Les Waas, Writer of the Mister Softee Jingle

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You may not know the words, or the name of the person who wrote it, but the Mister Softee jingle is a tune most of us can hum along to. Les Waas wrote the theme for the ice cream truck franchise around 1960, and it's since become a summertime anthem for sugar-craving kids around the country. Composing one of history's catchiest earworms isn't the only legacy Waas left behind when he died on April 19, however. In his 94 years, the adman penned hundreds of jingles and gained a reputation as a notorious prankster.

Lester Morton Waas was born in Philadelphia on May 18, 1921 to Lester Waas and the former Alice Maybaum. After graduating from Olney High School in 1939, Waas got his start as a sheet metal worker at the Philadelphia Navy Yard. His time there was cut short when the United States entered World War II, and in 1942 he joined the Army Air Forces, serving as a C-47 pilot in the Pacific theater.

Following his return home, life progressed smoothly for Waas. He met Sylvia Wasserman at a dance in North Philly and the two were married shortly afterward. Then, in the 1950s, he decided to take a risk. With little to show for himself professionally outside of a knack for writing catchy tunes, Waas struck out on his own and launched an advertising agency.

Waas Inc. produced live commercials that aired alongside several big-name shows, like Dick Clark's American Bandstand and the programs of celebrity cowgirl Sally Starr. With help from his wife Sylvia on the business side of things, Waas wrote nearly 1000 jingles through his own firm and other agencies. His commercial for A.C. Kissling Co. (“Give me a little Kissling’s Sauerkraut/ It’s fresh and clean without a doubt”) was so popular that it had to be canceled so suppliers could catch up with the demand. The jingle Waas wrote for Holiday Inn (“If it’s a birthdate, anniversary date/ Or a regular Saturday night date/ Make it a Holi-date”) remained a favorite of his throughout his lifetime. He also wrote songs for Ford, the Coast Guard, and the Philadelphia Phillies–but it was the tune he composed for a young ice cream truck company that would leave his biggest impact.

Mister Softee’s theme song—titled “Jingles and Chimes”—was originally commissioned as a 3-minute radio ad. According to Smithsonian.com, Waas recorded the jingle in one take using a 12-inch bell given to him by the company. Most of us are familiar with the instrumental, music-box version that blares from the tops of ice cream trucks in the summer, but few people know the actual words. Waas’s lyrics went like this [PDF]:

Here comes Mister Softee
The soft ice cream man.
The creamiest, dreamiest soft ice cream,
You get from Mister Softee.
For a refreshing delight supreme
Look for Mister Softee.
My milkshakes and my sundaes and my cones are such a treat
Listen for my store on wheels ding-a-ling down the street…
Look for Mister Softee
S-O-F-T double E, Mister Softee!

Les Waas made his contribution to the Mister Softee franchise just in time for it to grow into a national icon. At its peak in the late '60s, 1000 ice cream trucks were broadcasting the jingle across 15 states. The song has since been featured in TV shows, heavy metal covers, and cell phone ringtones. Today it can even be heard tinkling from Mister Softee trucks in China.

But not all the reception has been positive. In the early 2000s, the song became the target of an attempt to ban ice cream trucks in New York City from playing jingles altogether. A compromise was eventually reached that would allow vendors to keep their loudspeakers on, but only when their trucks were moving. Many New Yorkers were happy to learn the nostalgic jingle would survive to play another day. Others, like the 7000 people who filed ice cream truck complaints between 2010 and 2014, were less enthusiastic. One Washington Heights resident wrote to 311 in 2014: “The repetitive ice cream truck music is driving my wife and I insane ... at some point between 9 and 10 p.m. every night since the start of Spring my wife and I have been greeted by this unrelenting demonic jingle.”

Some people might feel disheartened to hear their work described as “demonic.” Luckily, Waas had a great sense of humor. In the late 50s, he and a few of his ad buddies formed the PCA or Procrastination Club of America. Their accomplishments included launching a campaign to reelect the late president James Buchanan and organizing a bucket brigade to put out the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Waas died as the group’s acting president (they were still waiting to hear back from the nominating committee of 1957).

The president of the PCA was just one of the colorful characters in his repertoire. For one recurring radio bit, he played a congressman proposing a bill that would help conserve the earth’s oxygen supply–by making it mandatory for everyone to plug up one nostril. Despite the fact that he only seemed to show up around April Fools' Day, the congressman managed to convince many of his listeners. Other characters of Waas' appeared as guests on the shows of David Letterman, Mike Douglas, and Maury Povich.

Between his time spent as a professional prankster and procrastinator, Waas racked up a long list of achievements. He served as president for the Broadcast Pioneers of Philadelphia, the Independence Toastmasters, and his region’s chapter of the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Waas is survived by his children Murray and Sherri and three grandchildren. Just like the jingles he composed during his life, his legacy will not be easily forgotten.

Lydia Locke, the Early 20th Century Opera Singer With a Life Ripped From the Tabloids

Photo collage by James Mato, Minute Media. Portraits: Wikimedia Commons. Newspaper clipping: Newspapers.com.
Photo collage by James Mato, Minute Media. Portraits: Wikimedia Commons. Newspaper clipping: Newspapers.com.

If the events of Lydia Locke's life ever became the inspiration for an opera, the plot would probably get accused of being over the top.

Locke rose to prominence in the early 1900s, when mass celebrity was still a relatively new concept. But the American soprano embraced the label, making news both for her performances at the world’s most prestigious venues and for her fashion choices. Yet it was her tumultuous personal life that garnered the most attention: Between seven marriages, two dead husbands, and one fraudulent baby, her life was scandalous even by the standards of today's news.

'Til Death Do Us Part

Lydia Locke was born into a humble household in Hannibal, Missouri, in 1886. She started performing on stage as a teenager, and had reached full-fledged stardom by her early twenties. As a young adult, she performed at Oscar Hammerstein’s London Opera House and at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. She maintained an extravagant persona off-stage, with magazines writing about where she traveled on vacation and what she wore to the latest party at the Ritz-Carlton.

There was a messy love life hiding behind the glamorous image. Around age 22, Locke married her first husband, 43-year-old Reginald W. Talbot, in Reno, Nevada. Their marriage was stormy from the start. Talbot, who had already been married three times before, was a gambler who had hoped for a wife that would make home life a peaceful contrast to his time at the casino. Locke wasn’t interested in becoming a model of domesticity, and after a year of arguing over the matter, Talbot beat her brutally one night.

They met with Locke’s divorce lawyer the next morning, but having a third person in the room did little to defuse the tension. They started arguing, Talbot became violent, and Locke retaliated by pulling a pistol from her fur muff and shooting her husband three times.

Reginald Talbot died in the lawyer’s office, and Locke was charged with his murder. The prosecution attempted to paint her as an amoral killer, but thanks to testimony of Talbot’s abuse from the house staff, as well as Locke's sweet voice and good looks, she won over the jury. They even applauded when the singer was acquitted.

A Honeymoon Cut Short

Now single, Locke redirected her energy into her professional life, performing in operas in Paris and Chicago. But it didn’t take long for her to find husband No. 2. Orville Harrold was a former hearse driver from Muncie, Indiana, and an opera tenor who worked for Oscar Hammerstein. He was also married. That didn’t stop him from falling for Locke, and a few days after finalizing his divorce from his wife back home, he married Locke in 1913. He told publications that his new wife was “one of the greatest things in my life. Lydia is of intellectual assistance to me. She possesses an amiable and loving disposition.”

His bride, meanwhile, declared her commitment in interviews. "Woman is spoiled," she said. "So many of her sex have demanded affection and given nothing in return for so long that she hasn't awakened to the fact that the ideal companionship of man and woman must consist of equal parts of affection, sacrifice, and sympathy."

Despite these optimistic words, the honeymoon phase didn’t even last through the literal honeymoon. The pair went to Italy after the wedding. As Jim Logan, superintendent of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery—where Locke is buried—tells Atlas Obscura, Locke shot at Harrold with a gun on the trip; it's not entirely clear why. Lucky for him, her aim wasn’t as sharp as it had been the last time she pointed a pistol at a spouse. Their union somehow continued for several more years, likely aided by the fact that Harrold’s work took him around the world and out of the immediate path of his wife’s rage. When he wasn’t around, Locke found other outlets for her temper, including punching a chauffeur over 25 cents and brawling with a maid over eight days’ rent.

Eventually her second marriage did end, this time in divorce instead of death. The legal process was still underway when Locke met the man who was to become her third husband: A wealthy organ company president named Arthur Marks. The pair wed around 1918, not long after her divorce from Harrold went through.

A Hefty Bribe and a Stolen Baby

The marriage to Marks turned out to be one of the opera singer’s longer romantic entanglements, and arguably the one that most closely resembled a soap opera. The couple stayed married for six years, and even adopted a son together, before the union proved too much for her husband. Suffering from severe exhaustion, Marks checked into a sanitarium around 1924, where he was promptly badgered by calls from his wife. The doctor spoke with her, and following their conversation, told Marks: “You’d better pack up. I can’t do anything for you. What you need is a divorce.”

The exact details that led to this breaking point are unclear, but after the couple officially split in 1924, things got much uglier. Locke continued to pester her ex-husband by calling him on the phone at all hours. He couldn’t take it anymore, and offered her a deal: He would pay her $100,000 on top of the $300,000 alimony she had already received if she agreed not to contact him for at least a year.

The arrangement didn’t last long. She broke the agreement and reached out after six months, but only because she had news she thought Marks would want to hear. She told him she had given birth since they saw each other last, and claimed that he was the father. Anticipating any doubts he might have, she showed up with a birth certificate, affidavits, and an actual baby to prove it.

Arthur Marks was prepared to support his alleged child, but knowing his former wife too well, he hired private detectives to investigate the matter further. His suspicions were confirmed: The child wasn’t his. And it wasn’t Locke’s either; she had “borrowed” the baby from the Willow Maternity Hospital in Kansas City under a fake name and forged the birth certificate. When the police came to collect the infant, she admitted that she “made an error somehow” and avoided any criminal charges.

"Like a Vamp in the Movies"

Lydia Locke was around 38 years old during her interlude with the stolen infant, and the second half of her life was no less exciting than the first. After discovering that Marks had married one of her former friends, she sent him a “poison pen” letter filled with descriptions of his new wife's behavior too salacious for newspapers to publish. She was indicted by a federal grand jury for spreading obscene accusations through the mail and sued by Mark's wife for defamation. Locke showed little remorse. She painted herself as a victim and her ex-husband as the villain when speaking to newspapers. "This is a frame-up," she said. "I will be completely vindicated and that man—that man; I'll see that he is properly punished for this." Though she was never "completely vindicated" in the eyes of the public, neither case made it to trial.

Meanwhile, Locke had found a new husband in her personal assistant, Harry Dornblaser. Husband No. 4 was out of the picture almost immediately, skipping out on their honeymoon in Europe and turning up dead from apparent suicide in a cabin in Cleveland, Ohio, a few months later.

Her next husband was a former Balkan count she married in 1927 and divorced in the 1930s. Her last wedding, to businessman and real estate tycoon Irwin Rose, was listed on her marriage certificate as her seventh—indicating there had been a sixth marriage after the count, though the identity of this mystery groom remains unknown.

The seventh time proved to be the charm for Lydia Locke. The pair moved into a mansion on Locke’s 1000-acre estate in Yorktown, New York, and ran an inn together on the property. Following 12 years of marriage—a personal record for her—she died in 1966 at age 82.

By the end of her life, Lydia Locke’s media reputation had transformed from fabulous socialite to a woman who was “like a vamp in the movies” and “veteran of the divorce wars." Following her death, she did receive a little recognition for something other than her love life: In 1968, one of the concert gowns that made her a fashion icon was displayed at the Davenport House [PDF] museum in Yorktown. But even in today’s age of nonstop celebrity gossip coverage, Locke is remembered, above all else, for her scandals.

The Story of Kate Warne, America's First Female Private Detective

The young woman smiled as she met her brother at a train station in Philadelphia on the evening of February 22, 1861. Her sibling was tall but stooped over and covered in a shawl, rendering his facial features difficult for passerby to discern. To anyone who asked, she explained that her brother had taken ill and needed some breathing room.

On the sleeper car of the passenger train, the woman slipped cash to the conductor, urging him to avoid placing anyone else at the rear of the car. Accompanied by three other men in addition to her sibling, she settled in for a long night’s train ride.

It was no ordinary trip, however. The woman had lied when she said the man was her brother. In fact, he was president-elect Abraham Lincoln, traveling through a hotbed of secessionist activity on his way to his inauguration in Washington, D.C. Her name was Kate Warne—and she was the first female private detective in America.

 

Given her status as a pioneer in law enforcement, surprisingly little is known about Warne’s past. No verified photos of her are known to exist, and she left behind no comprehensive chronicle of her landmark work. Then again, adopting various guises in the pursuit of intelligence meant that obscuring her true history was often a matter of professional obligation.

Warne was born in Erin, New York, in 1830 or 1833. Coming from a family of modest means, she had only a limited education. She was interested in becoming an actress, but her family opposed the idea and she soon abandoned that ambition. While she later described herself as a widow, there are no details about her marriage or the fate of a husband, who reportedly died in an accident. Warne’s life seemed to begin in 1856, when the 23-year-old walked into the Pinkerton National Detective Agency offices in Chicago and declared that she would like to become a detective.

Pinkerton was named for and run by Allan Pinkerton, a Scottish immigrant who worked as a deputy sheriff and for the Chicago police department. In the 1850s, he opened a private agency that soon had offices in several major cities. The Pinkerton name became renowned for its diligent approach to complicated matters that perplexed local law enforcement.

Pinkerton had high standards, but he was also prey to the gender biases of the era. Female police officers or detectives were virtually unheard of at the time, and Pinkerton assumed the young woman in front of him—whom he later described as “slender, graceful in her movements, and perfectly self-possessed in her manner” with “eyes filled with fire”—was looking for secretarial work.

A magnifying glass and papers are pictured

Warne corrected him. She pointed out that he had placed an ad looking for new hires and that she had come to Pinkerton for the express purpose of becoming a private detective. She explained that his force lacked a key component when it came to gathering intelligence—being able to assume the role of a woman’s confidante. By ingratiating herself, she said, she would be likely to discover information about crimes plotted by husbands, who tended to make their wives privy to schemes that involved enriching the family’s coffers. And she would also be able to take advantage of the fact that men tended to brag when women were around.

Pinkerton was not wholly convinced. It took several meetings with Warne before he decided to ignore convention and hire her. Later, Pinkerton would describe her as one of the five best agents he had ever employed.

A compelling dossier of cases followed. In 1858, Warne was tasked with obtaining a lead on a case involving the theft of $10,000 from the Adams Express Company railroad. The agency suspected a man named Nathan Maroney, the manager of the company’s Montgomery, Alabama, offices, since he was believed to be the last employee to see the money before it disappeared. Warne was dispatched to Montgomery, and when she arrived, she quickly charmed Mrs. Maroney. She soon divulged that her husband had not only taken the cash, but that she knew where to find it—hidden in Jenkintown, Pennsylvania. Nathan Maroney was convicted, and all but a few hundred dollars recovered.

On another occasion, Warne thwarted a plot to poison a wealthy Captain Sumner by posing as a fortune teller. Pinkerton rented out a space for her to ply her trade—which she quickly learned from books on the subject—and hosted Sumner's sister, Annie Thayer. Thayer was impressed by Warne's knowledge of her life, which had been prepared by the Pinkterton agents. Trusting that Warne had a real gift for divination, she eventually disclosed that she was under the direction of a lover named Mr. Pattmore to assist in the murder of Pattmore's wife and her own brother, Captain Sumner, so they could enjoy his fortune. (Pattmore was convicted of his wife's murder and spent 10 years in prison; the pair were caught before they could murder Sumner.)

Warne’s success in these efforts was due in large part to her demeanor, which Pinkerton would later describe as being warm and affable. People seemed eager to share secrets with her, even if those secrets were incriminating. But part of it was also Warne’s unique place among law enforcement officials. Early on, no one could suspect her of being a detective because it was considered impossible that a woman would be occupying that role.

 

As successful as Warne was, it was her efforts on behalf of Abraham Lincoln that became the highlight of her career.

Shortly before Lincoln’s inauguration in March 1861, railroad magnate and Lincoln ally Samuel Morse Felton realized that the secessionists stirring against the new president were growing more dangerous by the minute. There were even rumors they might interfere with railroads to and from Washington to disrupt Lincoln's entry into office. In the absence of a Secret Service, which had yet to be conceived, Felton wrote to Pinkerton for assistance.

Though Felton didn’t yet know it, the secessionists planned on more than just blocking Lincoln’s travels from Springfield, Illinois: Lincoln was also receiving death threats involving everything from a knife to a spider-filled dumpling.

 A photo of Allan Pinkerton circa 1861
Allan Pinkerton
Brady's National Photographic Galleries, Wikimedia // Public Domain

Felton and Pinkerton met in Philadelphia. Pinkerton advised that any true threat against the president was likely to materialize in Baltimore, the only major slaveholding city on Lincoln's itinerary aside from Washington, as well as an inevitable stop—all potential routes to the inauguration involved a stop there. Worse, Lincoln planned to arrive at one train station and then depart from another one mile away. There would be ample opportunity for a person or persons to commit an assault.

Pinkerton dispatched several agents to investigate, including Warne, who posed as a southern ally complete with an accent and a cockade, or a knot of ribbons that signaled Southern sympathies. It was a routine she had already practiced during the train robbery investigation. Pinkerton himself also went to Baltimore to investigate, posing as a stockbroker.

Collectively, the Pinkerton agents assembled a portrait of conspirators who were planning to intercept Lincoln as he changed trains in the city. The plan had been concocted by one Cypriano Ferrandini, who transferred his love of Italian revolution to the Southern cause. The idea was that a mob would surround Lincoln while others created a distraction to draw police away from the scene. Beforehand, the secessionists would draw ballots to determine who would shoot Lincoln dead. (In fact, several men drew the fatal red ballot in a dark room, fulfilling Ferrandini’s desire to have several would-be assassins hunting for Lincoln during the stopover.)

Lincoln, when he was debriefed on the plot, was reticent to change his touring plans. Eventually, though, he relented. Pinkerton formulated a scheme, one that involved bringing Lincoln to Baltimore in advance of his expected arrival and cutting off telegram lines so his would-be assassins couldn’t be easily tipped off. Covering Lincoln in a shawl and declaring him frail, Warne, Pinkerton, and two others—Pinkerton lieutenant George Bangs and Lincoln's friend Ward Lamon—got him on board the train in Philadelphia without incident.

As they traveled through the night, Warne gripped a pistol she carried, wondering if Lincoln’s rivals would force her to use it.

When they got to Baltimore, Warne, no longer needed to pose as a sibling, departed. Thanks to a noise ordinance, the sleeper car had to be unhitched from the train and carried by horse through the city until it reached the station with the Washington-bound train. Once there, the men spent a few nervous hours inside their sleeper car waiting for the connecting train. But Lincoln stayed unnoticed. The president-elect went on to his eventual destination of Washington, safe for the moment.

The next day, Lincoln asked the agents to visit him so he could thank them, including Warne, for protecting him. “I am sensible, ma’am, of having put you in some inconvenience—not to speak of placing you in danger,” he told her.

Warne continued to work for Pinkerton through the Civil War, sometimes posing with Allan Pinkerton as a couple. Pinkerton himself was appointed head of the Union Intelligence Service, the forerunner of the Secret Service, and gathered information during the Civil War. Warne eventually became superintendent of the agency’s bureau for women, training a growing number of female detectives.

Unfortunately, she wouldn’t live to see the ranks continue to expand. Warne died in 1868 at the age of 35 (or perhaps 38) of pneumonia. It’s a testament to her mysterious background that she wasn't delivered back to family, if indeed Pinkerton knew of any. Instead, she was buried in Pinkerton’s family plot in Graceland Cemetery in Chicago. Today, her headstone is worn to the point that it reads “Kate Warn.” If time winds up taking more of her name from her final resting place, there’s little doubt that history will remember it in full.

Additional Sources: The Spy of the Rebellion.

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