Herb Mandel Artwork Unlimited

Lot and his Daughters

2011-08-21T22:41:00.001-04:00

When one reads the story in the Old Testament about Sodom and Gomorrah, how Lot leads his family out of Sodom at the behest of God’s angels and they flee to the hills while God proceeds to destroy the evil city and its inhabitants, seldom does one read or remember what happens after Lot's wife turns into a pillar of salt.

Well, what eventually happens is Lot and his daughters find a cave in the distant wilderness, far from Sodom, where the trio set up housekeeping. After a period of time the daughters become lonely and unhappy with this desolate place and want for male companionship. So they finally conspire with one another to ply their father with wine and take turns sleeping with him.

I finally resolved to do a painting suggesting how this event might have played out. I visualized one of the girls being the more aggressive, feeding her father cup after cup of wine until he was oblivious to what was happening. The other daughter being perhaps more self-conscious about this “incestuous plan” and hesitates while she prepares herself (with a prayer) for the coming event. Lot of course, never becomes aware of what his daughter’s have done, although he must have had some suspicions even though nothing is contained in the scripture, at least not in my edition..

The plan, however, is carried out as they had hoped and each daughter bore their father a son. As time passed, the sons became the ancestors of the Bene-ammon and Moabites.

The Artist Cogitating on Time

2011-03-12T18:32:00.006-05:00

Past years and memories seem continually to be leading me to explore the streets, people and places in my youth. I think about my earliest days as a young boy with no real understanding of how or why life changes happen, like walking through the revolving doors into Gimble’s or Wanamaker’s to a wonderland of milling people, colors, sounds and perfumes. And the mystery of why my interests moved from shooting my BB gun at miniature lead soldiers to copying cartoon characters from the funny pages of the Sunday Inquirer, to collecting postage stamps and trading duplicates with my neighborhood friends.

When I think about it, it seems like life just keeps repeating itself. All that changes is people’s faces. It’s like déjà vu.

Then there was the day of my frustration, of having to wait to enter kindergarten a half year after my cousin Margaret because I missed the cut off date – I was born in October instead of September, big deal!

Well, 80 years have passed since the kindergarten days and my verbal and artistic skills have matured enabling me to create art work based on memories that keep popping up in a word or a thought, as I sit and meditate in my second floor studio in Levittown.

Recently, I put into picture form a painting which sort of includes several stations in my life, fermenting in content as these memories and thoughts came to mind. My major thrust for this composition was to do a self portrait. However, painting just a plain self portrait didn’t stimulate my current interest so, as my sketching continued, I added and played with the various elements in my composition. Then, I thought about holding and eyeballing the head of a younger me in my out stretched hand but retaining the prospects of a decent self portrait. After playing with this idea I still wasn’t satisfied, so I changed the head into a human skull. Much better, I thought. Then one thing led to another as I added some people… figures… perhaps students, or models at my old art school and then, a five-year-old me came to mind as well as other relative elements as the composition began to stir my interest. Oh yes, the violin waving amid the trio of figures is my old “Pop Goes the Weasel” fiddle. Then I dissolved the interior wall behind me and added grass and sky with clouds moving across the face of the moon to suggest the passage of time. That preacher type holding a book, standing between me and the skull must have slipped in as a necessary compositional element, painting-wise, or perhaps because of all the biblical art I have created over the years. Up in the right hand corner is my painting companion Carolyn and that’s me plinking on the mandolin I bought in a music store on Chestnut Street as a possible still life subject in a painting yet to be created, and the cat represents one of my many feline friends from my early year’s on Tenth Street. Of course I had to add some tools of the trade along with my pipe and Zippo lighter in the foreground…AND THERE! You now have a word picture of the painting.

The Violin

2009-07-07T20:16:00.005-04:00

It was in the early 1930s when I was exploring in my parents' bedroom closet where I would on occasion discover things that had been stashed away by my mother that I wasn’t supposed to see until Christmas or my birthday. This time I found a long black wooden box almost as long as I was tall. I took it out of the closet and set it down on the floor in front of me. When I opened the lid of the box, wonder of wonders, it was a musical instrument, a violin. What a wonderful treasure, I thought. Where did it come from? Why had I never seen it before? I'll have to ask Mom about my discovery.
My Mom was my confidant, someone who seemed to know everything and usually always satisfied my curiosity. She explained the violin belonged to my father, who brought it from Germany when he immigrated to America before I was born. He loved music and to sing the old German drinking songs and folk tunes, but I don’t remember that he ever played the violin, which I was sure he could if he wanted to. It seemed to me he could do anything. He was my Pop. In fact he was a man of mystery to me because we never had a real father-son talking relationship. He could fix anything, like plumbing, electrical wiring, wallpapering and all sorts of things which fascinated me. I would watch him often when he worked around the house. He had all kinds of tools and saved screws and bolts and nuts and stuff in coffee cans and jars. I admired him with amazement and admiration for all the things he knew and could do. He, however, hardly ever spoke to me while he was working but he noticed I was watching him as he worked.
My father was a patriarchal presence in our family. His word was usually the final word about everything. From childhood to puberty, when I asked Pop a question or discussed anything I would speak to him in German – he would answer in German. We never had real speaking relationship but I believe he was fond of me and he loved me, even though when I was born he hoped I would be a girl child, at least there were rumors to that effect I would hear from time to time. He never spanked me or struck me for any reason that I can remember although he was severe with my older brothers, but I never saw him lay a finger on them in anger.
On weekends or holidays, Pop would invite his friends to the house for beer and schnaps and after a few drinks Pop would break into an old German song as they sat around our kitchen table…”Ein Prosit, der Gemudlichkeit” and his buddies would chime in, which would lead into the raising of glasses and more songs from their youth in the Old Country which continue through the night into the early morning hours, with Pop conducting the group, using the index finger of each hand.
I was taken by surprise one Christmas Eve, when my Mom gave Pop a large gift package and Pop pulled out a new instrument to me, a Ziehharmonika (accordion) which brought a big grin to his face. He immediately pulled and pushed on it and fingered the dozens of buttons, then to my surprise he began playing one of his favorite German drinking songs to which everyone joined-in singing with much laughter and joy. Pop was in his glory. Yes-sireee, Pop was the original “Music-man.” He also had a strong, clear and resonant tenor voice which he exercised as a member of the Gesangverein at a local Association of Male Singers.
I’m sure my musical interests were strongly stimulated and influenced by my early childhood exposure to music. Time passed since I had discovered the violin in my parents' closet. One day, I answered the doorbell (I was allowed to answer the doorbell) but this time the bell rang and it was meant for me. I opened the door to a stranger who had a big smile on his face who after a moment spoke to me, “How would you like to play the violin, young man”? I was confused and startled, but excited. How did this stranger know about the violin? I spun around quickly to findmy mother and bring her to the door as I flustered to her the words “violin… man… door” and pulled her hand hard, to meet the visitor. After a few minutes of listening to the man, she invited him into our parlor where he explained about Professor Barrington the teacher, who would teach me to play the violin. He would even refurbish Pop’s old violin at no extra cost, all for only $2 for each lesson.
Mom looked at me as only a loving mother could look at her wide-eyed son with loving eyes and agreed that I could begin my violin lessons. I gave her a big hug and the man gave her a paper to sign. The man gave me a pat on my shiny blond head and wished me success in my coming endeavors, perhaps as a successor to the then famous Rubinoff and his violin, who was featured on Fred Allen’s weekly radio show.
Yes, that’s how it all started. I went on to play a command performance by my third grade teacher, before the entire class. The performance was a big hit with the students when I played, “Pop Goes the Weasel” and plucked my E string for the “pop.” I went on to perform for Mr. Rowe, our local Butcher Store owner who paid me with a dime and dubbed me “Rubinoff,” which was his greeting from then on whenever I came into his store.
When I was transferred to Ferguson grade school after completing grade 6A at Hartranft Elementary school, I played in the school orchestra at assemblies and special events. When I moved on to Jay Cooke Junior High, I reevaluated my career goals in favor of the visual arts and discontinued my violin lessons.
I sort of missed the violin after stopping my lessons and at times wondered what might have been had I given more time to pursuing the violin. Maybe even playing in the famous Philadelphia Orchestra...

The story of Job: What do YOU think?

2009-05-29T08:56:00.005-04:00

The Book of Job presented me with a pictorial challenge to show the story I was reading, as best I could, in one frame. I couldn’t show Job and his friends as well as the scene leading to this point showing God with Satan but I had to include Satan somehow overseeing his responsibility for Job’s cataclysmic misfortune in discussion with his friends. I had to find a way to introduce Satan’s presence. How to do this was my problem. I would have to wait on the painting’s development as it took shape. I decided to wait and see how the composition developed and take my chances. I believe an appropriate opportunity finally presented itself.
Check out the painting carefully.
The element of surprise (for me) which appeared in the epilogue to the story, is that Satan appears as one of the “Sons of God," still serving on His council of Angels. This, I believe, is the first occasion in the books of the Bible that I have found where Satan and God appear together in general discussion about a “God-fearing” earthling named Job, as God knows him. Satan then proceeds to persecute him.
Satan’s contention being that Job is not the good, kind, considerate-of-others being that God considers him to be. Further, he contends, if God had not constantly placed His protective hand around Job and his domain on earth, that he would surely be cursing God to His face.
God responds simply with a challenge to Satan: that he will place Job under Satan’s power but with the condition that he keep his hands off his person.
Then Satan leaves the presence of God and does his thing.
Soon, Job begins to receive word from many messengers that all his possessions have been destroyed, his animals have been driven away or destroyed. His houses with his entire family inside have fallen on them killing them all. Job has nothing left in the world to live for. He falls to the ground in prayer, he tears his clothes saying, “God gave and takes away, blessed be the name of God.” Festering boils cover his body and he settles into a pit of ashes having committed no sin or insult to God of which he was aware.
Job has three local friends who come to commiserate with him. Their mission is to console Job in his misery and present their reasoning for what and why these tragedies have come to him. Each friend takes his turn, including intermittent responses from Job, to explain what has happened and why, for some 30 chapters until God straightens them all out at the end of the book.
My painting was conceived basically to show Job in his distress while in discussion with his sympathetic friends. The Monotone sienna color was used to add to the somberness of the mood and finally I added the shadowed figure of Satan to show the villain who was really responsible for Job’s miseries.
Of course, God answers all the questions and reasoning presented in the long and tiresome dialogue in the book offered by Job’s friends.
I ask you, the readers of the Book of Job, to add your commentary about the blog or the painting, as part of the blog as I have presented it.

Young Girl Contemplating

2009-03-16T07:14:00.003-04:00

During the final weeks before graduation day from PMSIA (Philadelphia Museum School of Industrial Art) in 1948, Wilbert Wilkins, Ben Siegel and I found our dream come true “studio home “at Sixteenth and Sansom streets.
The studio was hidden on the top floor of a row of business buildings anchored by a luggage shop on the street floor. Our private entrance to the building was next to the shop with a stairway leading up to each floor landing. Of course, since we wanted to be on top of our world, this palatial studio was a real find and being in our youth we didn’t mind the climb to the fourth floor. We surveyed the suite consisting of four rooms and a lavatory facility. Additionally, the four walls surrounding the stairwell would provide us with gallery space where we could display our paintings. It was wonderful. Suddenly, for some unknown reason, Ben Siegel, who initiated the search for a studio, suddenly withdrew from the partnership. However, after some quick calculating, Wilbert and I decided to go ahead with the studio but at a greater expense to us, via a two way split instead of three for rental costs and expenses, but then we were used living on a shoe string within the monthly stipend we received from Uncle Sam’s GI Bill benefits for veterans. Good old Uncle Sam.
After several weeks of cleaning, sweeping, sweating and applying five gallons of battleship grey paint to all the walls, we were ready to occupy our center city studio and begin producing such art works as had not yet been seen, by the hoi polloi of our fair city.
Well, during the next two years of Bohemian living and painting like starving artists (and that is the truth), we followed the same routine, except for Sundays, when I would return to my family home in New Jersey for a decent meal. Six days a week, however, we would paint and sketch, have breakfast at Needik’s Orange Drinks store, which for our convenience was located right across the street from our studio and have a hot dog or a donut plus an orange drink (with two glasses, one for each of us), then for lunch, we feasted at Horn & Hardardt’s Automat, consisting of one order of three or four (5 cent each) vegetables ( for each of us, if we could afford it) and finally for supper back to Needik’s, for a hot dog, which we shared along with a cup of coffee. It is amazing how little food was necessary to keep the body functioning, but then, as they say, great art can be generated from an empty stomach, if you live long enough.
As days and weeks passed we had visitors, friends and would-be friends and other artists who dropped in on us to chat and commiserate on the hardships of life. One day a friend of a friend visited us with a young woman to see our work. The young woman was attractive and interested in art and artists and as we continue talking she accepted our invitation to pose for us, at least long enough that we completed several paintings including the one shown in this blog.
Then, some 40 years later, I was married and widowed; my two daughters were also married and had their own families. My older daughter, Jean, reminded me of the girl in the painting, so I gave it to her and it now hangs in her home in Levittown and time marches on . . .

Nimrod and the Tower of Babel

2009-03-07T08:11:00.007-05:00

There is one man included amongst the patriarchs in the Book of Genesis who only received recognition by name and lineage, who should (in my opinion) be given status as a Patriarch rather than, or as well as “Potentate,” (which puts him in a class below, I believe). His skills and prowess has a great hunter with a bow and arrow, was recognized, even by God.
Nimrod the Hunter, was a leader amongst men and a builder of cities, including Babel and Nineveh. He was a great-grandson of Noah but did not live up to the virtues and standards that God had found in Noah. He was a bully amongst men, took what he wanted, including women, whatever he desired because he was a big man. His mighty bow and hunting were his major interests in life. He believed in God but was (I believe) somewhat jealous of God.
Nimrod was the most powerful bowman in the land. He believed that if he shot an arrow into the clouds above, it would surely strike an angel, proof being, when the arrow returned to earth it would be stained with blood of an angel. In fact, his concept in the building of a Tower was that he could ultimately be able to reach Paradise.
At some point during the building of the tower in Babel, it is written that God with an entourage, appeared on earth to see what was happening in Babel. What he found was all the people were speaking the same language and he decided that they should speak different languages. No one then would any longer understand one another, so he sent those with similar languages in different directions to establish clans and tribes throughout the land and where they settled they were to multiply and prosper. The workers on the tower also could not understand one another and dispersed with the others. That is how the Tower of Babel got its name.

Where nymphs come from.

2009-01-31T18:33:00.005-05:00

During my first two years as a student at Tyler School of Art, the English classes in composition and creative writing became my favorite courses. I didn’t register for painting classes primarily because I wanted to concentrate on sculpture classes, which was my major area of study. However, I continued to paint in my Philadelphia studio because I was required to submit samples of my painting as well as samples of all mediums I worked with for the infamous Senior Revue by Dean Boris Blai, to show one’s proficiency in various art skills. In fact, student graduation was conditioned upon the Dean’s satisfactory revue of one’s entire portfolio submitted, which led to trepidations for some students, like a final exam.
At some point during my first year at Tyler, my Composition professor Mr. Lazarus, assigned the students an art project, to design our concept of a nymph, using any medium, any size, that would appeal to us. The class would vote on whose creation was the winner and he would award a prize.
As certain as I was that I would be the winner, the voting leaned toward another student. Never the less, the sketch that I retained in my sketch-book led me some years later to be inspired to create a painting titled, “Three Nymphs.” I didn’t have a story yet, but decided to allow the composition to evolve as the spirit moved me. I visualized the nymphs just skipping along, having a joyous romp on the sandy warm brown landscape. The girls didn’t have anything specific to do, so I put some flowers in their hands and some blossoms in their hair. They looked to me like they were planting seeds from the flowers, which led me to show one of the nymphs as being pregnant. So a story was beginning to ferment in my imagination. I added a large sun in the sky which seemed too solitary, until I added sun rays with white dots across the warm sun-filled sky. I added a distant landscape of hills and trees but the painting needed more. How did the flower seeds grow and where did nymphs come from, I thought to myself. So I painted an egg on the ground, which in my thoughts, evolve from the seed of the flower. Good idea, I decided, so I added more eggs to the landscape. But what happens to the egg? I questioned myself. It breaks open and produces a…baby… a baby nymph. Yes! But how does it evolve? From an arm surrounded by vegetation and later, a head and a body and so on. That is where nymphs come from and now I have story.
This story and painting might never have come into being if Mr. Lazarus had not been interested in exploring what his students thought nymphs looked like.

Turns Out Uncle Sam Did Want Me

2009-01-31T08:17:00.009-05:00

Back in June of 1945 I received a second letter from President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, which started with the words: "Greetings … your name has been selected to serve in the armed forces of the United States of America" …and I was to report for my physical examination on a specified date and location.I had gone through this procedure two years earlier but since I couldn’t see the big E on the eye chart I was classified 4F and sent home, unfit for duty in the Armed Forces. As far as I was aware, my eyes hadn’t improved but I reported to the armory as required, sent to a dressing room where all of us had to strip to our shorts and be processed for our physical fitness, to be a soldier. This time, and I never found out why, even though I still couldn’t see the big E on the eye chart, I received a passing grade and that same afternoon was inducted into the Army of the United States. We were then sent home and would be notified by mail as to where and when we should return for basic training. In September I received a letter to return to the armory where I and all the other recruits were bused to a local train station without any word, where, why or what was to happen to us. When we finally arrived at our destination,Fort Meade, Maryland, we were issued uniforms and assigned to barracks. For the next week we were interviewed and tested to determine how we could best be used in the armed forces.
About 100 of us were put on the train destined for Fort Indiantown Gap where we were assigned to the Third Service Command, to perform various assignments, which in my case was to maintain medical statistics in the formof charts, graphs and records. The best part of this assignment was that there were no special duties like KP, guard duty, cleaning and the like. There were still German prisoners housed here who were assigned these menial tasks and Military Police were assigned to see that they carried out their duties.Well, my statistics assignment didn’t appeal to me very much so during the next few days I walked through the camp to see what else was happening there and discovered a sign posted in front of a barracks which read, Information Education Branch. This sounded pretty interesting to me so I went in to see what was going on. I found that they had an art department and the Major, who was in charge, was looking for an artist to replace the Sergeant who was soon to be discharged. To make a long story short, Major Williams liked the portfolio of work that I brought back, after a weekend pass home, and had me transferred to his office the very next day.
During the next several weeks I worked on the second floor of the barracks painting pictures for the mess hall as well as posters and signs which were needed for various camp activities and events. During evening hours I spent time at the camp recreation center where I set up an easel and painted a self portrait. The camp newspaper photographer turned up when he heard about my self portrait, snapped a picture and a few days later I found the photograph in the camp newspaper.
Several weeks later, during off hours, I painted another portrait of myself working at my workstation. Whether or not my activities were serving oucountry I couldn’t say, but it certainly was serving me. Around Christmas time I was transferred to Amarillo Air Force Base in Texas where I was assigned to make posters and decorations

for the Stark Mad Club, which was the base entertainment center where I arranged to have a private room, where I slept as well as worked on silkscreen posters for the U.S.O. groups that entertained the troops. Of course, my work was so important that I was promoted to the rank of corporal.
I guess I should at least be thankful to FDR for sending me the “Greetings” letter and the U.S. Congress for passing the Veteran’s GI Bill, for most of my art training.

Sisera and Jael: From Bible story to canvas

2009-01-28T09:07:00.006-05:00

(The story about Sisera and Jael can be found in your Bible in Chapter 4 of the Book of Judges. )
The story relates that for 20 years the Israelites, once again, have been subjugated by the enemy, under King Jabin of Canaan. The prophetess Debora, who was a Judge of Israel, confers with General Barak, who has amassed his Israelite army and tells him, “Up! this day Yaweh has put Sisera into your power….”
Sisera, the Canaanite general was intimidated by the impending force of the Israelites but still marches against them. His forces, however, are routed and not one man escapes except for Sisera, who flees on foot to the camp of Jael, who feigns a warm greeting and invites him into her tent to rest. While Sisera is asleep she takes a tent peg and pounds it through his temple and into the ground where he dies.
The graphic description of Jael pounding a tent peg through Sisera’s head was a scene I had to put to canvas. This was indeed what I call the “crisis point" of this story and pictorially challenging for my imagination. I visualized Sisera’s face in agony and contemplated the feeling of satisfaction, or whatever, on Jael’s face, as she hammered the stake.
How to do this was my problem as an illustrator and a painter. The written words provided me with the story, but it doesn’t usually provide the setting, like what might have been in Jael’s tent. I had to create a reasonable setting inside the tent for the action that was taking place. Over the years of illustrating Bible stories I have retained memories of costumes and, when necessary, I may have to research materials that might be useful in making my paintings appear authentic, but I am not adverse to using my imagination as necessary, when developing my paintings.

Still Life with Zippo

2009-01-08T16:31:00.004-05:00

During my second year in art school and near the end of my first year in painting class, Gertrude Schell, my instructor, assigned me to arrange a still life setting that I would like to paint. I selected the items I thought I needed from a trunk full of various items in the corner of the painting studio: a table cloth, a brandy bottle, a couple of plates, a wine glass, and a chair. I arranged these on a table and called Miss Schell for her approval, which she gave.
Without further ado, I began laying out the arrangement on the largest canvas I had ever worked on, 22”x 32". A real challenge, I thought, but my teacher seemed to feel I could handle it. There was a lot of space to fill with paint but as it progressed I began to get a “feel” for it to the point I began to like what I was doing. The background, I thought to myself … how do I fit that into a still life? Paint what I see! I decided to use a space divider and show the studio wall which would take care of the rest of the background. That’s it! I’ve got it made, I said to myself….But it still needed something… interesting. It needs more thought. Right!
I added a wall and a hallway behind the divider panel. That added some depth put a chair and a throw rug in front of the far wall, that would look natural…so I put it in and added cast shadows on the floor and wall. I looked at my table and decided it looked empty. Food! What’s a plate without food, so I brought a dinner roll to the next session and gave it a place on the plate in the painting.
It sure takes a lot of thinking to put a still-life together and make it look natural, I thought to myself, so I stepped back to look at the “big picture.” I decided it needed some human interest to liven it up, so I invented earrings and a string of pearls (female element) and a pipe and Zippo lighter (male element). This human interest was good but I had to give them more purpose, suggestive purpose, so I added a door (that wasn’t there), partly ajar, and give the appearance of a soft light in the room (that wasn’t there). Pretty interesting I thought. Wonder how this might be interpreted? Then the divider panel needed something, so I added what might be a calendar. Finally, I painted my jacket and cap on the chair by the table. Done!
The painting was given a prominent spot in the end-of-year display of student work. Julius Block, a prominent Philadelphia painter who occasionally visited the classes, stopped by and I pointed out my painting to him. He smiled and nodded and appeared to be pleased, which also pleased me.

Early Inspirations: Georges Seurat

2009-01-04T12:57:00.008-05:00

My first formal exposure to Pointillism as a technique was during my early years in art school, more particularly in my art history classes, with instructor Benton Spruance, after he showed picture slides of various works of art to the class at the front of the (old) school’s auditorium.
What fascinated me about French artist, George Seurat’s technique was that the artist would develop his painting by applying small dots of two primary colors to the canvas to create a third color. For example, placing blue dots next to yellow dots would create the illusion of seeing green when viewed from a distance or placing red dots next to yellow dots would create the illusion of seeing orange, and so on.
Seurat was the creator of this technique, which may be seen most clearly in perhaps his most famous painting, “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte,” if one is interested.
Some 10 years later, after moving to Levittown from Philadelphia to start my first teaching position for the Florence Township Schools, I experimented with a Bible story painting using abstract patterns which seemed to lend themselves to the subject of a Queen of Sheba as she knelt before King Solomon. As the painting evolved, I decided to apply the pointillism technique but with linear strokes rather than dots while retaining the power of primary colors, which I felt would lend an air of femininity and flow of movement to the work.
A few years later, I retrieved an unfinished canvas of a young girl holding a mandolin which just didn’t seem to be going anywhere, artistically. I began to play with the colors by redefining them with dots of random colors. I did not use pure primary colors but mixed colors in tints that best suited the subject. It seemed like I worked for weeks developing and redeveloping the girl with color dots next to color dots, as well as the room interior and the street scene below the balcony with the “pointillist” dots of color.
Having finished my painting (“…and saw that it was good”) I had used a form of the pointillist technique but not Seurat’s guidelines in his formula of juxtaposing pure primary colors. Unfortunately, Seurat died after a short life of only 41 years, but then, who knows how his technique might have evolved had Seurat lived another 30 or 40 years? Perhaps my version might be closer to what he might have done with pointillism during his maturing years.

Early Inspirations: Gustav Mahler

2009-01-04T11:52:00.009-05:00

"Des Knaben Wunderhorn" (The Youth’s Magic Horn)

I’m not sure when I was first introduced to Mahler’s songs, which seduced me with their mournful sounds of despair and suffering. I must have been young or old enough that his music settled in the depths of my sensitive, suggestive soul, but most probably stems from about the time I began attending those memorable inspiring days in creative writing classes at Tyler School of Art.
This was an emotional time in my life, when I quit my job with the Army Signal Corps, (with no foreseeable income to speak of), an uncertain future job-wise, and then, where would I live when my parents ultimately moved to Florida, which was currently in the Perhaps it was in the creative writing classes that I looked forward to with one of my favorite English teachers, Harper Brown, who wrote his commentary about our assigned writings, with pencil, on our weekly papers. To one student, who complained that he couldn’t read the teacher's writing, Mr. Harper retorted: “If I have to decipher your writing, you will have to do the same with my written comments." More than anything I believe, was the class’ modus operandi, the relatively free give-and-take in the class, that bolstered my ego to the point that I began to emerge out of my shell and recognize that I was an entity unto myself, who also had something to say. I don’t believe anyone who has listened to the "Wunderhorn" songs of Gustav Mahler, could deny the depth of pathos in the sounds he created with words and with his music. The words, whether in German or in translation, tell the story of a foreboding hopelessness for life and the future, which led me to include the black-robed figure of the “Zeitgeist” in my illustrations (zeit = time; geist = spirit, understood meaning in German: "the spirit of the age and its society.")
Of course, it was most likely a product of Mahler's time -- mid- to late-1800s -- as well as his personal struggles with death (he lost five of his brothers and sisters to diphtheria). In addition, he struggled with self-identification that fomented his thoughts, agonies and musical sounds, all through his life. He was born a Jew and converted to Catholicism, struggling to find himself and his purpose in life. To me, this is revealed in the sounds, the music and words which I played repeatedly from my LP recordings until they became a part of my own creative aspirations to find the source of life, living and creating.

Early Inspirations: Pablo Picasso

2009-01-03T16:10:00.004-05:00

Pablo Picasso

During my senior year at Temple University’s School of Art, I took a course in creative writing with instructor, Harper Brown. It was a small class… about twelve students. We were given many writing assignments including how to develop an outline for a novel and then develop one of the chapter in the outline. Another assignment was to write a poem on any topic that was of interest to each of us. I struggled with this assignment until one day while browsing some art books in the school’s library I discovered a reproduction of Pablo Picasso’s, “Three Musicians."

What interested me as I skimmed the copy about the painting was finding he developed more than one version of it. I don’t remember any more exactly what I read, but there were two different reproductions, both of which appeared to be finished works. He painted the initial version, but not being satisfied with it took strips of colored paper and applied them to the canvas to alter the composition, who knows how many times. That wasn’t mentioned in the copy, but he could have set aside the original canvas (as a finished painting) and started a new one, the final and second version. In this painting, which hangs in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (shown below) one can make out

the parts or a silhouette of a dog under the bench where the three musicians are seated. This is what started me thinking in relation to my creative writing assignment. Picasso had brought a new dynamic (for me) to Cubism as a style, which at this time (1921), was in vogue. The style and technique fascinated me and I had the idea to make an innovative change to my poem as the idea fermented in my mind as it related to my assignment. Why not have the three musicians exchange thoughts and ideas as well as play their instruments? It could be a fun game and a challenge. Note: I have since discovered that the other version hangs in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The differences between the two paintings (are described this way on Wikipedia: “The Harlequin is located at the center of the MoMA version, while the Pierrot appears at the center of the Philadelphia version. The Harlequin plays a guitar in the MoMA [Photo]version and a violin in the Philadelphia version. A dog appears in the background of the MoMA version, but not the Philadelphia version.”

My poem, “Trio,” follows:

TRIOBy Herb Mandel

Scene I

“GREAT IS OUR MASTER. GOD MUST BE IN HIM.”
Yes, conquered the world he has, Monsieur Monk.
Good gentleman, play praises we will to him.
Play my horn I will, Monsieur Harlequin, to him.
Play, Harlequin, your guitar.
Play the notes before you, Monsieur Monk,
BlueRedYellow and more.
“But wait! We will join together, together we shall praise.
Monsieur Monk, is your concertina tuned?
Follow closely the tones We will play together.
GREAT IS OUR MASTER; he enslaves world.
Together we will praise him.
Monsieur Monk! Monsieur Harlequin! Together… One, two, and…
Neeyah-toot-squeee neeyah-toot-squeee-neeyah-WAIT!
Neeyah- toot WAIT!WAIT! WAIT!
Can you not see the tones properly before you, Monsieur Monk?
Monsieur Pierrot, It is my difficulty truly to blame, My waist-cord fouled a key.
We will try again.
OUR MASTER IS GREAT!
The tone must be so, The rhythm unique, the space plastic.
Gentlemen, this discord must be righted right.
POWERS AND TIMES ARE NOT GODS, MY FRIENDS, LET US ACKNOWLEDGE WITHOUT DESPAIR, NOT IN OUR FUTURE, BUT IN FULLNESS OF TIME.
“Let us play…”
Scene II (A new painting)
“Prices are spiraling by experts, Harlequin.”
“AGAIN, One, two, and…”
Squeee-toot-neeyah “Wait! WaitWait!”
“My notes are down-side-up, Peirrot.
There is not enough light herein.”
The light is too dark.”
“History is in the making and my dog is not here?”
“Naturally…there are now two!”
“Two?”
“Two!”
“TRUE! THE WESTERN SEAS ARE FAST INFESTING WITH CLOWNS!”
We are rapidly arming to this advantage.
Our empire shall be secure, Peirrot.
"Last night it was old. Then new this morning…tomorrow it can not be less.
“Come-Come, down put your snack, Monsieur Monk,
Monsieur Harlequin, your rosen is dusting me to sneeze.”
“Instead of reciting prayers players, play.”

Diego Rivera: artist, party animal and fan of Walt Whitman

2008-12-30T11:02:00.020-05:00

Diego Rivera

In June of 1950 a friend, Phil Wonson and I decided to take a painting trip to Mexico on a painting sabbatical, as a reward for ending our training at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Art. We scratched together enough dollars to buy a 1947 Crosley Station-wagon on a time plan, collected some snack foods for our trip along with a silent prayer to guide us on this great adventure.
After several days more or less, traveling toward Nuevo Laredo where we obtained our visa’s, and continued on our way through the border to Monterey, where we spent the night. Then the next night we stayed at a mountain inn. Before the next afternoon we finally could see Mexico City from the downhill side of the less than two car-width road we followed into the heart of the city.

"Diego's Band"

During our second day in the city we found a room in the local YMCA which cost us each about a dollar a day. It was a week before we met an old Mexican who noticed the canvases in the back of our car and directed us to the home of a woman who had just returned from a world cruise.
She, he said, was also an artist. It sounded like our prayers were providing some guidance, so we went to the woman’s house. She graciously invited us in and served us some tea and snacks. We told her we were looking for an inexpensive room, perhaps a step up from the Y. She directed us to a friend who rented rooms to tourists in her Hacienda called Casa Blanca. We shortly left our hostess, excited over the prospects of a new home base. We introduced ourselves to Conch, the owner, and she showed us a room for two with private bath, maid service and breakfast for about $10 a week. There were also some students from the University of Mexico staying there, as well as a young woman who was waiting for her husband to arrive during the next week. After he arrived he treated us royally for entertaining his wife by taking her with us on our daily painting trips.Conch also introduced us to the several students from University of Mexico who offered us tickets to Diego Rivera’s garden party, which we graciously accepted, and with much excitement … to meet this great Mexican artist. The invitation was printed on construction paper and contained a roughly drawn map to the location of the party. In any case, we made it through what was almost a jungle, no paved roads, but it was a gala happening. We parked our Crosley and joined other guests, perhaps 30 or so. A four-piece Mexican-Indian band was playing drums and flutes, with some vocal accompaniment on their part. There was a picnic table with tortillas and a pot of pickled pigs feet and Mexican beer for all to enjoy.Then I saw him. Topped off with a large sombrero, the famous Diego Rivera was surrounded by six or eight people. I joined the delegation and listened as they asked questions. The one I remember was, “Who do you think was the greatest American?” He responded, firmly without pause, “Walt Whitman.”

My original garden party invitation.

The Great Passion, Bach, Mr. Lazarus and Me

2008-12-17T08:44:00.010-05:00

Academic classes at Tyler, Temple University’s School of Art, were held in the stone mansion which at one time was the home of Stella Elkins Tyler. My English class was held on the second floor of the mansion, a room large enough to hold the 12 students in my class, with tablet armchairs and a chalk board. Our professor was Mr. Lazarus.
The curriculum called for reading stories contained in our textbook followed by class discussion of these stories and our reactions to the theme presented by the various authors.
Early in the year, Mr. Lazarus assigned the class to read a particular story and be prepared to discuss it at our next meeting. When the class met again, Mr. Lazarus opened the session with a question about the assigned reading. No one volunteered a response. He proceeded to question each student and no one had done more than skim through the story, a few had not even read the story.
Mr. Lazarus, generally a pleasant man by demeanor, with a baritone voice and, obviously, angry, responded, “If you don’t read and prepare for the class, I can not teach! Class dismissed!” He turned and walked out of the room. All the students were stunned, surprised to silence as they departed the room, embarrassed. This episode never repeated itself nor did anyone speak of it again. Classes were coming to a close for the Easter holidays and, by this time, Mr. Lazarus’ class had learned to appreciate him as an insightful and experienced teacher -- particularlywhen the class urged him to read to us -- So, when he told us of his background studies in Greek and Latin, we were impressed, though not surprised. Then in closing, he admonished us that no one could consider themselves educated if they had not read the Bible.
I had not read the Bible.
I took his words to heart and during Easter vacation picked up a copy of the Bible in a Philadelphia bookstore, and started to read. I began with Genesis and as I recall, read continuously through the chapter for the remainder of the day. It was like an adventure novel. I couldn’t put it down. I learned things that stimulated me and evoked images, ideas for stories I needed to illustrate and paint.
During the Easter vacation I sat down and made sketches. I listened to the recording of J.S.Bach’s "St. Matthew Passion." The music, the sounds, inspired me even more to illustrate the story of the last days of Christ’s Passion and crucifixion. Then I had to seek out a lumberyard that could provide me with wood panels large enough to contain my vision of the project, which I did, and took them back to my studio to begin transferring my sketches to the blocks with a brush and black ink.
I worked all day and all night to finish the nine woodcuts and make a print from each panel.
Upon returning to school I showed the prints to Rudy Staffel, my ceramics teacher, who admired the prints and suggested I show them to Bertha Von Moschzisker (which I didn’t do) … dumb mistake -- she was, at that time, Director at the Philadelphia Print Club.
Finally, in 1972 I published The Great Passion as a promotion for my church’s new organ fund.

My Brush with the Barnes Foundation

2008-11-29T21:16:00.006-05:00

Upon graduating from Philadelphia Museum School Institute of Art (now the University of The Arts) I still had a couple of years remaining on my GI Bill for schooling and, as I had planned, enrolled in the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.
This was when I first heard about the classes in Art History at the Barnes Foundation, which were free to students. All one had to do was write a letter to Dr. Barnes asking for admission, which I did. Barely a week lapsed until I received a letter from Violette deMazia scheduling me for an interview at the “Barnes”.
Miss deMazia was diminutive in stature, with dark brown hair and eyes. She was seated in the entrance hall of the building, behind a long table covered with folders and documents pertaining to applicants who had responded for admission, as I had. She was generally pleasant as she read from a folder of papers that included my application letter. She seemed to know all about my art background at PMSIA and spoke quickly with a charming French accent. I had to say little about anything. Apparently, my life was all documented in the file folder she read from. The bottom line, as she looked at me was, “Thank you for meeting with me. You will be receiving a letter from us relative to our meeting.”
I received a letter several days later with the disappointing news that my application
had been rejected for the class. Some of the students at the academy tried to console me, explaining that “they” didn’t look favorably upon commercial art people and with my four years of exposure to commercial art illustration, was probably considered less than a desirable student at the Barnes. Well, the rejection letter deserved a response which I promptly composed and posted to Dr Barnes.
I was working in a small room on the third floor of the Peale House, which was an annex for the Academy that students could use for independent projects like still life painting and sometimes, working from a model, provided by the Academy. I was working on a portrait of a young girl when I heard a rapid rumbling, clumping of footsteps stumbling on the stairway to the third floor and a voice calling my name, “Herb, Dr. Barnes is on the phone down stairs…he wants to talk with you.” This stirred the dozen or so other students round me with remarks of excitement and made room for me to get to the stairs to answer the phone call three flights down.
I picked up the phone and said, “Hello, this is Herbert Mandel.” The voice on the phone responded, “This is Dr. Barnes. I received a letter from you about attending classes at the Foundation and you received a letter of rejection.” He continued to explain that they had received many letters, etc. etc. After some back and forth discussion regarding my disappointment, he said he could not promise, but if I attended the first session next Tuesday, and there was room, it might be possible to admit me to the class.
Just think, I thought to myself, with a feeling of some elation, Dr. Barnes called me on the phone. Wow! Amazing!
The next Tuesday, I and a number of other academy students boarded the train at Suburban Station to Merion, Pa.,where the Barnes was located, to attend our first class session. Where all these people came from, I couldn’t imagine. There were about 40 or so young and older people who entered the Foundation building. We were told by an attendant, we could walk through the galleries until the class was called to meet with Miss deMazia, who would be our instructor.
What an experience. To see the walls covered with paintings large and small. Like the large Cezanne Bathers, Renoir’s Bathers, Hals, Miro, Picasso and the hundreds of works one might see in museums and coffee table editions of great art. But here, we could get up close and really enjoy the work eye to eye, nose to nose. It was breathtaking.
No one spoke to me further about future attendance to the Tuesday classes, so I continued to show up every Tuesday thereafter. Many of the students began arriving early for classes so we could browse the 30 some galleries at our leisure. Week after week we could visit with the great works of art as well as works by artists that were new to us.
Dr. Barnes, at times, when we arrived for classes, would be seated in a large antique throne-like armchair in the main gallery, greeting us with a smile, like a monarch might, as we entered. He didn’t take part in the class sessions but when he was there we seemed to feel his presence. At times, he would come to the class to tell us something about letters he received from students and art critics who were not totally in agreement with his philosophy about art and would pass out copies of his responses to them. Well, one can’t please everyone and I think Dr. Barnes sort of enjoyed responding to his critics in letter form and informing them and his public that he is not one to be trifled with.

Still Life With Pewter Vase

2008-11-27T13:40:00.007-05:00

It was in the spring of 1951 in the studio that Tom McComas, George Gansworth and I had acquired, on the third floor, above the busy street level stores on both sides of Walnut Street, between Eleventh and Twelfth Streets, in Philly. This was to become our headquarters for the next several years and we dubbed it MGM Associates. That is what we pasted on the mailbox in the first floor entryway. We spent several months sanding the oily old wood plank flooring until we felt it was acceptably tolerable. We painted the walls with a water based gray paint using a rollerbrush with a long-handled stick, a job which we took turns sharing to complete this un-artistic and laborious activity.
We then proceeded to ply our carpentry skills to build two three-sided cubicles for Tom and George, which allowed for a hallway (and a potential gallery to display our art work) as one passed the two cubicles, from the front entry door to the end (fire exit) wall of the studio. The remaining space from the two cubicles to the fire exit end of the studio would be my area, because I was the
painter (and we might need space for a model or two) to help us maintain our artistic skills. Tom and George, at this time, were collaborating on a cartoon strip titled, “AC/DC”, so they only needed a drawing table each, plus a supply table-cabinet.
Actually, all three of us had attended the same art school, Philadelphia Museum School of Industrial Art (now known as the University of the Arts) and were basically interested in drawing and painting, but I was the only one that was pursuing painting seriously. At this time, I was also a student at Temple University’s Tyler School of Art, where I was majoring in Sculpture and Art Education. We shared the larger area when we weren’t working on our individual projects and one day Tom brought to the studio an old deformed, pewter vase. He said I might want to use in the still life painting I was arranging.
We had been collecting a variety of bottles and other glassware from our friends at Quaker Storage Company, as well as my old mandolin, so I had already set up a still life arrangement of sorts. The Pewter lamp, however, seemed to appeal to me so I rearranged my still life setting by adding the lamp. Much better, I thought.
After working on my painting for about a week, it looked pretty good and my friends also agreed I had completed a worthy painting.

Old dog quite the publicity hound

2008-11-25T08:47:00.012-05:00

If you didn't pick up a copy of the November 24 Sunday Bucks County Courier Times, here's your chance to see what all the hubbub is about. Features writer Gwen Shrift wrote a great article highlighting my work, photographer Bill Fraser captured my chiseled features and graphic
designer Tom Raski gave me a big visual splash.

Not getting older...

2008-07-08T10:15:00.007-04:00

Just getting better looking!

Sentimental Journey

2006-12-14T12:50:00.004-05:00

After penning my boyhood adventures, I got to feeling nostalgic enough to plan a trip to my old neighborhood. My friend Carolyn and I decided a photo trip was in order. We left from Levittown and drove from Route 1 down Rising Sun Avenue to Germantown Avenue. We continued on Germantown Avenue and approached Lehigh Avenue looking for familiar landmarks. The Sunday traffic of cars and people was sparse, as we had hoped. Looking from left to right all we noticed were the boarded fronts of stores revealing weather-worn wooden trim where once stood my favorite shopping center filled with joyous noises, now stagnant and unsightly around us. I could only guess where Grant’s and Woolworth’s 5 and 10 cent stores might have been, once bustling with shoppers.
Kramer’s Green Grocer shop and the Banana Man were gone -- not an echo, only a haunting memory now prevailed. As we turned onto 10th Street, I saw the boarded-up storefront which once was my Hobby Shop with train and plane models filling the window. I had an empty feeling in my stomach as we continued down the street where I lived, passing the worn and decaying three-stories-high row houses with intermittent spaces where each house majestically clung to the next like guardians of a better time, a better world.
We passed several cross streets until we reached Dauphin Street and I again felt queasy as I stared at the corner where Rowe’s Butcher Shop once stood, replaced by a brick building which was identified by a sign, Ebenezer Baptist Church Annex. It was seamed to the granite edifice of the old First Baptist Church, where my friend Bob Young and I played while his foster-parent custodian cleaned and polished the church contents.
Next, again abutting the church, was the house where my cousins, Margaret and Eric, lived. It was still in reasonable condition all these 70 years since I roamed the streets. This series of houses continued, although in need of maintenance and interrupted by intermittent spaces where they succumbed to a trash filled empty lot.
Then I saw the remnants of Foehl’s garage, which I recognized by the big bay window on the second floor. The garage entrance was protectively closed with a corrugated vertical door, secured with several pad locks. Then came the one-time candy store, all boarded closed, where I once had my own charge account and bought Kayo chocolate soda in a bottle. Next in line came the Birkenstock sisters’ house, still in use. I recognized the window which framed the sisters as they watched their world pass by, and the The Millers' place, where Arthur and Emily, brother and sister, enjoyed a relatively secluded life.
My house came next, and for some reason, displayed the house numbers, 2225, in shining gold, where once they where painted gold. I wondered … were they perhaps expecting me? Then I looked across the street at Colona Street, my boyhood playground. The gas lamp was gone. On the other side of the street, French’s Mustard factory was gone. Just a big empty lot replaced where I once had an adventure with a mouse. I so wanted to see the factory.
We continued driving down to Susquehanna Avenue and were confronted by what used to be Ritter’s pretzel factory. Shrouded in shadow, it still stood, only the big pretzel sign on the corner of the building had been removed. Only dark brown bricks remained where the sign used to be. The first story was painted with grass-green paint and was all boarded up to deter vandalism. The windows on the upper floors were broken, here and there, and I assumed it had been many years since the aroma of baking pretzels had made its way through the neighborhood.
Moe’s Barber Shop was on the opposite corner but no longer was it a place for cutting hair, although it still appeared to be in some kind of service to the residents. Diagonally across from the barber shop was where the drug store used to be, where I learned about the baker’s dozen in the bowl of ice cream I carried back to my house on summer evenings. Now it was providing Chinese-American food for take out.
The last house on my side of the street across from the drug store was the Zernkilton’s house that had a concrete rectangular enclosed stairway with a banister leading to the front door. They must have been wealthy, and I never got to know them. They even had a liveried Chauffeur and a big limousine to take them whereever they had to go. The house now looked less cared for but still in use.
We turned the corner at Susquehanna Street. I saw the railroad overpass and looked for the boarded store where I saw the “Sportsmen” playing craps on the front steps, but it was gone. The houses all the way to 11th Street were also gone. Just a big weedy empty lot remains today. We continued on toward Broad Street to see the Presbyterian Church where I attended Boy Scout meetings every Friday night, but the street was blocked, so we turned north on Broad Street to Lehigh Avenue and located the factory where my father spent most of his years pressing trousers until he retired, at McCransky’s clothing factory. We then turned east on Lehigh Avenue and looked at the housing until we crossed Germantown Avenue where I saw the gray granite spires of the German Lutheran Kreutz Kiriche (Church of the Cross) which still seemed to be active but weather worn. This is where I attended Confirmation classes with my 10th Street cousins. Two blocks further on I spotted the dark gray front of the building tower of my old high school which, it appeared, was now some sort of alternative school.
It’s really heart breaking to see what once was -- and will never be again -- the joyful haunts of my youth, now relegated to the vivid memories as they play over again and again in my heart and mind.

You Gotta Believe

2006-12-13T12:55:00.001-05:00

The Easter Bunny and Santa Claus both were real live bearers of gifts, to believers like me, visitors that I anticipated every year to bring joy to my heart. Easter Sunday is when the egg-toting bunny would mysteriously arrive sometime between bedtime and dawn, but I had to prepare a special space for his gifts in my backyard. My brothers helped by cutting tongue depressor like sticks, which I used to make a little nest in the yard, a rectangle of pickets about one-foot square, which I filled with shredded paper straw for the Bunny to leave eggs and candy of all sorts.
The little nest was constructed on Saturday evening before my bedtime. No one knew exactly when the Easter Bunny would arrive, so as soon as dawn's early light appeared, I would run to my brothers' room at the back of the house overlooking my yard, to see if the little garden was filled with goodies or, better yet, see the Bunny make his delivery. It seems I ran from my room to the back room window at least half a dozen times before I exclaimed, "The Bunny was here." Oh joy! I ran down the stairs in my pajamas shouting with excitement, "The Easter Bunny was here." I ran out the kitchen door with eyes wide open, while everyone encouraged me on to see the garden I had prepared. Usually it contained a big chocolate bunny, hard boiled eggs and an assortment of candy. Well, I missed the Bunny but he was probably rushed to visit all the gardens he had to fill. Maybe I would see him next year. Looking back, I understand the true gift -- of childhood wonder -- given to me by my dear family, who believed in the importance of these traditions as much as I believed in the magic of holiday visits from generous benefactor who continue to loom, larger than life, in my memory.

Oh, Dem Golden Memories...

2006-12-02T19:56:00.003-05:00

(Pictured, my rendition of a Mummer and a typical modern-day Mummer in full regalia).

A major event that was popular with youngsters and adults alike continues today in center city Philadelphia, the New Year's Day Mummers Parade. It has become bigger and louder each year with more string bands and giant helium-filled balloon characters from cartoon characters to prehistoric animals looming three and four stories above the crowds. The string bands would start their performance on south Broad Street in South Philly with intermittent comic groups and clowns, parade around City Hall where the judges watched from bleacher stands to ultimately award prizes to various groups, continuing north on Broad Street into North Philly before they dispersed. We kids would follow the parade of bands, giant balloons, clowns and comics all the way by weaving in and out of the mobs of people who came to watch this once-a-year extravaganza.
Preparations for the next year's parade usually began on January 2 each year to begin designing costumes, making costumes, selecting a theme, choosing appropriate music and rehearsing, in secret of course, because no one wanted another group to come up with the same ideas. Thousands of dollars were spent designing and making costumes and the ultimate prizes awarded did not nearly cover the costs. To this day, it is the thrill and joy of doing and performing that makes it all worthwhile to scores of Mummers who continue to carry on the tradition just to please the crowd come New Year's Day.

Herbie, the Holiday Entrepreneur

2006-11-29T10:21:00.003-05:00

Christmas 1930 was one of my most memorable days, so far as Santa Claus and gifts are concerned. Just why he decided to bring me my own store with a savings bank cash register and supplies to sell to guests who happened to visit during the Christmas season, I still haven't figured out, but it was a big hit with the visitors. It might have been because I had reached that magic age of 5 years.
The Christmas tree was set up as usual in the corner of the living room. The witch's house and Hansel and Gretal were in their usual spot in front of the candy, cake and icing decorated house. My three-masted sailboat was there and my set of Lionel trains surrounded everything. Right next to all this was the cardboard store with merchandise on the counter already in place, ready for the proprietor to step in behind the counter. Cost for items was whatever coins customers wanted to pay and deposit in my cash register bank. Mom cooked up hot dogs as need demanded and I put them on a roll and handed them out ... a good working relationship.Yes sir, Christmas was the greatest day in the year.

How Did Santa Know?

2006-11-27T21:35:00.002-05:00

Christmas and Santa Claus were synonymous to me -- the idea of Santa Claus was nurtured in my family, when it was appropriate, all year long. Every year Gimbel's department store would be a stopping place for Santa to visit with expectant youngsters, including myself, to let him know our wishes for Christmas.
Santa was enthroned on a big red-and-gold armchair on a high platform with a long ramp leading up from the floor where all the kids and parents waited their turn. My mother watched as Santa talked with me, then directed me to a long metal shoot at the exit ramp where there would be a present for me. Of course, I was excited with anticipation and happy to visit with Santa and watched as a gift wrapped package slid down the shoot and into my arms. I ran over to my mother and we both left the store to go home.

Once home I put the package down and just stared at it knowing my mother was watching me. Then she said I could open the package, that I didn't have to wait for Christmas. I ripped open the paper, opened the box and found three little sailboats, one yellow, one red and one blue. I looked up at my mother and said, "Can I try them in the bath tub?" She nodded and I took the boats up the stairs to the bathroom, filled the tub with water and launched the boats. I yelled down the stairs with great excitement, They work!" How did Santa know I liked sailboats? I wondered.

Santa Claus and Uncle Sabastian Fueled My Imagination

2006-11-26T15:17:00.003-05:00

I really believed there was a Santa Claus well into my elementary school years and challenged other kids who were nonbelievers. One Christmas Eve, Santa actually came into my house through the front door with a great big bag of presents for me and my family. He was an imposing figure just like the pictures I had seen on posters. He even challenged me, speaking in German, asking whether I had been a good boy, as he waved a long whipping stick in one hand. I was speechless. Everyone watched as he questioned me. Satisfied I had been a good boy most of the year, he opened the big bag he was carrying and passed out gifts to everyone. Boy, was I relieved.
When he had given gifts to everyone, he wished us a Froeliches Weinachten and left the house the way he came in. I hadn't missed my uncle Sebastian until he walked in from the back of the house, looking surprised by all the excitement, and having missed Santa's visit, so I related in detail all about what happened while he was gone. He claimed to have been in the cellar and no one told him what was happening upstairs. He smiled with glee at my enthusiasm as the whole family participated in exploiting the visit.
This was a childhood experience that most children are missing today that cannot be replaced, that I believe has helped stimulate my imagination, one I will continue to cherish all my life.

Squeezing the Most From Good Times, a Dollar

2006-11-23T12:28:00.003-05:00

Usually, right after Thanksgiving the seasonal entrepreneurs would establish their Christmas tree sale sites at almost every other corner in our neighborhood. The corner at Ritter's pretzel factory was a desirable location to set up shop. Evergreens were stashed all along the factory from the railroad trestle coursing over Susquehanna Street to the entrance of Ritter's factory and along the curb, held up with ropes tied between utility poles. The sweet scent of pine trees filled our nostrils as we inspected the pines for the most desirable tree to grace our living room during the Christmas season.
My father and I bought one of the trees and brought it home where he removed some branches and located them in a more desirable place on the tree by drilling a hole in the trunk and inserting it to fill out empty spaces. Then he filled a bucket with sand and implanted the tree in the bucket with wooden supports. This allowed him to water the tree daily and maintain a relative freshness for months past Christmas until the needles began to cover the display under the tree and the branches began to curl down like a weeping willow. This all made Christmas a memorable event and the dollar he paid for the tree made it all worthwhile. It was all about making good things last, almost to the Easter season at our house, and I could play with my trains every day and pick candy icing from the witch's gingerbread house under the tree. In those days we made a dollar last until it was all used up.

Dreaming Boyhood Dreams of a Great Christmas

2006-11-22T11:39:00.003-05:00

It seemed to me that during the weeks before Christmas Eve mysterious things happened around my house. Boxes and packages brought home from my mother's shopping trips remained unopened and put away in closets and cabinets. Mom would be spending more time baking cookies and storing them in those big tin cans that had given up their original contents to weekend parties.
My uncle Sebastian was down in the cellar building a three-masted sailing ship and a large object that was not yet identifiable to me. No one seemed to know what these activities foretold, yet it was December and Santa Claus was soon to make his annual rounds. My imagination conjured up possibilities, but no one was interested in answering my questions about what was happening in my house. I would periodically check on my uncle and his project in the cellar, which excited me. At this point he was fitting metal bars into the hull of the ship so it wouldn't fall over in the water. I also discovered the other project was on its way to becoming an airplane with control levers in the cockpit to move the parts on the wings. I welled up with excitement at the thought: will these become gifts for little me, or what? I contained myself and dreamed of the prospect that this was going to be a great Christmas for me.

Mom's Last Present to Me

2006-11-20T20:07:00.002-05:00

The year was 1938 and my mother had been sick for many months. She wasn't herself, as I knew her. No one told me how sick she really was. In her last month she was pretty much confined to her bed when I visited and talked with her. She was receiving radium treatments and her mind would wander and sometimes hallucinate. Once, she pointed to the ceiling and asked, "Do you know what that is? That's electricity." Then she said, "Do you know how to pray?" I nodded my head and she continued, "Pray for me." Then she smiled and said, "I have a Christmas present for you. It's in the closet, but you can't have it until Christmas." Even in her sickness and pain, she thought about me and Christmas. She smiled at me and she was the Mom I always knew. We played with the idea that maybe I could just look. She finally gave in and I scrambled to the closet, opened the door and found a big box with a lid. I pulled off the lid and there were more than a dozen 12-inch tall plastic soldiers with guns and swords, wearing red jackets and big black bear skin hats, that British soldiers wear. I exploded with joy and my mother just smiled at me. She must have known she would not be with us Christmas Eve to enjoy this moment with me and the family around the Christmas tree.
I put the soldiers back in the box and thanked her for everything.

How I Earned My Junior Street Pilot Wings

2006-11-20T09:15:00.002-05:00

It was early in December when we had a wet, cold day in Philadelphia that turned into sleet which covered everything with a layer of ice as the night approached. As daylight faded, street lights came on and night shadows hid everything -- except the sparkling sprinkle of ice on the cobblestone street -- perfect soon enough for running a sled, non-stop, from my house all the way to Susquehanna Street. The trolley tracks would become a runway for me and my sled. I pulled on my pilot's cap with aviator goggles, my bulky winter jacket, took my sled in hand and carefully worked my way to the middle of the trolley tracks. All traffic was at a standstill as I made a careful run over the icy cobblestones, dropped my sled and flopped on it. We were a unit of one as we shot down the middle of the street. Wow! It was exciting as we accelerated over the ice-slick surface. Sleet spotted my goggles and bounced from my leather helmet as we reached Susquehanna Street and finally came to a stop on the other side. I got up exhilarated and pulled my sled back up 10th Street to the starting point in front of my house. A couple of other daredevils were there and we all started driving our sleds down the street.
It was hours later after several route 23 trolleys trundled past and a dozen or more sled riders joined me down the middle of the trolley tracks that I wearied enough to call it a night. My goggles were covered and my jacket were coated with a layer of ice. It was a beautiful night, silent except for the sizzle of sleet on the street and pavement as I opened my front door and entered, looking like an Eskimo returning from a trip to the North Pole.
City streets no longer afford kids this kind of wintertime adventure. Too much motor traffic and street department sanding and salting the streets has spoiled ice sledding. Too bad.

Snow Wars: Our Own Winter Wonderland

2006-11-19T13:01:00.002-05:00

As kids, we all looked forward to the first snow for several reasons. First, so we could romp through it, especially if it started while we were still in class at school. There were no buses to pick us up and take us home early, as they do nowadays. Second, if the snow started overnight and was too deep to get through, it was likely our moms would let us stay home for the day, since there were no radio announcements saying schools were open or closed. Third, if the snow was heavy -- and too heavy to walk to school in the morning -- we usually boiled the day down to snowball fights, from one side of the street to the other with a periodic truce to pummel the street cars as they made their way down streets. And of course, after they passed we went right back to pummeling one another using the snow piled on the sidewalks as a defensive barrier.
We were all friends, but everyone became a legitimate target. If the snow was too light to create natural barriers we would shovel the sidewalk snow higher along the curb in front of our houses. City snows made natural barriers along the curb, which automatically called for a state or war to exist with a throw-and-hide battlefield to and from school. Winter days, with sleet and snow, were probably invented for kids, at least when I was a kid.

Dipping Into Ice Cream Not Good for Business

2006-11-16T18:47:00.002-05:00

The Depression years were difficult for much of the American population. My father, a trained-in-Germany machinist, chose to work as a pants presser in a clothing factory because it paid more in hourly wages, and he continued to press pants even after the start of World War II. He was a hard worker and piece work rates provided him with an income which enabled him to lease an empty store on the corner of Dauphin and Delhi Streets, in which he opened a restaurant. This also happened to be one of my favorite street hang-out spots with my school friends. My Mom, of course, was a great cook and baker so she ran the restaurant which was surrounded by factories filled with plenty of workers who needed a place to eat. That, naturally, was the reason for placing the restaurant at that location.

The important side benefit for all this was that I could serve myself with ice cream cones whenever I wanted one. This privilege lasted only about a year before my father decided expenses exceeded the profits or at least the profits were not worth the time and effort of running a business, so we closed the store and relied on the satisfactory income from my father's primary job as a pants presser. In reflection, it may be that I had too many ice cream cones which helped reduce the restaurant profits.

Little Drumstick Boy

2006-11-14T08:20:00.002-05:00

My mother was a No.1 cook and baker. Our everyday meals were the best because my father believed the dinner table should consist of a meat dish, like pot roast or a solid meat loaf or a pork roast, with plenty of boiled potatoes and lots of gravy and vegetables. He liked big meals and the family reaped the rewards. The Depression years did not interfere with our dinner menu; it was always appetizing and plentiful.
However, at special dinners, such as Thanksgiving, there was always a big turkey with all the trimmings including sweet potatoes, creamed spinach, carrots and all the things that made it a memorable occasion. For as far back as I can remember, the most meaningful and tasty part of the turkey was the drumstick. It became a ritual that I was served the drumstick and as I grew older, the second joint was included with the drum stick and I loved it; that, along with potatoes and gravy, was all I needed. I always left the table with a full stomach and a happy grin on my face, which seemed to make everyone else at the table happy. Well, I was the baby in the family and making me happy was the family goal. Yes, I was obviously somewhat spoiled, but what else was I to do but enjoy my special position in the family?

Shave and a Haircut -- and Lollipop to Boot

2006-11-12T16:44:00.002-05:00

When I was a young boy, the barber shop was a place frequented just a few times a year, primarily in preparation for special occasions or major holidays including Christmas, Easter and weddings.
Grown-ups would visit the barber shop more often and the day of choice at Moe's Barber Shop was usually Saturday. Moe's was just down the street from my house. I still remember the unrest among grown-ups while I was in the barber chair one Saturday, men complaining to one another when several boys came in for their hair cuts. "Why do these kids have to come in on Saturdays?" They would say. "We work all week and only have Saturdays to get a trim or a shave. The kids can come in any day and we have to wait for them. It's not right."
Well, kids had to pay as much for a haircut as the adults, but we always got a lollipop when we paid the barber our quarter.
I believe they were just angry at kids. The men came to the shop primarily to talk politics or baseball or to tell jokes (not appropriate for children's ears). But we kids didn't care because we had nice smelly stuff sprinkled in our hair and we got a lollipop to boot. As far as we were concerned it was one of those things our moms required of us every once in a while, and we didn't mind.

Pretzel Benders Going Through the Motions

2006-11-05T15:08:00.003-05:00

Ritter's pretzel factory was located on the corner of 10th Street and Susquehanna Avenue. It seems pretzels were to be a learning experience in my life, from selling soft pretzels to eating Ritter's pretzels with ice cream on Sunday nights. On this particular day, I would see how Ritter's recruited their pretzel factory workers. Jobs were difficult to come by in the early 1930s, so when Ritter's advertised they were interested in hiring workers, I watched men line up in front of the factory, eager to obtain employment with a regular paycheck, whatever they paid and whatever the work.
They lined up all around the front of the factory from the office entrance on 10th Street and around the corner on Susquehanna Avenue waiting to be selected. A man in a straw hat walked down the metal stairway holding a bundle of twine in one hand and selected a half-dozen individuals by handing each one a length of twine and instructed them to practice forming a pretzel on the sidewalk with the twine. They were to hold the twine, one end in each hand, twirl it into a loop and finish by closing the loop into the form of a pretzel. He watched them, noting their skill and general performance. This test continued until all who wanted to try it had their chance. Then he led those he selected up the stairway and dismissed the rest of the men. About two dozen men were selected and, I assume, had another test with real pretzel dough. That was the only time I saw employment candidates line up at Ritter's factory, so I assume they hired their quota of Pretzel Benders, as we called them, and life on 10th Street continued as normal again. As an afterthought, there were no women in the line-up for jobs. In those days women stayed home and took pride in their jobs as housewives until World War II, when women became welders and laborers of all kinds, which may be why we now have problems with children who hardly ever see both parents at home during the week to develop their family relations. Is that good or bad?

Movie Day: All That and a Bag of Donuts

2006-11-02T17:47:00.002-05:00

The Diamond Theater was located at Germantown Avenue and Diamond Street in north Philly. The movie theater was one of several movie houses we frequented for Saturday matinees where we could spend about five hours watching a main feature film, several short features such as Laurel and Hardy films, several cartoons like "Popeye the Sailor," "Bugs Bunny" and "Betty Boop," as well as one or two episodes of "Flash Gordon" or "Buck Rogers" and coming attractions.
They had nickel machines in the lobby to buy boxes of chocolate-coated raisins, gum drops and licorice drops. But the real reason for attending the Diamond Theater was Dawn Donuts. The bakery where they made the donuts was just across the street with a large picture window where one could watch the golden brown donuts drop from a conveyor belt into a large box at eye level, warm and ready to eat right from the oven. The best part of all was that some of the donuts would break as they dropped from the belt into the box. One could plop a nickel on the store counter and order a bag full of broken donuts. Along with a box or two of candy, the donuts would keep us happy through the entire performance in an "ice cooled" air conditioned theater. All this for a 10-cent admission fee and the additional cost of donuts and candy. Boy, what a life. Who said the Depression years were hard times?

Cold Winter Nights Gave Me Goose Feathers

2006-10-31T11:20:00.002-05:00

I can still remember that Philadelphia used to get very cold in the winter time when I was a kid. It was so cold one night on our way home from visiting friends of my father that he was absolutely silent during our trek home, and it appeared he almost froze his hands carrying two shopping bags full of baked goods, which our friends always sent home with us.
When we arrived home I went straight to bed. However, my mother pulled down the big feather bed from the hall closet and put it over top of my blankets. It was about 5-feet square and about a foot thick, stuffed full of goose down. I crawled deep under the feather bed where I soon felt toasty warm. This was an item my parents brought with them when they emigrated from Germany. I looked forward to whenever the temperature dropped to the zero level and this was one of those nights. Since there was no weather channel on the radio to warn us, there were times Mom would come into my room after bed time and spread the feather bed over me while I was asleep.
I certainly remember the big feather bed, but it seemed to disappear over the years from neglect or non-use because after our oil burner was installed, the house was warm as toast all through the winter months. If things got extra cold I could always trundle into my parents room and squeeze next to my mother, who always made room for me, at least until I reached school age.

Buck Buck, a Game of Endurance and Big Fun

2006-10-26T14:36:00.002-04:00

Evenings were when we kids collected on Delhi Street to play games, chalk draw in the street and generally mix under the overhead lamp across from Whitman's candy factory. There were usually enough kids around, about 10 to 15, to play a favorite game called, "Buck Buck."
The game required that one individual would stand against the factory wall as the captain, to hold the rest of the team as they lined up in front of him, each one holding the other around the waist with head down and back hunched over to make a horse-like arrangement. They would prepare themselves for the jumpers who would line up across the street and yell, "Buck Buck, number one is coming," and with a running start, jump as far forward on the lineup of backs without falling off. This continued with the entire jumping team. Each jumper added weight to the lineup until there was no more room or the lineup collapsed. If the lineup collapsed, they lost the game. This is what usually happened, and the teams traded places and the whole process started over until we were all worn out from the effort.

Bedroom Pilot

2006-10-24T11:16:00.002-04:00

I knew the Red Baron was out there, probably hiding behind those clouds somewhere, as I searched through my aperture of struts at the window in front of me. He knew he wouldn't have a chance with my self-designed rocket ship and all my secret weapons. The infrastructure was my folding desk chair which, when I opened it upside down on my bed and threw my blanket over it and climbed inside, became a super-jet rocket ship that was invincible against any opponents. My imagination went wild Saturday mornings before I had to report to the kitchen for breakfast. Searching the outside world from inside my bedroom rocket ship was a thriller for me. Even Blackie, my faithful feline companion would sometimes work her way aboard my ship before we took off and became my stalwart copilot. Blackie saw him first, my nemesis, the Red Baron as we maneuvered our ship for a kill-or-be-killed battle. Suddenly, my interstellar radio broke the silence of our impending dogfight, "Herbert, are you ready for breakfast?"
I knew we wouldn't have time for the ultimate showdown as the Baron turned tail before we could cross ray guns with one another, because I had to return to base for mess duty.
A young boy's bedroom could be the source of endless make believe and fantasies. Too bad the real world has to interfere with the best of all possible times.

Dr. Herb's Poison Ivy Remedy

2006-10-23T08:13:00.003-04:00

Every summer I spent many weekends at Pennypack Park swimming, playing and enjoying myself. The only drawback: I was allergic to poison ivy and the park grew it like a farm. I learned to live with the ivy and the occasional blotches I developed while running through brush and grass areas. It took about 10 days to dry up and fade before new areas developed, which I helped by puncturing the little blisters, squeezing out the itchy fluid, dabbing it with toilet tissues and finally pulling the scabs off.
When my parents moved to a new house in Oaklyn, NJ, the backyard was overgrown with weeds and hidden in it was my nemesis, poison ivy. I was assigned the job of clearing the yard so we could grow tomatoes and berries and other items. I worked like a Trojan oblivious to the poison tainted plants. A few days later, the telltale pimply rash and blisters developed from the tips of my fingers to my arm pits as well as on my legs. It was the worst case of poison ivy I had ever picked up. It continued for days to mature and the itching was driving me crazy, so my father took me to see the doctor for help. The doctor took one look and said, "Don't come any closer." He administered a large dose of penicillin and dismissed me. Of course, I had learned about dealing with poison ivy from early on, though never this sever, but I resolved to do my thing. I took a bottle of Lysol from the closet, shook it up and with the cork end loaded with the thick molasses like syrup, dabbed every itchy spot on my body. It burned as I applied my medicine but it overpowered the itching. Over the next few days, continued applications of Lysol dried the infestation and I could begin peeling the layers from my arms and other places until I had achieved cure.
I recommend my cure to anyone who has an itch they can't scratch, because it will only spread. It burns but it feels like you are killing the enemy.

Herbie "Saddle Sores" Mandel Rides Again

2006-10-19T11:03:00.002-04:00

Cowboys and Indians, I believe, were the most popular characters imitated by kids in my 1930s neighborhood. Cowboy and Indian costumes were popular for Halloween and they sold cap pistols for single and two holster belts along with bows and arrows the year round. Billy Foehl had a big 10-gallon hat which he wore with his Halloween cowboy outfit. We would also play Hide and Seek with our cap pistols except when it snowed, then we used snowballs.
The only accessory we missed was a horse. But as fate would have it, one day a man walked down 10th Street leading a beautiful long tailed pony and showed him off to the kids, who naturally gathered round. I could see myself sitting on the pony, in the saddle of a real horse. The man, of course, was looking for customersm kids who had dreams like me, sitting on a real horse, to photograph sitting on the pony.
I ran, top speed, to my house where I convinced my Mom a picture of me sitting on Blackie, the pony, was the right thing to do. I approached the pony man to take my picture. He smiled and helped seat me on the saddle. It seemed a long way to the ground from the saddle and I began to feel tremors of fear as I held tightly to the saddle horn and couldn't even smile as he snapped the picture. Inside, I felt the world was my oyster, like I was Tom Mix, the movie star cowboy, and all my friends looked enviously as I sat in the saddle.
I'll bet there are thousands of family albums with pictures of the little darling sitting on a pony, but none as confident as me, that my photo would forever reflect my true self, my inner cowboy.

DJ Herb: Cranking Out the Hits

2006-10-17T08:13:00.002-04:00

Saturday nights frequently were a time for having friends and relatives over to my house to celebrate joie de vivre. The beer was on tap in the cellar and my father would have a sing fest in the kitchen with his friends to harmonize the old German drinking and folk songs, with a bottle of homemade schnapps. My mother prepared sandwiches and other tidbits for everyone to munch, set out on the dining room table. As the evening progressed singing and dancing became the main event and I was always assigned the duty of music maker with the family RCA Victor record player in the living room. I slid on the records and kept the springs wound tight so the music was always on the beat. My brothers and their girl friends spent most of the time dancing and occasionally sang along with the songs like, "Red Sails in the Sunset," and "Million Dollar Baby," but I kept up playing the Victrola to keep everyone moving.
Of course, cigarette smoking was the rage for men and women, so I was also assigned the duty of keeping the ash trays empty and clean as they filled up with ashes and butts. Our living room was large for a row house due to my father's expert carpentry skills, but for wild dancing movements, two or three couples was usually the floor limit. Once in a while I was permitted to twirl the lights fantastic with my cousin Else, who was a tall golden blond and quite attractive, even to me. It was a fun and memorable time for me, and I looked forward to these events as I grew older in our friendly loving family gatherings.

Color Me Happy: Mom Made Halloween Dreams Come True

2006-10-15T15:19:00.002-04:00

The week before Halloween filled the local stores with all the trappings of the coming event. Costumes, masks and related paraphernalia could be found in all the stores in the area and kids would begin coaxing their moms to buy whatever they fancied in their percolating little minds, from dancing ballerinas to skeletons and clown costumes -- notions which changed each day after conferencing with their friends about how they would prepare themselves for Halloween.
Just as today, the cost of these trappings was high (for the times), so many parents would design makeshift costumes from old clothes and paint the little darlings with makeup tools such as rouge, eye liner and Mercurochrome. After all, it was a night when witches and goblins of every variety would be making their annual showing to frighten or make kids laugh as they pushed their shopping bags through the neighborhood from door-to-door for a trick-or-treat.
I had my eyes on a particular scary and mean-looking Indian mask and convinced my mother that it was meant for me. On the day before Halloween Eve, she gave me a dime to buy it and I went to the store and bought it. I was happy and that night I took the mask to my bedroom and went to bed. I imagined all sorts of things, like wandering ghosts and goblins roaming outside my bedroom window, and decided to wear the mask to scare them away before I finally went to sleep. "They can't get me now," I thought, until I awoke next morning as the sun shone through my window. I made it, I thought to myself, as I recovered my mask from under the covers ... all mashed and cracked. My Mom smiled as I held out my mask to show her, tears rolling down my cheeks. She comforted me.
"Don't worry, " she said, "I'll paint your face like an Indian and no one will know who you are," and she did.
Mom always knew how to solve my childhood problems to make me happy again.

Tales of the Untold: I Was a Coal Miner's Son

2006-10-14T17:45:00.002-04:00

It may not sound very exciting or much fun, but throughout the fall and winter months, when our coal furnace was in operation at my house in Philly, my father and I would shovel the coal ashes from the furnace into a large galvanized pail and carefully cull the partially burned and unburned coals and toss them into a bucket, which would later be recycled in the furnace. Coal in those days was relatively expensive considering the furnace was fired up everyday, all day, all winter long. So, most home owners would, to cut costs for coal, recycle unburned coal. Our house was big for a row house, eight rooms plus a bathroom and a cellar that ran the whole length of the house from sidewalk to back yard.
Gleaning coal ashes was a standard practice throughout the city. We didn't have a fireplace, only a mantle with a simulated fire place, enclosed by a wrought iron grill, which released hot air from a duct from the furnace. There were also ducts which went to all the rooms in the house and kept them warm day and night. Finally, in the 1930s, we installed an oil burning furnace that pumped hot water to all the rooms and into radiators, which made them too hot to touch but warmed the house more efficiently. Fortunately, hot water systems were replaced with oil burners, which became the system for heating in row houses, but I lost a promising career as a professional coal gleaner. Of course, today the real money maker is the fuel vendor.

Free at last ...

2006-10-12T22:03:00.000-04:00

After a minor equilibrium malfunction Sunday, Herb was taken to Lower Bucks Hospital for observation.
Geez -- if he didn't like the sermon, he should have just quietly left the pew.
Oh well; ain't that just like Herb!
After six days as a medical hostage, Herb busted out Friday evening. As you will see by his latest post, he hasn't missed a beat, despite what the cardiologist says.
The Webmeister

Dog Days on 10th Street

2006-10-12T21:58:00.002-04:00

One rainy summer rainy days there seemed to be nothing else to do, so I sat under the awning over my front door steps and watched rain water in the dip of the awning where it collected and saturated the twisted twine fringes along the edges, allowing the water to drip, drip and drip to the ground.
As the wind changed in velocity the rain drops would come closer to the steps and toward me, so I moved to a safer, drier spot. I watched the drips make changes in the drips on the brownstone steps ... to faces and animals, continuing to spread as I scrambled to a drier position. There was little traffic of people and cars, but old number 23 trolley would rumble down the tracks in the middle of the street and whoosh past me about every 15 minutes. A stray dog worked its way up Colona Street from house to house and past the lamp post to 10th Street and finally to the entrance steps for French's Mustard factory, just at the time the trolley was approaching. He mooched to the curb and into the street, then dashed across in front of the trolley. I sat there, petrified as the dog disappeared under the trolley and heard the wheels screech on the track and the whooshing sound as the motorman released the sand to assist the friction and stop the wheels, then the clatter of the "dog catcher" just in front of the wheels. At the same time I heard the whining sounds of the dog, and as the trolley came a stop, a few yelps and whimpers as the dog appeared from under the trolley, apparently unharmed. He raced up the street with his tail following between his legs.
A short pause later, the trolley resumed its schedule down 10th Street and the potential horror was over, as the dog disappeared beyond my vision.

Penny Candy Wise; Pounds, Foolish

2006-10-05T22:30:00.002-04:00

In the days before plastic money, when Depression era paydays were doled out weekly in little brown envelopes, I had a personal charge account at the little one-room candy store next to Foehl's garage.
My uncle Eugene set up the account with the store proprietor to provide me with those items I desired, which included candy and soda pop, and he would pay my charges on pay day, every Friday. This was great for me and some of my friends who would follow me into the store, figuring that I would treat them to a soda or candy. Kayo bottled chocolate soda was one of my favorite drinks, named after the comic page character Moon Mullens and Kayo, his comic strip nephew. Bottle a day was a minimum order for me, that and a pocketful o'candy put me in a most happy state of mind, and life.
Some months later, this free-wheeling life with a personal charge account began to affect my health to the extent my mother had to take me to a doctor to see what was causing my deteriorating physical wellbeing. This resulted in my mother's conferencing with my uncle, which led to closing my open charge account at the candy store and thereby restoring my bodily health back to normal for a 5 year old. It was great while it lasted. As with all indulgent extravagances, they will inevitably result in the loss of privileges. Even the candy store eventually closed its doors -- probably because of losing my business when I lost my charge account.

Spinning for Baseball Cards

2006-10-03T13:57:00.002-04:00

Where two kids gather together with a pack of baseball cards, there will surely be more gathering with them. We usually got our ball player cards from one of the local candy stores, wrapped in a colorful paper with blocks of chewing gum inside. Sometimes we'd get cards from other sources, like cereal boxes and other stores. However, the fastest way to accumulate cards was to "spin" for the cards with another collector.
We would usually carry a few card in the hip pocket of our pants in the event we ran across another collector. The idea was to spin with someone who had a new or rare card. When we won a "keeper," we would slip these to the bottom of ones collection and use them only if it became necessary.
The game was played by holding the card edges between your four fingers and thumb then releasing the thumb on the upswing, usually from the waist, allowing it to spin and fall to the ground. Each player would agree to an odds or even win, so if two heads resulted from the throws, evens would win or a head and a reverse side odds would win. We tried all kinds of ways to spin the cards but with a 50-50 chance of spinning a head or tail it was all a matter of luck to throw a head or tail card on purpose.
The real winners were the manufacturers of the chewing gum or product the cards came with, unless you still have some of those old cards, like Dizzy Dean or Jimmy Foxx. Remember those guys??

Mom Painted Pictures For Me With Her Stories

2006-09-28T12:41:00.003-04:00

As a preschooler I was very impressionable, and my mother's storytelling skills added to developing a good imagination. Both my brothers were more than 10 years older than me, so they paid less and less attention to my interests. I entertained myself in the confines of my toyland domain until I could wander the streets pretty much on my own, because of language skills which didn't develop until I began to mingle with other children in the neighborhood. I spoke only German in the house until I got outside and was tutored, by necessity, when my cousins, Margaret and Eric, accompanied me. Before long I introduced my English skills in my house. Billy Foehl, who lived a view doors away, and whose mother was also German and allowed me to play with him in his house and back yard, helped to increase my word skills. So by the time I was ready for kindergarten, I was pretty much on a par with other kids, at least in English language skills.
At bed time, Mom would sit on my bed, tuck me in and anticipate my request before going to sleep, "What story shall I tell you?" I heard her tell the stories, sometimes in English, other times in German, so I knew them by heart, stories like, "Little Red Riding Hood," "The Three Little Pigs," "Snow White" and "Hansel and Gretel." I would usually respond with anticipation: "But tell it in German!"
I believe the telling of these stories where meaningful as I grew up, in being able to visualize mental images of story scenes and creating pictures on paper and canvas.

National Guard Subsidized Our Camping Adventures

2006-09-27T14:01:00.002-04:00

The National Guard had an active unit on Broad and Diamond streets just across the street from where my Scout troop met in the Presbyterian church.
Our Scout Master, Bob Palmer (we called him Skipper, because he was a former Navy man during WW I) was friendly with the officers of the Guard and engaged their help from time to time for weekend field trips and overnight camping. They provided us with Army pup tents and other services and supplies, like an Army truck and driver to take us to camping sites several times a year.
We would load up the truck with our knapsacks and supplies, tents and cooking gear, then pile in and take off, singing and having fun (like tenderfoot soldiers) until we arrived at the camp site. Each patrol was given responsibilities like collecting firewood and setting up our pup tents, then off we would go on a nature hike to collect specimens of leaves, plants and wood samples from different trees. We even collected wild berries, in season for our dessert menu.
After the evening meal we would start a camp fire for potato and marshmallow roasting and singing all the songs we had learned at our weekly meetings. To end the night we would sing "Taps" and retire to our pup tents, two Scouts to a tent, where we would reflect on events of the day and plans for tomorrow, before crawling under the covers for the night. I often wondered how other Scouts fared without the use of the Army's pup tents.

Herb's Deli, Circa 1930s

2006-09-25T15:43:00.003-04:00

Mom and Pop usually slept late on Sunday mornings. I was up early and it became my responsibility to arrange our usual breakfast on those mornings. We had a charge account at the local mom-and-pop store at the corner of Delhi and Susquehanna streets. I would trot out through the back alley and pick up our usual order of a large loaf of Jewish rye bread and a dozen Kaiser rolls. I carried these items home through the alleyway, put them on the table and filled up our percolator with coffee and water. When the coffee was finished perking, I brought out the cups, butter, jelly and all the necessary tools, which I laid out on the kitchen table along with the big bread knife. We always had plenty of jelly, because Mom preserved and stored a generous supply in the cellar for yearlong enjoyment. The aroma of coffee filled the air and my parents knew breakfast was ready. It took a little while for them to come down from their upstairs bedroom, so I had first dibs on the rolls. I would break the rolls in quarters and dunk them in my coffee, then munch on them. Then I cut some slices of rye bread. I liked thick slices because it was fresh and soft and I spread each slice with butter and jelly and had my fill. Mom and Pop were happy and always complimented me on my preparations. Sunday breakfast was my favorite mealtime. It wouldn't have been hard to convince me that someday I might become a first-class chef.

Why Boy Scouts Wear Shoes

2006-09-24T08:51:00.002-04:00

Wherever there was an open plot of ground in the neighborhood and two or more guys gathered together, one of which had a jack knife, we played Territories. This game took place as well on Treasure Island, during the week we became Scout islanders. The game was played by marking off about a four-foot square in the grassless turf, then dividing it in half through the middle, allowing each of two players to claim one-half of the divided square. We flipped a coin to see who would be first to throw our knife while standing with at least one foot within the limits of our territory, or the throw didn't count. You would throw your knife into the opponent's territory and scribe a line following the direction the blade entered the ground, in both directions, until it touched the borders of the marked off territory. As the opponent's territory became smaller, it would be more difficult for him to stand in his territory and he would lose the game. During one such challenge, I positioned myself close to my opponent's territory, aimed and threw my knife, and achieved a direct hit in my foot. It wasn't a serious wound but my opponent walked me to the infirmary, where he yelled as we entered, "My buddy has a knife in his foot!" A response came from an adjoining room, "Well, pull it out!" The medic spray-freezed the wound, strapped on a Band-Aid and sent us on our way.

Games People Played on Sachs' Corner

2006-09-23T21:38:00.002-04:00

When we kids collected at Sachs' corner at 10th and Nevada Streets, which had a great street light providing visibility at night, often one or two girls collected with us to talk, play games or do chalk drawings in the street. For the most part, they were just a couple more kids, nothing more. When we played peg-ball, that was done using a sawed off broom handle for a bat and six-inch sections of a broom handle, called pegs, which were whittled into a point at one end. The batter would hit the pointed end of the peg so it would jump up about knee high, and hit it like a baseball and was fielded like a baseball. Girls were included in our games, particularly when we needed players. There were times when we just sat around and talked or played tic-tac-toe in the street with pieces of chalk. One evening, Johnny Furmeister came to the corner with a girlfriend and just sat on Mr. Sachs' doorstep. He was a little older than the rest of us and had a loud bullying attitude, which didn't fit in with our fun activities. Besides, he had developed more interest in girls as girls . It would take a few years before the appropriate hormones began flowing in the rest of us to consider girls as social creatures. We had other interests, like playing games, and recounting radio stories about super-heroes. In any case, Johnny finally took his girlfriend down Nevada Street where the light was not so bright and he didn't bother us the rest of the night. We just couldn't comprehend how or why Johnny could give up a good game of peg-ball and just walk around with a girl. We kids were having all the fun.

Dr. Pop, Medicine Man

2006-09-20T00:13:00.002-04:00

During the 1930s we seldom had need of the services of a medical doctor when there was an illness in the house. Mom was the head nurse and Pop was the diagnostician who always seemed to have a medical treatment to cure the illness. Broken bones were treated by an M.D., but we seldom needed to spend the cost of a doctor's visit to cure colds, fevers, poison ivy and other relatively minor health problems.
There was one occasion when I came down with a severe earache, so Mom put me to bed and Pop stepped in with the cure. He came to my room and saw it was necessary to apply one of his household remedies. He mixed up a batch of warmed-up cooking oil, squeezed in the juice of a lemon and gently put several drops into my ear. He put a pad of cotton over my ear and held it there with a head bandage. I soon fell asleep and some hours later, perhaps by the next morning, woke to find the earache was gone. He checked it out the following morning and applied a "one for good measure oil and lemon potion," and I was my usual healthy self again.
Pop was never one to run to a doctor's office unless it was absolutely necessary, and his tender bedside manner was as important as anything to bring about a cure.

Funny Money Made Us Feel Like Millionaires

2006-09-18T23:22:00.002-04:00

Sunday mornings in the 1930s were anticipated for the delivery of the Sunday newspaper, beginning with the first day of every week by many of the kids in my neighborhood and around the country. Money in those days was scarce and tight. All the newspapers were publishing play money in their Sunday edition, which served as virtual cash when we played games of chance like poker, pinochle, marbles and picture cards as well as any other game where we could wager for the outcome or loss of treasures. We collected paper comic money from all newspapers we could scavenge in the neighborhood curbside trash cans. Paper comic money, besides showing a monetary denomination, contained comic strip characters like Barney Google, Maggie and Jiggs, Popeye, Orphan Annie, Moon Mullins and a host of others, that were as popular as famous movie stars.
We would wager recklessly with our play money because next Sunday, our payday, we could "clip" more money from the comic strip pages. We would even use these comic strip dollars to add to our Monopoly play money or wager it on the outcome of all our street games, like half ball, touch football and others.
I don't know what happened to my hundreds and thousands of dollars in comic strip money, but if I had it today it would be worth $$$ in U.S. currency. Do you -- did you -- save your play money?

Scrappy Scouts Did Our Part During WWII

2006-09-15T23:02:00.005-04:00

The 1940s were eventful years for everyone:
The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in Hawaii in '41; I was graduated from Northeast High School and received a four-year scholarship to art school in '43; I was drafted into the Army but classified 4F in '43; I was reclassified 1A and entered the Army Air Force; assigned to special services as an artist for more than one year in '45; I was discharged and returned to art school in '46; I was graduated from art school in '48 and Entered the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Art in '48; went on a painting sabbatical to Mexico in '50.
FLASH BACK....
I was still active in the Boy Scouts before entering the Army and participated in the war effort by collecting aluminum ware with the help of the city's trash collection department. Our Scout troop was assigned a trash collection wagon, ordinarily used to pick up trash which was put on the curbside. But on this day the horse-drawn wagon moved through the neighborhood while the Scouts collected aluminum ware and filled the wagon with pots and bowls and any object made from aluminum.

People would stand and wait on their doorsteps with assorted aluminum items, waiting for us to receive their donations. In fact it was the happiest of times and the saddest of times. But the neighborhood, the people, the city, the country -- we were all united in our efforts to fight the Axis Powers in the war to end all wars.

Metallurgy on the Trolley Tracks

2006-09-13T11:28:00.002-04:00

One of the biggest fun times we had on 10th street when we were kids was putting nails, washers and coins on the trolley car tracks so when trolley No. 23 rolled down the street and ran over them, they were flattened. Nails became arrowheads, washers and pennies became big flat disks. Sometimes the trolley messed up our treasurers by curling or twisting or bending them, but that didn't stop us.
Some of the kids added a dowel stick to the flattened nails and glued pieces of cardboard to serve as tail feathers. We made the bow with whatever wood we could find and added a length of household string. Not as good as a real Indian bow and arrow, but they served the purpose for target practice. Sometimes we would take chances with our arrows and shoot them at one another. One kid took an arrow shot which stuck in his forehead. He wasn't really hurt but we scattered and ran in every direction to escape confrontation ... it wasn't me, either.
On the Fourth of July, or whenever we had caps and the opportunity, we would put a strip of caps on the trolley track. As the trolley ran over the caps, it sounded like a machine gun and we jumped up-and-down and yelled at all the noise. Guns were all right but ou ycould only shoot one shot at a time, until they started to make repeater guns, so you could load a roll of caps, loading it like real ammunition.
Life in the 1930s was a busy time, with no TV, so we had to be more inventive and sometimes took risks, but the potential for fun always outweighed the risk in our young minds.

Spare Change Safari

2006-09-13T11:21:00.002-04:00

Every week or two, a couple of us would check the area under the sidewalk ventilation grate in front of the Baptist church at 10th and Dauphin streets. When we discovered what looked like coins that had fallen through the grate, our plan would be to return to retrieve the coins with appropriate hunting gear.
The pit under the grate was too deep to reach coins without a retrieving stick so we would borrow a clothes pole and chew up a stick of chewing gum which, when it was good and sticky, we placed on one end of the clothes pole. Then, like a spearman stalking his quarry, one of us would guide the stick for accuracy and the other would lower the gum-tipped pole through the grate to the coin, press into it with the gum and retrieve the coin through the grate, careful not to knock it off as we pulled it through the grate and up to the sidewalk.
It usually turned out to be a penny or a nickel, sometimes it would be a quarter. The coins appeared sporadically, probably on Sundays when the parishioners checked to see if they had sufficient coinage for the collection plate, before entering the church and carelessly dropping one or two.
Another hunting site was at street corners where people rushing to get on the trolley car with coins in their hands would accidentally drop them. So we would check all trolley car stops to pick whatever change was accidentally left behind.
Finding small change, in those days, was like finding the dollar bill today.

Praise the Lord and Turn Off the Lights!

2006-09-10T23:36:00.002-04:00

When I was about 13 my Scouting friend, Bob Young, whose father was the janitor at the local Baptist church, invited me to join the CE class at his church. CE stands for Christian Endeavor, which he explained was a group of boys and girls who got together once a week to learn about the Bible and have fun.

As I have mentioned before, churches and religion didn't seem to draw me into the fold, but Bob was my buddy, so I agreed to attend the next CE meeting at the Baptist church.

We met in one of the classrooms at the church with a lay leader, about 10 of us. She talked about Bible stories and such, and gave us an assignment for next week, to choose a verse from the Old or New Testament, which began with the first letter of our name. In my case, it would be H or M, and we were to bring the verse to read to the class.

After about an hour passed, we were excused for play time in the downstairs rec-room in the basement, furnished with some benches and a large red velvet curtain which went all the way from the floor to the ceiling.

The girls in the class as well as the boys had been to play time before, except for me. One of the girls assigned numbers to each of the class members which, she said for my benefit, if a number is called that person is to go behind curtain for instruction. Eventually my number was called so I went behind curtain. A girl stood there in front of me and said, "Well?" I didn't know what to do; I didn't know what I was supposed to do; I needed instruction.
So she grabbed me and started kissing me. She then said I could leave. I went out and sat on one of the benches, totally bewildered by what happened. I was stunned, totally naive, speechless and somewhat embarrassed.

So this was CE class! I was so embarrassed I never attended another CE meeting again.

However, I had at least discovered what one is supposed to do when one is alone in the dark behind a curtain with a girl...

What would you have done at age 13? Without instruction?

Shooting Up the Bad Guys With My BB Gun

2006-09-10T23:30:00.003-04:00

Cap pistols were a standard cowboy, good guys-bad guys weapon in our neighborhood.
I had several guns which were single-shot loaded with a cap constructed of little red squares of paper with a dot of gun powder in the center. This was OK, but I wanted -- and finally got -- a Daisy air rifle, with BBs which were front-loaded into the barrel, about 20 or so at a time.
I collected little lead soldiers which I entrenched behind a mound of dirt in our backyard and engaged in pretend war. I would take a prone position several feet away to shoot the soldiers with my BB gun. Wounded soldiers were repaired until they were no longer repairable. After each skirmish I painted decorations and rank on the heroes and later took them back to the trenches and repeated my marksmanship efforts to win more battles.
Tiring of this short-distance firing, I would shoot at other things, like the windows on the elevator tower at the back of Foehl's garage. This took more skill because the tower was about 50-feet away and about three-stories high. I cracked some windows on the top of the tower, some of which broke after repeated pummeling. After some time Mr.Foehl mentioned that someone was breaking windows on his roof, so I decided to set up a target in my backyard for developing longer shots with my BB gun. I can still remember those fun days shooting up the windows with my BB gun, which were never repaired.

Entrepreneurial Spirit and Games of Chance

2006-09-04T12:54:00.003-04:00

Cousin Eric, Margaret's brother, was about five years older than me, but we had some general interests that brought us together, until he and his family moved to another part of the city.
His father installed a pool table in their cellar game room and a dart board we played with, using an air pistol to shoot darts. He collected stamps, which we traded with one another and "eppered" for Easter eggs, but he seldom participated in family activities with us as he grew older.
One day he showed me a punch board which once had been used for party games, until all the punches had been punched out of the board. He decided to use it to make money by refilling the punched out holes with rolled up papers with numbers on them. He then recovered the holes so the board could be reused as a chance board by putting numbers on little slips of paper, rolling them up and fitting them back into the board holes. The papers he put back into the holes contained numbers which matched the numbers he placed on a sheet of paper, along with a stamp or stamps that you would win if that number was punched from the board. He charged a nickel for a chance to punch a winning number.
He had some choice prizes, like a first flight airmail envelope with a six-cent airmail stamp that had a catalog value of more than a dollar. There was also a mint sheet of stamps from the Ivory Coast in Africa, and so on. Some slips, of course, would have no numbers on them at all, so it would be a complete loss for the player. I happened to have won most of the above-mentioned stamp items, among others, because I happened to be a sucker for playing "chance games."
As I look back, Eric made some money from his collection and I spent money to win the stamps but I still have the stamps and Eric by now has spent the money, so I figure I'm ahead of the game, whatever the stamps are worth today.

Summers at Treasure Island: Priceless

2006-09-03T09:25:00.002-04:00

Every summer Scouts from all over the Eastern part of the state had the opportunity to spend a week camping on Treasure Island, a Scout camp which was located on an island in the middle of the Delaware River and housed about 200 Scouts each week during the two summer months.
We had to assemble and bring our camping needs for the week in a wooden chest, which each Scout constructed to basic specifications. When we arrived at the debarkation point near Pipersville, Pa., our chests were loaded on a flat bed boat and delivered to the island while Scouts were transported separately to the island, where we collected our chests and transported them to our assigned camp sites.
At the camp site, we were assigned large canvas tents which housed four Scouts, four canvas cots and space for individual chest of supplies. Reveille and retreat were held on the parade grounds each morning and evening, and in between we worked at performing and passing tests to advance our Scout rank.
It was an awesome experience for a bunch of city kids who would have no other way of experiencing such an adventure. We got to know one another pretty well and learned how to share responsibilities and interact without parent advice or oversight. Usually we passed enough test requirements during the week to advance in rank or earn merit badges. Some of us were indoctrinated in the Unami Lodge, Order of the Arrow, which was a secret order, limited to first-class Scouts or higher ranking. The secret indoctrination procedures, which lasted three days, have stayed with me until this day.
The treasure Island experience each summer was one every Scout would cherish and look forward to as the months of July and August approached.

I Was a Happy Camper

2006-09-01T12:54:00.002-04:00

Overnight camping was one of the most exciting, eye-opening adventures in my young life as a Boy Scout.
We started planning weeks in advance. For the new Scouts, like myself, we had to decide what we needed in the way of clothes, blankets to keep warm at night, eating utensils, like a mess kit and canteen, Scout Handbook for information and testing to advance in rank, and so on.
We would meet at the church where we held our meetings, early on a Saturday morning, with our knapsacks filled with camping essentials. We would take public transportation to the city's outer limits, where we began hiking to our designated camp site. When we arrived at our camp site, some hours later, we would pitch tents and organize the camp site. Each Scout carried half of a pup tent. Two scouts would pair off to assemble one, which we would share overnight. We also had to plan for possible rain when setting up our tents.
Camp assignments would be posted on a tree to remind us of our duties and responsibilities including: fireman, collecting wood and building campfires, latrine duty, locating and preparing a latrine area for the campers, camp counselor to resolve problems or disputes. Fresh water supply sources also had to be located.
The remainder of the day would be devoted to exploring the area and collecting specimens for identification such as leaves and small tree branches, plants, rocks and insects and other natural objects, which we would take home with us to display in our patrol specimen shelves back at the church. We also learned how to start a fire without matches and prepare a fire for cooking our food. All in all, a pretty daunting experience for a bunch of city kids, but a singular experience otherwise missed as we moved through life, and which we looked forward to repeating again with each planned camping trip.

Green-eyed Monster has Developmental Delay

2006-08-30T13:45:00.002-04:00

My cousin Margaret, who lived a little way up the street from my house on 10th Street, happened to be about a month older than me, so the Philadelphia school district allowed her to begin kindergarten one month before me. Well, I was envious of her going to school but I didn't let on to her. On her first day of school I waited at the corner of Dauphin Street near Mr. Rowe's butcher shop to catch Margaret on the way home from school. I waited for her, sort of nonchalantly checking the butcher shop display window as she approached, and I said, "Hi Margaret, how was school today?"
"Oh," she said, "it was a lot of fun. We played games and had a bottle of milk for recess."
"What did you learn?" I asked. "Did you learn how to spell 'cat' and 'rat' and words like that?"
"Oh no," she responded. "The teacher talked to us about all the things we're going to do and learn ... and she read us a story from a book about animals."
Oh, I was envious all right as I reflected on her answer. I'm bigger than she is, why couldn't they let me go to school too? She's only one month older than me and I'm just as smart... smarter! It's not fair!! Well, I smoldered a little bit and smiled a kind of restrained smiled around my response, accepting the fact that it seemed like the teacher knew what she was doing. Then I stuck my hands in my pockets and said, "I'm going to start school in January, after Christmas. "I figured that promise would make her feel I wasn't missing anything and I was still free to run and play until after the holidays. We small talked, then on the way to her house where we parted, as she waved, I mused to myself, "It's just not fair, it's not fair." However, January would soon be here, and my turn would come... oh, but how I envied her.

OK, let's duke it out, you simple knotheads!

2006-08-29T14:30:00.000-04:00

I just received a notice, in fact, the third one, from Akron Billing Center, based in Ohio, for services in the ER at Lower Bucks County Hospital, in Pa., rendered by an ER doctor.
When I entered the hospital waiting area for the service referred to above, I was bleeding profusely from my crotch area, so I found it difficult to locate the source of the problem.
After giving my medical insurance information at the reception desk I had to wait to be called for a triage session. After waiting some time, I was called in an office to be questioned about my problem. Apparently, the triage nurse decided I should see a doctor. So I was asked to wait in the waiting area until I was called, still bleeding.
I entered the emergency room and was assigned to an examining room, told to remove my clothes, put on a gown and again, wait.
A doctor entered the examining room and looked at the wound in my crotch area, which by this time had stopped bleeding, and responded by calling to someone outside the curtained room to bring him a silver nitrate stick, which he then used to dab the area, a scratch on my scrotum. As he began dabbing, the doctor's cell phone buzzed and he answered it... apparently, an old friend. He walked out of the examining room still talking to his cell phone. Some 10 minutes later he returned to check his dabbing skills and told the nurse to apply a Band-Aid, which she did. I got dressed and left, without instructions or further communication with the doctor.
Within the next two weeks I received a notice from my insurance company that they paid for the services in the emergency room.
Several months passed until the Akron Billing Center sent me a bill for the services performed by the doctor, in the above-mentioned emergency room.
The bill was for $757.00

QUESTIONS
It has never been explained to me by anyone -- Doctor, emergency room personnel, hospital personnel or insurance company -- how emergency room doctors and services are paid and how costs are determined.
1. What determines the emergency room patient fee? and/or the Doctor fee?
2. Why doesn't the ER doctor send his bill directly to the patient if, as they say, that doctor's fee is separate from the hospital fee? And why isn't this made clear to the patient at the time of service, as well as on the bill?
3. Does the ER doctor receive a fee from the hospital for his services and is he billed for the use of the emergency room and supplies and personnel he uses?
4. Why don't they include the name of the doctor who "performed" the service, and an itemized list ot services on the bill? It sounds terribly shady to me.
5. Who pays the ER doctors ER services when the patient is admitted to the hospital?

Anyone with similar ER experiences, with (hopefully) answers to my questions, would be appreciated.

Warm Memories of Homegrown American Fuel

2006-08-27T00:17:00.002-04:00

The primary fossil fuel used in household heating systems, before heating oil replaced it, was coal.
The coal truck would pull up in front of our house on 10th Street every month or so to deliver a load of anthracite coal. The driver would ring our doorbell to announce his arrival, then put a protective mat on the cellar window-frame where the coal shoot would go. He would then attach and adjust the coal shoot from the back of his truck to the cellar window frame and add an extension that would direct coal from the shoot into our coal bin.
He would then open a guillotine-like plate at the back of his truck to release a flow of coal down the shoot and into the coal bin. We would usually receive an order of between one and two tons of coal about every four to six weeks depending upon the season and the weather. Our coal furnace heated the entire house consisting of 10 rooms and a basement, the entire length of the house.
Of course, the coal had to be shoveled and properly distributed within the furnace, as well as controlled with the air vents on the smoke pipe leading to the chimney. The furnace had to be tended every day, morning and night, to be sure it did not go out.
It was sometime around the early 1930s before we installed and oil burning furnace, which was less work to maintain and enabled my father to tear down the coal and wood bins, which provided more space for parties and general entertainment. Looking back, considering the cost of coal versus oil, it might make an interesting chart showing the spiraling costs of fuel over the past 75 years.

We Were as Happy as Kids in a Candy Shoppe

2006-08-18T11:17:00.002-04:00

Right across the street from Hartranft Elementary School was the favorite stopping off point for us kids before and after school:. The candy store.
The store was a little 10-by-10 foot room located at the front of the corner row house with a big display window, which designated it as a store. It was a one-man operation that offered all sorts of stuff that kids can't do without. There were showcases with different kinds of candies, from jelly beans to green leaves, which were chewy green jellies shaped like a leaf and covered with sugar. There were long strips of two-inch wide paper about 2-feet long covered with colored dots of sugar which you pulled off with your fingers or teeth, and munched on. There were large wax lips and teeth to put in your mouth to make you look pretty or funny, that you could wear now and chew later like chewing gum. There were little wax bottles containing colored sugar water which could you would slurp and then chew on the emptied bottle, a fraction of what seemed like an endless selection of all kinds of candy items to make any kid happy.
There were also "tattoos" printed on paper, which you could press onto your arm or hand or any place, peel off the paper leaving a colorful tattoo on your skin, like the real thing, until it washed off during the next Saturday night's bath.
There were "candy chances" where you selected a chocolate-covered wafer, broke it in half and if the center was a color other than white, you'd win a large candy item, maybe a chocolate Easter Bunny or Easter egg or Santa Claus, depending on the season.
They were like today's dollar stores, only everything cost a penny, and kids always saved their pennies to visit the corner candy store.

Board Games Never a Bore For Us

2006-08-17T12:13:00.003-04:00

Monopoly was the favorite board game in my neighborhood back in the 1930s. It became almost a ritual to meet at Foehl's garage in the evenings and weekends as well as during the day during the summer months. We would play through lunch time and break for supper, only for as long as it took to eat.
Buying and selling properties, collecting $200 when we passed go and being directed to "go to jail" became an exciting routine. Buying and selling properties to pay our debts to the board was agonizing but fun. Having thousands of dollars in play money put the Big Depression out of sight and mind. Perhaps this is why many homes had Monopoly boards and the adults seemed to enjoy the game almost as much as the kids. When the family played, sitting at the dining room table was exciting because everyone wanted to buy and sell properties. Everyone wanted to buy Boardwalk, Park Place and Atlantic City and the fun of thinking about saltwater taffy. Playing Monopoly took us into a world of virtual affluence that was otherwise remote to most people in those days. Today people seem to have no need for board games. We buy them for Christmas for the kids and many of the games remain on a shelf unopened or in a closet gathering dust waiting to be rediscovered.

Pass Me Another Cannibal Sandwich, Please

2006-08-14T11:20:00.002-04:00

My brothers, Bill and Harry, were more than 10 years older than me and they worked and played as a team. I was about 5 years old at the time they had discovered this new sandwich craze, I don't know where, but they called it a cannibal sandwich. They brought home a package of fresh ground beef from Rowe's butcher shop. My Mom was always ready to try a new recipe in the food line, so she pitched in with her culinary skills to prepare this new sandwich item.
The cannibal sandwich was made by taking two pounds or any desired quantity of ground beef, putting it into a mixing bowl and adding a generous portion of chopped onions and green peppers, a cook's appropriate measure of salt and pepper and mixing it thoroughly by hand. This mixture was then spread generously on a slice of rye bread, anointed with a choice of garnishes, like relish or mustard or catsup. Then a second slice of rye bread was added, resulting in a cannibal sandwich. Some connoisseurs might prefer to have the ground beef spread just on one slice of bread without a second slice of bread in order to better enjoy the robust ground beef flavor. This, of course, is a matter of individual preference.
Everyone in the family had two or three helpings of this Depression-era entree which, as I recall, was tasty and easily consumed.
Pop ordered brother Bill to bring a round of cold beers, which was always ready and on draft in our cellar, to add to our festive menu.
I haven't seen this item on any fast food menu to date, but keep looking, although I'm pretty sure it wouldn't get past health inspectors. If you ever want to try one, you will probably just have to make your own some evening when you are at a loss for something to eat.

From Newsboy to News Boss

2006-08-11T12:09:00.005-04:00

I was 13 or 14 years old when I started on my paper route for the Philadelphia Bulletin evening newspaper. I picked up my papers for delivering just a few blocks from Northeast High School, put them in a basket attached to the handlebars of my bike and delivered them to my customers, about 30 of them. This took about an hour except on Saturdays, when I collected 12 cents from my customers for six days of papers, which was increased to 18 cents about a year later. I earned a penny for each paper I delivered, if the customer paid me, but in some cases I had to wait two or three weeks for my money because they didn't answer the door when I rang or they didn't have the money, or they had some other feeble excuse.
I had to ride my bike to deliver papers, just like the mailman, through rain and snow and sleet every day because paper boys took their jobs seriously. I remember the last paper I delivered on my route one rainy day. I was soaked to the skin as a little old lady and her older husband waited for me anxiously for their paper, to read the evening news. When I handed them their paper, they invited me into their house to dry off and clean my eye glasses. I never forgot their kindness.

About a year later I was offered the job of Branch Captain around 7th and Norris streets, where some 30 carriers would come to pick up their papers for delivery. It was my job to count and hand out papers to them, as well as collect the cost of the papers they received, every Saturday.

World War II had just begun and newspaper boys were encouraged to sell war stamps to their customers, which they would buy from me. So I was held responsible for collecting and accounting for the cost of newspapers as well as war stamps to the district manager, and received a salary of $6 a week without having to ride my bike through rain and ice and snow. Now, I was in charge.

NASCAR Had Nothing on Us

2006-08-10T10:53:00.002-04:00

Soapbox scooters were constructed by most of the young boys in my neighborhood in North Philly. To manufacture one of these early 20th-century vehicles, one would acquire a large wooden soapbox or egg crate from the local grocery store, find a sturdy board approximately 3" x 36" x 3/4," one roller skate -- half for the front and the other for the back of the board -- a hammer and some nails. Put all these parts together and you had a scooter which you could use to race up, down and across the macadam streets and the sidewalks, with the joy and fun no one could imagine unless they had done this themselves, at some point in their life. Of course, some of us would paint and decorate the scooters and individualize them for prestige among our peers. We added handles to the soapbox and fox tails to the handles, like the big kids attached to their bikes. Then we'd hammer tin cans to the boxes like headlights and, at night, light candles inside the tin cans -- they didn't give off much light or stay lit too long against the wind, but it was more for effect. We also painted numbers and decorations on our boxes, which further individualized our scooters. The inside of the soapbox also became a sort of glove compartment where we could store valuables, like our rubberband guns and ammunition, a box of marbles and maybe candy snacks and other treasures. I haven't seen a soapbox scooter in my Levittown neighborhood during the past 50 years. I doubt that I will ever see one again or any soapbox gang racing their scooters through the streets of Levittown ... except for in my memories, which linger on.

Strains of Morning Milkman Symphony Linger On

2006-08-02T10:45:00.002-04:00

Sounds were important to an imaginative little kid like myself when I was about 5 or 6 years old.
Tenth Street was paved with cobblestones all the way from Germantown Avenue to Center City Philly and beyond. Early in the morning when streetlights were still on I would be wakened by the milk wagon as it moved slowly toward my house down 10th street. The rattle of the bottles as the metal rimmed wheels bounced over the cobblestones had a musical ring. The rhythmic clippity-clop of the horse grew louder as it approached my house, stopping intermittently,while the milkman delivered milk to his customers. The horse, however, moved driverless, following a plan that the milkman had conditioned in his faithful companion as he moved through his route doorstep to doorstep, carrying his metal baskets of milk bottles, which jingled as he paced himself from house to house. This was like a beautifully orchestrated musical duet where both players new their parts.
Most of the customers were still sleeping so they would leave a note curled up in one of the empty bottles containing their order for more or less milk or cream.
He carried two baskets of milk products to fill the orders and picked up the empties before returning to his wagon to refresh his supplies. As he left the wagon, the horse would move on to his next appointed stop. I could visualize the movement of the duo, the milkman and his wagon, by the sounds they made, eventually moving beyond my hearing as they moved out of my neighborhood.
It was a sort of musical interim to my half-wakeful state, which remains with me to this day. Unfortunately, some people who didn't want doorstep deliveries must have complained over the half hour or so of delivery noises, so they first changed the metal-rim wagon wheels to rubber tires and then the horses were finally retired, replaced by a horseless wagon and, sometime later, even the milk truck disappeared and we had to purchase our milk at the local grocery store.
Back in 1953, when we moved into our newly built Levittown house, a milk delivery truck visited each homeowner with a complimentary bottle of milk, hopeful to open a neighborhood route. But it seemed eople weren't interested in "home delivery" anymore.
I wonder why? Maybe the allure of modern life and mechanization, living as far removed from the "olden days" of our parents' generation, is what made it obsolete.

Musical Interlude, Part 2

2006-07-29T01:12:00.003-04:00

When I was promoted from grade 6A in January at Hartranft Elementary School, I was transferred to Ferguson grade school.
Ferguson school had grades from 1 through 8 so I was enrolled in grade 6B. The school was about twice the size of Hartranft with an attached play yard to accommodate the larger population of students. It also had a large auditorium with a stage, where they held assemblies and special programs.
I learned they had a school orchestra with my industrial arts teacher serving as conductor, so with my proven skills as a violin player I was assigned a seat in the first violin section. We had regular practice sessions which were held in the auditorium with our conductor, Mr. Herring, who was in no way a threat to Spike Jones.
I don't remember what music we played and I can only imagine how we must have sounded. There is only one thing I do remember: Mr. Herring directed us to listen to the drummer. "Listen to the drummer," he would say, "he is giving you the tempo."
Well, I served as a first violinist in the orchestra for two years and to this day have no idea what we played in the way of music, but I was graduated from grade 8 and recommended to the music director at my new junior high school. I decided, however, not to continue in the school orchestra ... unless, of course, they made me a conductor -- which never happened, thus ending my illustrious stint as a concert violinist.

Music Bridged the Age Gap for Harry and Me

2006-07-26T11:02:00.002-04:00

My brother Harry picked up the nickname "Hank" during WWII when he served in the Marine Corps before retiring after 30 years of service in many parts of the world. During the years before the war, I always called him Harry. He took piano lessons for a number of years and often played his favorite piece, "The Poet and Peasant Overture," by Franz Von Suppe, when he had nothing else on his agenda.
I was taking violin lessons and he would periodically play my assigned music lesson with me, to help me with timing and phrasing. He was a tough taskmaster and would stop abruptly as we played together, saying, "No! No! Those are 16th notes. You have to play them faster," or some other comment that caused me to repeat and repeat my musical efforts. I learned a lot from him and he was helpful to me even though he would sometimes in anger yell at me when I didn't grasp the rhythm or timing.
Even though he was right about playing, he probably learned how to yell at me from his experience with his own piano teacher when he made mistakes. Well, he had to take his musical frustrations out on someone, and the only one around was me.
I often wonder sometimes how things might have been if WWII had never been and Harry was little younger, closer to my age. On the other hand, if things were different with us, age wise, things would probably be different today and who knows how these changes, better or worse, might have affected our lives?
All things considered, I believe as Voltaire's Candide did, "We live in the best of all possible worlds...," so let's make the most of life as yet we can. Harry died 20 years ago and I still have fond memories of our duets together.

Walk Softly and Carry a Big Stick

2006-07-20T11:32:00.003-04:00

We usually ate our meals together as a family and Pop was the head of the house who demanded respect and obedience at all times.
One day after supper, Harry, who was strong-willed, left the table inappropriately, which made Pop angry. I don't know if it was something that Harry said or did, but he was directed to go to the cellar's wood bin and find a good stick with which he could be punished via a whipping. The table was cleared and Harry went into the cellar to search for an appropriate whipping stick.
Harry finally worked his way slowly up the steps and back to the breakfast room where Pop was waiting for him. With his head slightly bowed, Harry presented my father with a nice two-inch-by-four-inch-by-three-foot stick. Pop stared, wide-eyed, and after a moment of silence broke into a hysterical laugh. He couldn't contain himself. He broke up with laughter, saying, "What's this?"
Harry, with some uncertainty, looked at his father and said, "You wanted me to bring you a strong stick. This is the strongest one I could find."
Well, my father was so amused by this incident he couldn't help laughing, and said, "OK, Harry. But I can't punish you with this thing. Put it back in the cellar. You are forgiven this time, but don't let it happen again."
So Harry got out of his punishment for whatever it was that he did, and the story was retold time and again over the years, and lives on forever in my memory.

Summer Fun in the City

2006-07-16T09:00:00.002-04:00

There were some summer days in North Philly which were so hot that on occasion, Mr. Foehl would open the fire hydrant on Colona Street so the kids could enjoy running through the spray of the fire plug. Some kids wore all their clothes and got soaked. Some kids would take off everything but their under shorts, or just remove their shirts and shoes, but it really didn't make a difference. The important thing was to get wet, soaked thoroughly, knowing that in an hour or so the water would be turned off.
Well, Mr.Foehl would tend to his chores in the garage and his son Raymond would get the wrench and open the hydrant again so we could soak ourselves some more. In a while, Mr. Foehl would come out and turn the water off again. We couldn't have it on too long, he would say; the pressure in the system might be needed in case of a fire somewhere.
We complained happily though, because we were soaking wet and it was the highlight of the day while it lasted.
This was, of course, a frequent happening in various neighborhoods in Philly -- something suburban kids, so far as I've seen in Levittown, have never experienced.

Pop: Jack of All Trades, Meister of Brews

2006-07-14T13:38:00.003-04:00

My pop knew how to do a lot of things, including making beer, whiskey and wine. Of course, it was against the law to make, buy or sell alcoholic beverages because the alcohol prohibition act or 18th Amendment, prohibited selling and drinking of alcoholic beverages in public places, a restriction that lasted in the U.S. from 1920-1933. That didn't stop Pop. He bought the makings and brewed his own brand of alcoholic drinks, even after the 18th Amendment was repealed.
I was just a little shaver in the early '30s but I watched my father construct his still, which produced a pure white liquid, drop by drop, from a bag of rye grain. When he had distilled a full bottle, he got a bag of brown sugar, which he added to the white whiskey until his "eye told him" it was just the right color.
He also bought grapes at the Italian market in South Philly and bought a big press which he installed in the cellar. I still remember my father and my brothers taking turns turning the press to produce pure grape juice. The juice was put into old whiskey bottles that he got from the local bar just up the street from our house. The bottles were then stored in our wine cellar which, when properly aged, was served to the guests who frequented our house on most weekends.
The same with beer. He bought the hops and malt and whatever was needed to make home-brew. He built a cold box filled with ice and ordered a tank of oxygen to provide the pressure to move it through the coils so we had the wherewithal to serve our guests whenever the occasion called for it.
All this took place in our cellar on 10th Street and there was never a need for Pop's friends to bring their own bottle. They could depend on my father's alcoholic sorcery to refresh their thirsts until it was time to leave, usually, very early in the morning.

Yo-Yo: Big Fun on a Little String

2006-07-14T11:50:00.002-04:00

The yo-yo was a toy that inspired widespread technical skill among kids during the 1930s. The spinning spool at the end of a string evolved over time, from a five-and-ten-cent store toy to what is today a device priced in the dollars for countless varieties of the marvelous invention, designed for top performance in various colorful shapes out of metal or plastic.
The kids in my neighborhood all had the less expensive wooden variety of yo-yo, but we were able to accomplish many amazing tricks by buying a string with a loop that allowed the yo-yo to spin, sometimes for minutes in the down or "sleep" position. Before the spin began to fade we would jerk the string to return it to home position, in the hand.
We would do tricks like "walking the dog," "rock the baby," "around the world" and countless other manipulations to confound the disbelieving onlookers, if we practiced enough.
There were local neighborhood contests as well as state and national yo-yo events, which amazed the audiences as they watched the champion yo-yo spinners.
The yo-yo is said to have originated in China about 1,000 years ago but there is also evidence of its use in early Greek culture. The yo-yo is a toy that apparently became known around the world. Some expert yo-yoers developed skills of spinning them with one in each hand, doing tricks that took years of practice. Today there remains a yo-yo circuit that brings competitors from around the world who perform gravity-defying tricks with high-tech yo-yos.
Back then, we never imagined how far yo-yo tricks would evolve. We were satisfied if we accomplished the more difficult tricks in our neighborhood. Succeeding at "walking the dog" and making "the spider web" made us champions in our own right.

Scouting: A Life-Changing Experience

2006-07-12T10:37:00.005-04:00

As a Boy Scout, I was introduced to many new friends who would be influential in my teenage life. The older Scouts were there to help us with our advancement in and knowledge about Scouting and life in general. I learned about nature, camping, cooking and wildlife, among other things. We learned from one another how to do things I would otherwise never have experienced, such as going on a one-day hike in the countryside woods where we could discover nature and animals; overnight camping trips to Scout reserves; and learning to prepare food on an open fire – all connected to requirements for advancing in rank from Tenderfoot Scout to Second-class or First-class and beyond.

Among the many memories I have, I remember vividly designing and making a small totem pole. Indian lore and related practices were included in all our activities and demonstrated by our leaders, assistant Scout Master and older Scouts. As I took my turn demonstrating various skills each was checked and initialed in my handbook as completed. When all requirements were satisfactorily completed we were advanced to the next rank in a formal ceremony called a Court of Honor.
When a Scout had completed all the requirements to achieve First-class Scout, you were ready to progress to the next rank. This was done through earning merit badges by demonstrating our knowledge and skills to a Scout leader from another troop or to a neighborhood commissioner. First-class Scouts were also eligible to become patrol leaders and senior assistant Scout leaders. It was not only fun but educational to advance through the various ranks in Scouting. The pride and prestige of Scouting seems to be lost to today's teenage population. I believe I will remember Scouting all my life, as well as my friends in the troop.

Philly Block Parties Brought Neighbors Together

2006-07-11T17:39:00.002-04:00

Not many people remember attending Philly block parties. In my neighborhood, most block parties were held on Delhi Street, which was blocked off at each end between Dolphin Street and Susquehanna Avenue. This was a festival of activities, which just about all homeowners participated in, a tradition that provided hours and days of fun times and memories for all, young and old alike. The older folks would sit and watch from their doorsteps or house windows. Every summer there was at least one block party that ran for two or three days over a weekend. It was a carnival of tables on sidewalks with a big area in the middle of the street for bingo. There were other games of chance, and games for kids and every treat imaginable -- candy apples, ice cream cones, popcorn, soft pretzels, homemade cookies and cakes. It was just a lot of fun to run around and visit with neighbors. There was also a roped-off area with colored lights for dancing and a four- or five-piece musical combo that played until closing time. I stood and watched the musicians play, particularly the bass fiddle player. After a while he asked me if I played the bass fiddle. I said no, but I knew the names of four strings -- G,D,A,E -- and I smiled with a big grin.
"You're right," he said, and smiled back at me.
"How about your girlfriend, does she play?" My cousin Margaret was with me and she responded, "He's my cousin and I don't play a fiddle. I'm taking piano lessons," she said. The fiddle player smiled at her and started playing, so we wandered through the other activities until closing time and went home. This, of course, was a great way to have fun in the neighborhood, when these gatherings were common in many neighborhoods, a wonderful social experience that has been lost in time.

Raymond the Tire Repair Man

2006-07-09T13:00:00.002-04:00

Raymond Foehl Jr. was about 15 years old and helped his father with work at the family garage, like filling the reusable bottles with motor oil from a big 55-gallon drum. He swept the garage and even was allowed to move cars from one spot to another to expedite access for customers.
Another job he had was repairing flat tires. This took quite a bit of expertise to accomplish the required strength and agility. Raymond was sturdy -- he weighed about 150 pounds and had been fixing flats for some time.
The procedure was to lay the tire flat on the ground, unhook and remove the retaining ring and then, with two tire irons, lift one side of the tire over the wheel rim. Not an easy job, but necessary to access the inner tube, which usually had a puncture from a nail or other metal object that had worked through the tire. Having gained access to the inner tube, he filled it with air that made a whispering noise where it was punctured. To check for other possible leaks, he rotated the air-filled tire in a trough of water, turning it 360-degrees. Any additional leaks would bubble in the water. All punctures would be marked for repair with a yellow crayon.
The tube was now ready to the patched. Wherever there was a puncture, the tube was cleaned with a little tin rasp before patching cement was applied around the puncture and then a patch would be adhered. The patch was then rolled with a little rolling pin device to be sure it was properly sealed. Now the tube was reinserted into the tire. The tire was then hammered onto the rim, the retaining rim was replaced and the tire was ready for use again.
This procedure cost customers 50 cents, as I recall, and no one offered tips to the repairman in those days.

Cracking Eggs: A Holiday Ritual From the Old Country

2006-07-08T10:47:00.002-04:00

We used to have an annual ritual in my neighborhood which took place at Easter time. The ritual was called "Eppering" -- my parents called it Opfern. A lot of the kids seemed to know what this meant because we roamed the neighborhood to meet up with fellow Epperer's starting on Easter morning.
Eppering was a ritual whereby two individuals would challenge one another, with the goal of breaking both ends of the other's hard-boiled Easter egg before the other could.
One of us would enclose an egg protectively in our hand, to allow as little of the egg to show as possible -- just enough so that the tip or back of the egg could be reached with the challenger's egg. You would then proceed to tap through the opening and crack the egg. The egg was then reversed, and the ritual repeated on the other end of the egg. The first one to have their egg broken at both ends lost it to the challenger. We lost some and won some.
After several days, we all had a collection of broken eggs which of course, we enjoyed eating along with our other Easter candy.
The practice of Eppering was brought to America by European Catholics and seemed to be repeated in neighborhoods as part of the Easter holiday. Opfern means to sacrifice, or making an offering (Christ offering his life, for example), but we kids only knew it as a means of increasing our collection of hard-boiled Easter eggs to feast upon.

Life of a Tenderfoot: My Scouting Adventure

2006-07-07T14:22:00.002-04:00

I used to see a couple of neighborhood boys pass by my house wearing Boy Scout uniforms and carrying knapsacks on their backs. I was envious. One day, I saw Bob Young, who was the foster son of the janitor from the Baptist church, and one of the Scouts who periodically passed my house walking together in uniform. Bob must have noticed the sparkle in my eyes and he stopped to ask me if I wanted to join their Scout troop. I eagerly said "yes."
Bob took me to the next meeting of his troop, which was held every Friday night at the Presbyterian Church at Broad and Diamond streets, where he introduced me to his Scout Master, Robert Palmer. Mr. Palmer then arranged to come to my house to meet my parents and, with joint agreement, I was issued a handbook with which to study the requirements to become a Tenderfoot Scout.
A couple of weeks later, I had memorized the Scout oath and laws and was able to recite them to Mr. Palmer at a time set aside for this purpose, during the meeting. The next week, I was installed, along with several other recruits, as a Tenderfoot and welcomed to the troop. Mr. Palmer -- we called him "Skipper" because of his service in the Navy -- issued us insignia and badges to be sewn in place on our uniforms as soon as we were able to purchase them. My mother went with me to the uniform store in Philadelphia and upon arrival at home, I watched her attach the insignias as required, so I would be ready for the next Friday's meeting.
That Friday night, I was installed in the Flying Eagle Patrol to begin my work and studies to earn my second-class rank and someday hope to become an Eagle Scout.

Finding My Religion

2006-06-29T16:25:00.002-04:00

My aunt Kathryn, who was my father's sister, came to America before World War I and lived on 10th Street, about three blocks north of us. She owned several houses which ahe rented out, and she was also a Notary Public. I never heard how she accomplished all this, as she was also a single woman.
She would make periodic visits to our house but I never really got to know her. She had turned from the Lutheran Church to become a staunch follower of the Catholic religion and on her death bed made my father promise that I would receive Catholic catechism lessons at St. Edward Church, which was right across the street from Hartranft Elementary School.
Mrs. Foehl was a parishioner of St. Edward, and made the arrangements. I attended several sessions with a priest for lessons, but it never seemed to move me, so I remained unattached to any religious order for most of my life, except for periodic attendance at the Baptist church, next to Mr. Rowe's butcher shop, the German Lutheran Church where my cousins attended, and the Presbyterian church, where my Boy Scout Troop held meetings. So I never really got a handle on one particular religious faith. It would take years before I would find a place in my life for things of faith.
While in college, an English professor once said he believed no one could claim to be educated until they had read the Bible, which encouraged me to buy a St. James Bible. I read it almost from cover to cover. I am not sure how educated the experience left me, and I still haven't found religious truth, but this knowledge later inspired me to begin recreating the Bible stories that enthralled me as Biblical art. To this day I have completed close to 200 oil paintings along with almost 300 ink drawings, woodcuts and linoleum prints based on Bible stories. I just couldn't help myself; the stories and images I read sparked my imagination and led me through the Bible as if I were reading a novel. I just couldn't stop reading, and to this day, continue to find new ways to illustrate the vivid stories and characters I discovered in the Bible.

Bygone Days: Produce Vendors Selling Wares

2006-06-27T11:30:00.002-04:00

In the 1930s, housewives spent their days at home doing all the things housewives had to do, like washing and hanging up clothes to dry, ironing, folding and storing them, sweeping, cleaning and vacuuming, and taking care of the children that were too young to go to school. So shopping was usually reserved for Saturdays when husbands were home. But most housewives were dependent on street vendors for various needs -- the iceman, the milkman, and the produce vendor, among others. The vegetable vendor would stroll with his two-wheeled cart down the street once a week offering fresh vegetables and fruits. Our moms would depend on him to restock last Saturday's purchases. He had apples, bananas, lettuce, tomatoes and a variety of other items that were laid out in his cart with price tags on sticks anchored in the middle of the various sections. The vegetable man would call out in all directions as he walked down the street, slowly pushing his cart, "Fresh vegetables, lettuce, fruit, fresh today!" Mom sometimes went to the cart to check the produce, or if I was home, might send me to buy a particular item she wanted. The vegetable man was a definite need for busy housewives for whom he knew he had to provide fresh produce, or risk losing his best customers. This was "good old days merchandising" that has been lost to homemakers. On the other hand, while the convenience of supermarkets might be an improvement, it also requires a car, driver's license and gasoline to get there, which most housewives didn't have in the old days.
If you ask me, there will never be a replacement for the various street vendors, where housewives could shop from their doorstep as well as catch up on the latest news and gossip about the neighborhood.

We Were the Only Social Services for Old Mr. White

2006-06-26T11:02:00.002-04:00

Along with our neighborhood philosopher Smitty, we had another friendly character, the blind man lived on Colona Street. His name was Mr. White. He, too, was an occasional storyteller for the kids. We would usually find him sitting on French's Mustard factory doorstep. On occasion we would sit with him and he would tell us about how he served in the Army in World War I and later became blind from drinking denatured alcohol. He would also ask us to search in our cellars for ordinary wooden canes he could use, and would pay us a nickel for each one we brought to him. He lived in his house on Colona Street all by himself. He was afraid of bugs and tied strings around his trousers so bugs would not crawl up his trouser legs. He took a few of us through his house one day to show us how he lived. The house seemed to be empty except for a few chairs, a small radio and a bed. No one ever visited him, like family. It may be he didn't have a family. But he needed conversation, which was about all we could get him -- except a few of us who found some old wooden canes which we brought him and, as promised, were paid a nickel each for them. I guess they didn't have social services or welfare people in those days to help him with his problems. We kids gave him about all the companionship and conversation he got, until he seemed to disappear one day and we never saw him again.

Leadership Skills Take Practice

2006-06-25T15:07:00.002-04:00

Having been appointed to the safety patrol at Hartranft Elementary School, I was informed by other members of the patrol that each month one of the members had to hold a meeting (party) for the patrol at their house, starting with the captain's house.
Well, I was in a dilemma. How does a 10-year-old arrange a meeting /party at his house without authorization from one's parents? A few days before the event was to take place I mentioned my problem to my Mom and, like the trooper she was, she gave her approval, support and help to pull it off.
We had a cellar which was finished, including cement floor and the old living room furniture and my Lionel train set had a permanent spot in the cellar, for my entertainment, but there was still plenty of room for the party.
Mom made cookies and cakes, provided pretzels and chips and soft drinks for the big event.
Saturday arrived along with the safety patrol. Mom greeted them and escorted them to the cellar. The girls -- they were mostly girls -- were all giggly and planned games like Post Office and Spin the Bottle, but there was no mention of a meeting agenda. There were only a few boys in attendance, so you know who had to take care of the heavy load.
A couple of hours later we ended the meeting and I saw the girls to the front door. They all gathered around me to thank me and kiss me and still not a word about "the meeting." This was my first experience for meeting with mostly girls, so I just accepted all this as normal practice, but trying to ward off the girls from getting overly friendly. Of course in a few years I was to learn more about girls and hormones and how girls seemed usually to be the aggressors in life's evolution of male - female relationships.

Smitty's Gang

2006-06-24T10:33:00.002-04:00

All the kids in the neighborhood called him Smitty. You could usually find him sitting on the doorsteps of the house where he had an apartment. I don't know what he did during the winter months, but during summer, kids would spend time just sitting with him to talk and hear his stories and ideas or wherever small talk we ventured into, including politics. Smitty was a staunch supporter of electing FDR for a second term as president. We discussed marketing a campaign banner, if only he could get someone (like me) to put the idea on paper. I made some sketches, but that is about as far as it got.
Then one day he suggested I draw a giant Batman image as big as the street from curb to curb. The other kids could dig out the outline with nails, pen knives and screwdrivers making the image permanent in the asphalt. He would then call the newspapers and have them come out to photograph it and we kids would be in the photo and become famous.
I drew the image of Batman, the whole width the street, about 20 feet wide and the kids labored for several days to dig out the image in the asphalt. The kids then used colored chalk to make it more realistic but we never saw a photographer or news story about our efforts.
Whenever we were at a loss for something to do during the summer months, Smitty was always there on his doorstep to greet us and talk about what was happening in the neighborhood and the world. Of course, I don't know what Smitty did in the winter months except hibernate in his room until spring and the warm weather allowed us to gather at his doorstep again, another year older and wiser.

Bubbling with Ambition: Our Soap Box Racer

2006-06-23T11:19:00.003-04:00

Back in the 1930s, my parents leased a store at the corner of Daulphin and Delhi streets, just about a block away from our house on 10th Street, to venture into the restaurant business. I was about 10 years old and found the store cellar contained all sorts of leftovers from previous tenants, like wood boxes and boards, rope, hardware and generally usable materials.
It was summer, and the annual Soapbox Derby was fast approaching. Some of my neighborhood friends and I explored the idea of building a soap box racer using the odds and ends we found in the store cellar. Some of the other kids brought a saw, wagon wheels and anything else useful to build our soap box racer.
Racers in those days were not as fancy as the ones being built today, but they had to meet the criteria for entries in the race. It was a real creative building experience for us, because there were no adults around to help us. When kids got together for this kind of activity, it became an engineering design that evolved as we went along.
I don't remember where the local races were held, because we never got to the point where we could even give our racer a trial run, but it kept us busy for at least a week or two.
We didn't enter our racer but we had a great time building it and we would probably have been winners. "Maybe we should wait till next year," was the final decision. Of course, next year would never come.

Oh Captain, My Captain

2006-06-21T22:28:00.002-04:00

Hartranft elementary school offered grades from kindergarten to 6A (first semester of grade 6.) If we were promoted beyond the sixth grade, sections 6B through 8B were offered at Ferguson grade school, a short walking distance from Hartranft.
We had three floors of classrooms, each containing an A section and B section, with promotions every January and June. Each teacher had to divide her time and lessons between the A class and the B class sections and this seemed to work well because the A class could hear and learn from the class lessons and the B class had an opportunity to review from the A class lessons.
Having one teacher teach two levels in one room at the same time was standard practice in Philadelphia schools and might well be considered for review in planning teacher education training in today's schools.
My teacher, however, was not only responsible for teaching the subject matter of her grade level, she was also responsible for designating the student who would serve as captain of the school's safety patrol, while one of the other teachers was responsible for recommending the lieutenant. You may be surprised, but I was selected by my teacher to serve as the captain. With this designation I received a big silver patrol badge, which was worn on my arm at recess time and before and after school for crossing guard duties, among other responsibilities, like leading my class to Ferguson school for instruction in industrial arts and home economics classes because Hartranft did not have the facilities or teachers to do so.
So, there you have it, the story of how I achieved rank and status among my peers at the tender age of 11.

Out of the Inkwell: Koko the Clown

2006-06-21T08:06:00.002-04:00

When I was very young -- but old enough to go to the movies on Saturdays -- they showed a great variety of cartoons in addition to the feature film. The cartoons included such characters as Krazy Cat, Porky Pig, Betty Boop, Mickey Mouse and Koko the Clown in an Ink Bottle, just to name a few. The ink bottle clown was the most imaginative cartoon of all and fascinated me. The film would start with a photograph of an India ink bottle with a hand dipping into the ink bottle with a pen, then moving the pen to a sheet of paper, where it would draw a clown's face, which slowly became animated as the pen continued to draw more lines. The clown had an adventure which usually got him into some kind of trouble, and finally closed by showing the clown jumping back into the bottle and replacing the cap, to escape whatever predicament he had gotten himself into.
The memory of this clown has lived with me for many years, since early on. I tried to find the clown in my own ink bottle, but he wouldn't come out to play on my paper. What a disappointment; what frustration. I always felt this clown was my inspiration to draw with pen and ink. As kids we were always fascinated by the cartoons and animation, which of course led to our experimenting with cartoons before the more serious artists among us learned more about drawing. But with the exposure to cartooning, nothing was more inspirational than the little animated clown in an ink bottle that seemed to have a life of his own.

Losing My Marbles in a Game of "Knuckles Down"

2006-06-20T08:18:00.002-04:00

Playing marbles was an ongoing activity among the neighborhood kids, especially during the lazy days of summer. We had special marbles called aggies, solids, or nibs -- a general term for marbles. If we lost a special nib in the game, we might bargain with the winner for its return by selecting another marble in our possession, or might give two nibs for the return of the one special nib.
Games included "Around the World," "Knuckles Down," or "Stand Up Sharp Shooting." Knuckles Down was a favorite game where we drew a large circle on the ground and each player put several nibs in the center, then took turns trying to hit a selected marble out of the circle, but we had to shoot from outside the circle with our knuckles touching the ground, or it was a foul and we missed our turn.
Sometimes we went home with a pocketful marbles or with just our favorite shooter. That meant we had to go out and buy more marbles in the local store or trade marbles with somebody for a favored article in our possession, like a penknife or pennies or some other trinkets.
Marbles was a game where we learned to challenge a shooter's actions, because we all learned to observe closely that all the rules were met that we had set up before the game. However, this seldom caused any real anger or fighting among the players. We also recognized that some kids were more adept shooters so we found ways to compensate as we developed strategies and personal shooting techniques.
I don't believe I have seen any youngsters in Levittown playing with marbles since the day I moved out here more than 50 years ago. Too bad; it is a fun game and could keep kids busy for hours. Maybe they should institute it in the public schools as an elective sport, or at least an extracurricular club. I know they still sell marbles at toy stores, but I'm sure kids probably have no idea how to really shoot them, the way we did.

Nurturing Talent -- and Practice -- Keys to Success

2006-06-19T12:12:00.001-04:00

Some say artistic talent is inborn, as a gene factor. Some say it is a matter of imagination. Others say it is instinctive to be creative and inventive. Still others say it is a gift from God ... an inherent desire to draw, paint, sculpt, dance or design things.
I believe it is the development of all or any combination of these creative elements. An artist can usually create using one or more, or many medi's. No matter what he does in the arts, it is done by utilizing manipulative skills, imagination and memory. Talent is developed by the imaginative application of physical and mental skills which can be learned or may be intuitive.
Artistry utilizes memory of what one sees and hears. It amplifies one's imagination as it applies to an idea or mental image. The utilization of innate gene factors are passed on from one's ancestry, which stimulate one to be creative. It often requires formal instruction to develop and refine those skills, which one eventually comes to be recognized as having exceptional talent.
An artist usually learns from others as well as experiences and the practice of his inborn abilities. The natural born artist evolves from all the above factors including those artists designated as geniuses, whose minds have developed more rapidly or seemingly unassisted, like those who are recognized historically -- DaVinci, Michelangelo, Rembrandt and most recently, Picasso, among others.
A parent notices his child has a knack for drawing or coloring or dancing, which appears superior to other children, when the parent "can't draw a straight line." Usually it is best to allow the "knack" to develop on its own, with whatever help may be available from the expert "art specialists" in the school system. When it comes time for advanced help, these experts can be consulted and will provide guidance.
Those children who have natural skills can count on specialized schools to develop those artistic skills to meet the challenges of the art world and succeed or not, depending upon their continued devotion to the art, until they are recognized by an employer who will pay them for their art skills.
There are many opportunities available to an artist who has talent, from entry-level to independent freelance positions. Mostly it takes practice, practice, practice. The really talented will find satisfaction and success.

Father's Day: Reflecting on Life with Pop

2006-06-17T23:50:00.002-04:00

My pop didn't spend much time talking with me as I was growing up, in fact I was a little afraid of his patriarchal command of life. It wasn't until my Mom died that he took the time to talk with me seriously.
He was totally broken up when Mom died, although he never seemed to show his affection to her around the house. He would come home from work, we would have supper in silence, and he would sit in the kitchen until dark, sobbing in misery and self-pity.
One day he sat in the living room with the Evening Bulletin newspaper and finally called me to talk. "We are all alone now," he said. "We have to work together to make things work for us." His eyes filled with tears when he mentioned Mom, as he held me on his lap.
He would continue with the regular household chores, like cleaning and polishing, perhaps because it reminded him of Mom's dedication to these activities. He would wash clothes and iron on weekends. It seemed like everything was the same as when Mom was there, except it wasn't. We both missed her more than words could express.
One day he said to me, "Today is my birthday... I am 50." I never thought of birthdays, that was Mom's responsibility for planning and celebrating. Then a couple of years later he brought a woman into the house and announced to me, "Herbert, this is your new Mom." I was 15 years old and accepted his announcement as matter-of-factly as a naive teenager could.

Childhood Rich With Memories -- and Factories

2006-06-17T08:13:00.003-04:00

I lived in a great neighborhood as a youngster with lots of the friends and adventures. French's Mustard factory was just across the street from my house, Ritter's pretzel factory was just down the street and Whitman's candy factory was on the street behind us. Wow, what a neighborhood.
My favorite place to hang out beginning with my preschool days was at Foehl's, a garage where my father kept his 1928 Chevy Sedan. Billy and Raymond Foehl were among my best friends. We played games like checkers and went to the local movie house together on Saturdays and had all kinds of fun.
Mr.Foehl, Raymond Sr., was the garage proprietor and seemed to spend most of his time sleeping in his little office at the front of the garage where he entertained occasional visitors. Mr. Foehl occasionally, on warm summer days, would sit on the sidewalk bench outside his office to nap. If someone came along to interrupt is nap, he would snort some noises and say, "Oh, it's all right, I was just resting my eyelids," and expression that, according to my family, I have adopted as my own.

I Was a Streetyard Insect Bully

2006-06-16T12:27:00.002-04:00

It seemed to me that during the warmest days of the summer the city streets of Philadelphia were inundated with flying objects which turned out to be grasshoppers.
It was our general practice, when we had nothing else to do on these hot, humid summer days, to sneak up on a grasshopper that had settled down on the pavement or on the side of a building, and with practice, grab them before they jumped off with a buzzing flutter of the membrane on their jumper legs.
When we captured a grasshopper, we began a ritual whereby we would eventually release him unharmed. We would talk to the grasshopper gently, saying to him, "Spit tobacco and I will let you go." We would hold him close to the head with the thumb and forefinger and rub his mouth against the brick wall or sidewalk while we talked to him. Usually, a little stream of brown juice would be emitted from his mouth and we would say, "good boy," and release him into the wind.
Of course, the brown juice only looked like tobacco juice, but we seemed to find satisfaction from its following our directions to spit tobacco, and a feeling of omnipotence when we released him from captivity.
Then we would seek out another and another grasshopper and repeat the ritual again and again until we tired of the game. Only city boys played this game, I believe.

Adventures of Silent Herb, Part 1

2006-06-15T07:36:00.002-04:00

My brother Bill was was a lanky 6-foot-4 extrovert, who was always looking for ways to make it in those tough Depression years. During the day he worked at Makransky's clothing factory in North Philadelphia and nights and weekends, he worked as an entertainer in South Philly nightclubs, where he sang and did stand-up comedy with off-color jokes, so I was told.
He saw the possibilities of developing an act with his little brother, me. Bill stood me in front of the piano with brother, Hank, at the keys, then moved the floor lamp next to me and hung the lampshade askew to make a spotlight, and the stage was set.
I don't remember the song I was supposed to sing but with the family staring at me and Hank playing and replaying an introduction, I was too scared, nervous and embarrassed to open my mouth for fear of making a mistake and being laughed at. I was a complete flop, to say the least.
Brother Bill was disappointed but this would not be the last time he tried to find a way to put me in the spotlight.

Pretzels Were My Business

2006-06-14T14:53:00.002-04:00

Most people don't remember the days when that now expensive Philadelphia soft pretzel could be purchased for a penny, including mustard.
Well, as a grade school student at Ferguson grade school, I would pass the bakery where they made soft pretzels and they were one of my favorite lunchtime treats. I often bought a pretzel from a street vendor who would station himself outside the school yard fence during recess hours.
As a first-time entrepreneurial venture, I found I could buy two of those big soft pretzels for one penny. All I had to do was bring a small shopping basket, a dish towel and a jar of mustard to the pretzel shop. I would give them a dime and they would put 20 pretzels in my basket. I would cover them over with a dish towel to keep them warm and wander the streets yelling, "Fresh pretzels! Fresh pretzels!" I was now a businessman.
If I would sell all my pretzels, I would earn 100 percent profit, selling them for a penny a piece and if I had the mind, I could go back and get more pretzels. And if it so happened I had pretzels left over after I decided to close up shop for the day, I could eat the leftovers.
I would walk the streets in my neighborhood yelling, "Fresh Pretzels! Fresh pretzels!" with my somewhat shrill tenor voice. But I soon discovered it wasn't easy to sell 20 pretzels and usually I didn't sell most of them even after walking through the streets for hours.
So, I didn't last long in the pretzel business, because it was tiring and I would rather do other things with my time, like play marbles or half ball or draw pictures.
The experience was worthwhile, even though I soon got tired of eating leftover pretzels. But even today, when I see those big golden brown soft pretzels in the food stores, I am tempted to buy one for 50 cents or three for a dollar, because they still remind me of the good old days when I could taste them with my eyes and they were only a penny each for a pretzel.

Warnock Street "Sportsmen," Circa 1935

2006-06-12T12:03:00.002-04:00

Back in the 1930s, if you would walk down 10th Street from my house to Susquehanna Avenue, turn right and walk toward 11th Street, you'd arrive at Warnock Street.
Looking past the old abandoned corner store with boarded up show windows and doors, you'd see where former housing had been torn down to become decayed rubble revealing the plaster walls on the side of the row house.
The now abandoned store was once a "mom-and-pop" convenience store with fashionable details such as wood moldings and clay and glass brick work -- common in houses and buildings of old Philadelphia. On the sidewalk in front of the store was a steel plate entrance to the cellar which could be opened for access and delivery of merchandise.
The wooden fence defined the backyard of the store with an alleyway, which was also a common detail in planning the row houses, for a rear entrance. Next to the store was an old poster, slowly deteriorating from the weather, pasted on the fence advertising the Diamond Movie theater offering ice cooled viewing and comfort.
Under the front store window was an old metal billboard promoting Phillies cigars for five cents. The sidewalks were large slabs of gray slate, another old Philadelphia standard.
Kids played here and enjoyed their neighborhood south of Susquehanna Avenue and the store entrance had acquired a new "last chance" status of entertainment, for the sport of shooting craps (playing dice) for the teenagers in zoot suit trousers who'd snap their fingers as they rolled the dice, and admonished a winning roll, to "buy papa a new pair of shoes."
This is the scene depicted in the illustration above, a familiar sight I took in often on my way to Broad Street, Boy Scout meetings and the Uptown Theater.

Radio Rocketships Fueled Imaginations

2006-06-12T11:58:00.002-04:00

"Buck Rogers in the 25th Century" was on the radio every afternoon with new adventures for kids to stir their imaginations. Buck Rogers and Wilma Dearing were constantly thwarting the evil ways of Killer Kane and his gang, and the stories would excite our imaginations with the concept of ray guns, flying rocket belts and spaceships.
When kids in my neighborhood got together we would discuss the Buck Rogers radio ventures, particularly the rocket ships, and we would sit together with pencil and paper to design our ideas and visions of powerful, heavily-armed rocket ships. We would try to outdo one another with our design conceptions by adding more and more rockets and firing devices, armament and speed. It was an all-consuming contest to decide who could outdo the other.
This was back in the 1930s, long before we heard about Werner von Braun and John Goddard, among others, who were experimenting with rocketry before the onset of World War II. We were familiar with firecrackers and display rockets which fascinated us, but the real thing was soon to arrive in the 1940s, with the U2 rockets and flying devices. Then, in the 1960s we would be experiencing the kinds of rocketry that would take an individual from earth to the moon and beyond, as well as site to site, on devices like flying platforms.
Buck Rogers and his contemporaries in the 1800s were way ahead of Jules Verne, with his literary exploits to the moon using rocket ships and other unimaginable devices. Even today's technology, that sends rockets thousands of miles into space to exotic places like Mars, while amazing, is not quite so impressive to our generation. After all, Buck Rogers had already been there; he was our hero.

Post-war America: Frustration in a box

2006-06-12T11:11:00.001-04:00

After my first year of teaching at the Florence Township schools in New Jersey in 1955, I had mixed feelings about kids and teachers. I retained, in my memory acts and implications of actions, by various levels of behavior of both children and mature adults.
I tried to put these mental images of memories into picture form and painted an all-inclusive pictorial episode of what I saw and felt.
There were youngsters who were angry in their lives, who reacted to their feelings of not being understood in a world of vacillating reactions after a world war of anger hate and suspicion, by nailing their elders into a box with the ultimate goal of disposing of these misfit adults, like those in the box, the philosophers, who sought answers in books or in prayer, anger, suspicion and fear, and remained in conflict with worldwide conditions, not only changes the US.
The elements and people in the painting are used symbolically to illustrate feelings, actions and life generally, as I saw it. How war and philosophical or political conflicts were dealt with by the new postwar generation they had been exposed to, as I began my new career in education. Will the dark clouds of world unrest continue to spread, I wondered, or will they be dissolved, resolved or absorbed by this New World, yet to be determined, as it's youth grow to adulthood seeking what the New World should be, could be, or will be?
I still wonder today if this painted memory will resolve itself in the near future or, like Oscar Wilde's Picture of Dorian Gray, continue to incorporate the darker, disruptive elements of mankind into future life on this planet earth?