My Future Was Sketchy From the Beginning

My fame as a Philadelphia artist came when I was about 10 years old.
At that time I was a regular attendee at the Viola Theater located on Germantown Avenue every Saturday during the summer. It cost 10 cents for a ticket to the show, which lasted about three hours and included the main feature, a serial episode, like "Flash Gordon in the 25th Century," a comedy short like "Laurel and Hardy," and three or four cartoons -- plus coming attractions.
At some point in the middle of these films, the house lights would come up and a guest artist (cartoonist) would come on stage and talk about a famous cartoon character while he did a sketch of the character on a large flip chart pad.
The artist then gave the kids in the audience an assignment to bring a drawing with them the following Saturday. He would judge the drawings and would award a prize for the best drawing. He would hold up several drawings for audience approval and award a prize of a pound-box of Whitman's Assorted Chocolates to the winner. This went on for a whole month of Saturdays and as luck and fortune prevailed, Herb Mandel was the winner every Saturday.
On the final Saturday award ceremony, the artist complimented me on my drawing skills and allowed me to speak to the audience on his microphone about my ambitions to be an artist when I became an adult. Of course, all my friends and schoolmates congratulated me and I would share my winnings with them.

The Ice Man Cometh ... No More

When I was a youngster, before electric refrigerators were in use, most families lived with iceboxes to store their perishable foods and leftovers. These boxes needed a regular supply of ice, which could be purchased from the ice man, who made regular rounds of our neighborhood in a horse-drawn wagon. You  could buy a block of ice for 10 cents, 15 cents, 20 cents or larger depending upon the ice storage compartment size in your ice box.
It was a treat for the neighborhood kids when that horse-drawn ice wagon parked on our street. People would put a placard in their door or living room window to let the ice man know what size block was needed to be cut from the large 100-pound blocks of ice stored in the wagon.
Little ice chips would spray off the big block when he chipped the ice with his ice pick. He would leave the wagon to make deliveries, which he carried on his shoulders holding them in place with  ice tongs on a leather shoulder pad. That's when all the kids, who were watching and waiting, moved in on the ice wagon to scavenge for chips of scattered ice, which were perfect for crunching or savoring as they melted in our mouths.
As the ice man returned from making his delivery, he'd holler at us and we'd scatter in all directions -- but never too far, because we knew he was going to cut more ice blocks and we would have another opportunity to scavenge for ice chips. The ice man wasn't really angry at us, it was really just part of the game, to chase us from the wagon. It was a great summer-long event for the neighborhood kids every time the ice man would park on our street. It's one summer activity kids today will never experience. Too bad.

Musical Genius: 99% Perspiration, 1% "Pop"

I took violin lessons when I was about 8 years old, which brought me some local and fleeting fame at Hardranft Elementary School in Philadelphia.

We would have periodic assemblies at the school, which called for the opening of the blackboard panels which separated about four or five classrooms, transforming the space into our auditorium. My teacher knew I was taking my lessons and at one of our musical assemblies, which featured those students who played instruments, I was scheduled to perform on my violin.

My contribution was to play one song, "Pop Goes the Weasel." Well, my time came and I played the song, which included plucking the "E string" to sound the "pop" in the song.

Little did I know how fortuitous it was when I plucked the "E string" because it brought an endless round of applause and laughter from my schoolmates. My encore was a second playing of "Pop Goes the Weasel" and again, the "pop" brought forth joyous laughter and applause throughout the assembly.

So that was my first five minutes of fame as a musician in the third grade. Of course, there were other musical interludes in my early school years to come . . .

Illuminating Memories of Days Gone By

Something that only the older generations will remember and which we will probably never see again is the Old Lamplighter making his rounds.
When I was growing up in Philly in the 1930s, there was a ritual which happened every night, at about 5 o'clock. A little old man would travel the side streets and alleys of Philadelphia, carrying a four-foot ladder and a zinc coated bucket containing various paraphernalia, like rags, brushes, water and other odds and ends, which were used use to clean the street lamps and light them before darkness set in.
The Lamp Lighter would set up his ladder against the lamp post, the only way to reach the glass chimney-like fixture surrounding the gas wick mechanism at the top of the post, which had to be cleaned. He also adjusted the flow of the gas jet before replacing the glass chimney, after lighting it with a flint stick.
When the lamp was reassembled, he stood back to admire his handiwork before moving on to the next lamppost on his list.
These lamps were installed on the sidewalk of the side streets and alleyways which would otherwise be pitch black for the residents and pedestrians living in the area. They would remain lit all through the night hours until daylight, then they would mysteriously go out until the Lamplighter returned the next evening to follow the same ritual. There was a song written about this ritual, "The Old Lamplighter," which was popular in those days and still leaves a nostalgic memory for me and those of us who remember those days.

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

Like many women back in the pre-Depression years, my mom gave birth in the upstairs bedroom of our house. That is where I was born. The occasion was a happy one, even though I'm told everyone was hoping I would be a girl baby -- my two brothers were already approaching their teen years back in 1925.
When my parents couldn't agree on a name for their wonderful little baby boy, the family assembled to join in making a decision. In my case, aunts and uncles, brothers, Mom and Pop, all gathered with their suggestions. In order that everyone would have a fair opportunity to bestow their chosen name upon me, they wrote their suggestions  on  slips of paper, folded them, and dropped them into my pop's Fedora. Pop shook his hat for a proper mix and then coaxed me into picking the winning name from the hat.
I don't really remember this grand event, but I was told I finally picked the winner, which is how I came to be named Herbert  -- just Herbert, no middle name -- rather then Hans or Adolph or Fritz or Herman or any of the other suggestions in the hat. The picture above is how I  imagine the occasion, which became family lore, a moment of proud family history on the day of my birth, October 29, 1925.