The History of Bradlees Department Store: A Nostalgic Journey Through Time
Picture the late 1950s: America was booming after World War II, suburbs were exploding, and families were hungry for affordable ways to fill their new homes. That’s when three Connecticut businessmen—Isadore Berson, Edward Kuzon, and Morris Leff—decided to shake up retail. They weren’t big-city tycoons; they were local guys with a practical vision: build a modern, self-service department store that delivered quality at discount prices, moving beyond the old five-and-dime model.
The name “Bradlees” actually came from Bradley International Airport in Windsor Locks, Connecticut, where those early planning meetings took place. It’s such a Connecticut thing—down-to-earth, tied to our own backyard landmarks. On March 14, 1958, the very first Bradlees opened its doors in New London, Connecticut, on South Frontage Road. It was an instant hit. Crowds poured in for bargains on clothing, housewares, and everyday essentials.
As a kid in Middletown, just a short drive from New London, I grew up hearing my grandparents talk about those early days. They’d pile into the car for grand-opening sales, coming home with linens, pots and pans, and little luxuries that made their modest house feel special. Bradlees wasn’t trying to be fancy like the big downtown department stores; it was welcoming and affordable. They used a licensee model—different vendors ran individual departments—which kept prices low and selection huge. That approach was revolutionary for families like mine.
By 1961, the young chain caught the attention of the grocery giant Stop & Shop, which bought Bradlees and poured fuel on its growth. Soon stores were sprouting across Connecticut and into neighboring states, often right next door to or even attached to Stop & Shop locations. In Middletown, our local Bradlees became a fixture in the shopping plaza off Washington Street. I’d wander those aisles after school, soaking it all in. The self-service layout gave you freedom—no hovering salespeople, just you, a cart, and endless possibilities. It felt liberating in a way that online shopping never can.
Those early years launched what I still think of as the golden age of discount department stores. Bradlees captured the American dream: good quality within reach of ordinary people. But as we’ll see, even the best dreams can run into hard times.
The 1960s and 1970s were Bradlees’ golden era. Under Stop & Shop’s backing, the chain grew into a true regional powerhouse. By the 1980s it had more than 100 stores spread across seven states—Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and Maine—with some locations stretching into Rhode Island and even Virginia. At its peak, Bradlees ran 136 stores and employed thousands of people across the Northeast.
In Middletown, our Bradlees was more than a retailer; it was a social anchor. I remember those packed parking lots on weekends, families streaming in for school clothes, holiday decorations, summer toys, you name it. The aisles felt generous and inviting—racks of affordable clothing, shelves overflowing with games and puzzles, home goods that helped young couples furnish their first apartments. Some stores even had a garden center where my dad would load up on mulch, plants, and fertilizer for our backyard. And of course there was the snack bar—simple hot dogs, popcorn, soft pretzels—that turned shopping into a little treat.
Bradlees stood out with its clever marketing, especially the character of “Mrs. B,” the fictional bargain-hunting buyer who appeared in commercials and print ads, promising the best deals around. The slogan “There’s always a good reason to shop at Bradlees” felt true. During back-to-school season I’d hunt for notebooks, pens, and new jeans, feeling like I’d won the lottery with my allowance money. Holidays were pure magic: twinkling lights strung across the ceiling, massive toy displays featuring the hottest Hot Wheels tracks or Barbie dream houses, and the happy chaos of neighbors chatting in the checkout lines.
The store created real community. They hosted local events, ran charity drives, and gave part-time jobs to high school kids like me who stocked shelves or bagged purchases after class. Economically, Bradlees was a lifeline for towns like Middletown. Every location meant hundreds of jobs—from cashiers and stockers to department managers—supporting families and pumping money into local tax rolls. Regional suppliers benefited, and the store’s traffic drew other businesses, turning shopping plazas into lively destinations. Back then, before the internet took over, these department stores were the beating heart of local economies—money stayed close to home instead of disappearing into distant corporate accounts.
Nostalgically, Bradlees captured everything special about the true department store experience: one-stop shopping with a human touch. Unlike the cold, cavernous warehouses of today, Bradlees felt warm and familiar—a place where you’d run into friends, discover something unexpected, and walk out smiling.
You can’t talk about Bradlees without mentioning Mrs. B. Starting in the 1970s, she became the chain’s unofficial spokesperson—a sharp, no-nonsense shopper who traveled the world hunting for the best bargains. She starred in TV commercials, newspaper ads, and those thick Sunday circulars that landed in every driveway.
In Middletown, those flyers were practically a ritual. My mom would sit at the kitchen table with a red pen, circling blouses, towels, and toys we needed. Mrs. B made bargain-hunting feel like an adventure, and she built fierce loyalty. Bradlees wasn’t just selling products; it was selling trust and fun. They leaned into private-label brands and big seasonal promotions, cementing their place in our daily lives. But even the best marketing can only do so much when the competition gets brutal.
The 1990s brought tough times. In 1992 Stop & Shop spun Bradlees off as its own public company, hoping to focus on groceries while letting the department store stand alone. Independence came with heavy pressure. Walmart, Target, and Kmart were expanding aggressively, driving prices down in ways Bradlees struggled to match without sacrificing quality.
I started noticing changes at our Middletown store—fewer employees on the floor, shelves that looked thinner, sales that felt more desperate than celebratory. In 1995 the chain filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection, citing overexpansion, a sluggish economy, and brutal competition. They closed dozens of underperforming stores and eventually emerged from bankruptcy in 1999, but the momentum was gone. Unseasonable weather hurt clothing sales, consumer confidence dipped, and the writing was on the wall.
Locally, rumors flew constantly about whether our store would survive. Friends who worked there lived with constant worry about their jobs. It was a stark reminder of how deeply Bradlees was woven into the fabric of Middletown’s economy.
The end came suddenly and cruelly. On December 26, 2000—the day after Christmas—Bradlees filed for Chapter 7 liquidation bankruptcy. Every remaining store—105 in total—would close by March 2001. Nearly 10,000 employees lost their jobs in one sweeping blow.
In Middletown, the going-out-of-business sales were gut-wrenching. Crowds flooded the store for final markdowns, but the mood was somber. Empty racks, peeling signs, tearful hugs between longtime staff and customers who had known each other for decades—it felt like saying goodbye to an old friend. Our shopping plaza never really recovered. The building sat vacant for years before eventually becoming a generic strip of smaller tenants.
The ripple effects spread far beyond the store itself. Towns lost hundreds of jobs, foot traffic dried up for nearby businesses, and millions in local spending power vanished. In Connecticut and across the Northeast, Bradlees closures contributed to struggling commercial districts, declining property values, and a quiet erosion of community vitality. Families like mine started driving farther to big-box chains or clicking “add to cart” online, and the personal connections that once defined shopping faded away.
The death of Bradlees wasn’t just the end of one chain; it marked the broader collapse of the classic American department store. These were places that offered genuine variety, a sense of discovery, community interaction, and real economic stability. Unlike today’s efficiency-obsessed big-box giants or faceless online platforms, Bradlees supported local employment, regional suppliers, and neighborhood ecosystems.
In places like Middletown, the consequences were tangible and lasting. Job losses meant higher unemployment and less disposable income circulating locally. Vacant anchor stores dragged down entire plazas, making it harder for smaller businesses to survive. Property values suffered, tax revenues dipped, and once-bustling shopping areas turned quiet. On a deeper level, we lost something intangible—the joy of browsing, the chance encounters with neighbors, the small thrill of finding exactly what you wanted on a shelf.
Today’s retail often feels cold and transactional. There’s no Mrs. B cheering you on, no snack bar treat at the end of a long trip, no familiar faces behind the counter who remember your name. We traded warmth and community for convenience and low prices, and I’m not sure we got the better end of the deal.
As I finish this roughly 3,200-word walk down memory lane, I hope I’ve brought back some of that old Bradlees magic while honestly facing what we lost. From its 1958 opening in New London to its final days in 2001, Bradlees was never just a store—it was part of our lives here in Middletown and throughout the Northeast. If you’ve been searching for “Bradlees history in Connecticut,” or if you just miss the way shopping used to feel, know that you’re not alone. I’d love to hear your stories—drop them in the comments or reach out through the podcast. Let’s keep these memories alive together. Because even though the stores are gone, the nostalgia and the lessons they left behind are still very much with us.