Transformers sat in those beautiful window boxes that made every figure look like treasure, each one promising the thrill of turning a robot into a vehicle with a few clicks and twists. Hot Wheels racks were packed tight with cars that begged to be raced across kitchen floors or launched off homemade ramps.

And then there were the lesser known lines that only a store like Hills seemed to carry. Bone Age with its prehistoric warriors and skeletal beasts that looked like they had crawled out of some forgotten cave. Sectaurs with their insect themed heroes and those wild puppet bugs you strapped to your hand. M.U.S.C.L.E. figures in their tiny pink glory, sold in little packs that felt like secret discoveries. Hills had all of it, and seeing those shelves felt like stepping into a dream. I remember walking those aisles slowly, letting my eyes drift over every box and blister card, taking in every detail. You did not rush through the toy department at Hills. You savored it. You took your time. You imagined what it would be like to take home that new vehicle or playset. Even if I did not buy anything, I left feeling like I had seen something magical.

And then there was Nintendo. Hills was the capital of the Nintendo world in our neck of the woods. No other store came close. They had more games than anybody, row after row of those gray boxes with the bold black lettering and the iconic red stripe. Super Mario Bros, Duck Hunt, Excitebike, Pro Wrestling, Castlevania, Kid Icarus, and all the other classics that defined the era. They had the glass case that held the big ticket items, the ones you stared at with wide eyes and big dreams. It was behind that glass that I saw the Nintendo Entertainment System for the first time, sitting there like the crown jewel of the entire store. Hills is where I got my Nintendo, and I can still remember the feeling of carrying that box out of the store, knowing my life was about to change. Hills made Nintendo feel larger than life, like you were stepping into a new world every time you walked down that aisle.

The rest of the store had its own charm. The aisles were wide and easy to navigate. The music was cheerful. The employees were friendly in that genuine, small town way that made you feel comfortable. Holidays were incredible. Hills decorated early and decorated big. The store felt alive during December, with lights, displays, and a toy department that somehow managed to become even more exciting. I can still remember wandering through the Christmas aisles, soaking in the atmosphere and feeling like the season had officially begun.

And after all that wandering, all that browsing, all that dreaming in the toy aisles and the Nintendo section, I always knew what was waiting for me near the front of the store. The snack bar. It was never my first stop. It was my reward. It was the treat I looked forward to on the ride home. Popcorn, pretzels, and those soft cookies in little paper sleeves. The smell drifted across the front of the store and wrapped itself around you. I would grab a bag of popcorn so big it felt like a challenge, or a cookie that was warm enough to melt in my hand, and carry it out to the car with the kind of satisfaction only a kid can truly understand. The snack bar was the final note of every visit, the perfect ending to an already perfect afternoon.

Looking back, Hills feels like one of those places that helped define my childhood. It was a store that understood joy. It understood imagination. It understood that a simple Saturday afternoon could become something special if you gave people a place that felt warm and welcoming. The toy department, the Nintendo section, the holiday displays, the friendly atmosphere, the snack bar waiting at the end of every visit. All of it blended together into something unforgettable.

Hills may be gone now, but the memories remain as bright as ever. For me, Hills will always be the store where the toy aisles felt like the center of the universe, where Nintendo dreams came true, where popcorn smelled like adventure, and where a kid could walk in with a few dollars and walk out feeling like they had touched magic.

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