7 catalogs every middle-class family had on their coffee table in the 1970s

If you grew up in a middle-class home in the 1970s, you probably remember this scene.

A stack of thick, glossy catalogs on the coffee table.

Someone always “saving” their page with a TV remote, a bookmark, or a folded tissue.

Kids circling toys, parents checking prices, everyone secretly building their dream life on paper.

Those catalogs were mood boards for a generation, and they shaped how many of us thought about money, home, food, and what a “good life” looked like.

Let’s take a walk back through seven of the most iconic ones and, while we are at it, notice what they can still teach us about our habits, values, and dreams today:

1) The Sears catalog: The universe between two covers

If there was a monarch of the coffee table, it was the Sears catalog.

Sears had been mailing out catalogs since the late 1800s, and by the mid-20th century they were a massive presence in American homes, offering everything from clothes and appliances to tools and toys, even house kits in earlier decades.

In a lot of middle-class living rooms, the Sears “big book” lived right next to the family Bible and the remote.

In my mind’s eye, I can still see that slightly glossy paper, the tiny item numbers, the pricing that seemed so official.

One catalog, hundreds of ways to reinvent yourself.

Looking back, what fascinates me is how much identity-building happened with that book.

Even if you never ordered half those things, your imagination got a workout.

From a self-development angle, Sears is a reminder of how often we “try on” different lives before we commit.

Today we do it with Pinterest boards and online wishlists.

Back then, we did it by dog-earing pages and dreaming.

2) The Sears Wish Book: Holiday magic in catalog form

First published in the 1930s, the Wish Book became a beloved Christmas catalog, especially by the time the 1970s rolled around.

It was stuffed with toys, games, electronics, and holiday decorations.

For many families, its arrival signaled the official start of the festive season.

Kids would lie on their stomachs on the carpet, feet kicking in the air, circling everything they “had” to have.

Adults would flip through gift ideas, mentally calculating what might fit the budget.

That ritual did something subtle to our brains.

It taught us to equate holidays with having more stuff.

Joy and consumption got braided together very tightly.

I still catch myself, as an adult, using shopping as a shorthand for celebration.

When I notice that impulse, I think about those hours with the Wish Book.

The anticipation was real, but the joy came just as much from imagining as from receiving.

If you feel like the holidays always become a spending spiral, it might help to borrow the best part of the Wish Book ritual and leave the rest.

3) JCPenney: The “pretty but practical” catalog

If Sears was the solid, everything-for-everyone option, JCPenney felt like its slightly more style-conscious cousin.

By the 1970s, the JCPenney catalog was a major competitor, offering clothing, home goods, and seasonal items, with thick Christmas “wish book” editions of its own.

In many homes, Penney’s was where people went (in their imagination, at least) when they wanted to feel a bit more put-together.

I remember the “back to school” sections.

Rows of coordinated outfits, glossy lunchboxes, backpacks that somehow promised a better social life.

Even before social media existed, JCPenney was selling an image, not just a shirt.

Here is the self-development angle: Those pages were an early lesson in how comparison works.

It was easy to look at those styled photos and think, “If I just had that outfit, I would feel confident” or “If my kitchen looked like that, life would finally be organized.”

We still do this now, only the catalog is on our phones.

4) Montgomery Ward: The dependable backup

Montgomery Ward, often just “Wards,” was another heavyweight in the catalog world, mailing out general merchandise catalogs for decades and competing directly with Sears and JCPenney.

In some houses, Wards got the second spot on the coffee table, but it still worked hard for attention.

If Sears was the default and JCPenney brought the style, Wards sometimes felt like the realistic middle ground.

The prices could be appealing, and the selection was wide enough to outfit a family, furnish a room, or stock a toolbox.

What I love, looking back, is how these overlapping catalogs gave families choices.

You could compare prices, quality, and style, slowly building a sense of what mattered most.

That comparison process is actually an underrated skill.

As a former financial analyst, I spent years comparing data sets, options, and trade-offs.

When I trace that tendency back, it absolutely started with paper catalogs at the kitchen table.

You may have learned it too: Maybe you are the person who always checks multiple tabs before booking a hotel or scans reviews before buying a blender.

There is a good chance those coffee-table catalogs trained your brain to think, “I have options. Let me slow down and weigh them.”

In a world that pushes instant “Buy now” buttons, that old-school, catalog-era patience is a beautiful habit to reclaim.

5) Spiegel: Glamour for the suburban living room

Spiegel, based in Chicago, made its name with fashion-forward catalogs that also showcased stylish home décor.

By the 1960s and 70s, the company was well known for bringing a more European, aspirational tone to American mail-order shopping.

If Sears was the sturdy sedan of catalogs, Spiegel was the sleek imported car that made you look twice.

For many middle-class families, Spiegel lived on the coffee table as a kind of fantasy magazine.

Page after page of floaty dresses, slim suits, glam evening looks, and furniture that looked more “city” than “suburb.”

Even if the budget did not stretch to a full Spiegel wardrobe, it stretched the imagination.

There is something powerful about having aspirational imagery that you can access while still in sweatpants, kids fighting in the next room, dog begging for scraps.

Spiegel taught a lot of us how to hold two realities at once: The daily chaos and the possibility of something more elegant.

In self-development, we sometimes swing too hard in one direction.

Either all “radical acceptance” of what is, or all “vision board” for what could be.

You are allowed to enjoy fantasy without losing touch with your real life.

6) Aldens and the “secondary” catalogs: The quiet influencers

Beyond the big names, there were other catalogs that often sat a little lower in the stack but still mattered.

Aldens, for example, was another mail-order house that offered general merchandise and was significant enough that its catalogs are preserved alongside Sears, JCPenney, Montgomery Ward, and Spiegel in archival collections.

There were also smaller regional catalogs, toy catalogs, and specialty booklets that came tucked inside magazines.

These were the “supporting cast” on the coffee table.

They did not always get the prime spot, but they still shaped taste and choices.

Psychologically, they highlight something easy to miss.

Think about your current life: The obvious “Sears catalogs” today might be Instagram, Amazon, or whatever site you check daily.

But what about the Aldens of your mental coffee table?

• The podcast you half-listen to while cooking
• The newsletter you skim on your lunch break
• The flyers you do not think you notice

All of those are still teaching you what is normal, what is desirable, and what you “should” strive for.

7) Avon and the beauty brochures: Tiny catalogs, big messages

Finally, we cannot ignore the smaller, more personal catalogs that floated around many living rooms and kitchens in the 70s.

Avon brochures are a classic example.

These little booklets featured cosmetics, skincare, fragrances, and gift items, sold through local representatives.

They may not have sat proudly in the middle of the coffee table like Sears, but they were often nearby, slipped into a magazine or resting on an end table.

They carried powerful messages about beauty, femininity, and self-care.

I think a lot about those pages now as a vegan who reads ingredient lists for fun.

So many of the products pushed one narrow ideal of beauty and almost never mentioned what was in them, let alone how they were tested or who was affected in the supply chain.

Those brochures helped normalize the idea that “fixing” your face or body was a routine project, one that required a steady stream of products.

When you remember those tiny catalogs, can you also remember the first time you thought you needed to “improve” something about yourself: The first lipstick, the first diet ad, the first anti-aging cream?

Self-development, at its best, is about becoming more fully yourself, not endlessly trying to become someone else’s airbrushed picture.

If those beauty catalogs planted some seeds of “not enough,” you are allowed to gently un-plant them now.

Bringing it back to your own coffee table

The 1970s coffee table told a story.

Today, your coffee table might be bare, and the “catalogs” have mostly moved into your phone and laptop.

However, you do not have to give up dreaming or shopping to grow because you just have to notice the stories behind the pages.

Those old catalogs were trying to sell us things, yes, yet they also gave us a mirror.

If you look closely, you might still see who you were, who you tried to be, and who you want to become next.