Sometimes mess-essity is the mother of invention.
Consider the creation of the Good Humor bar. Back in 1920, a fellow named Harry Burt ran a lollipop factory and ice cream shop in Youngstown, Ohio. One night he made a little treat for his daughter. He took a rectangle of ice cream and coated it with a thin, smooth layer of chocolate. Nice, said the kid, but messy. Harry’s son looked around the shop, saw the box of lollipop sticks and you know the rest.
Seventy-five years later, Good Humor is celebrating father and son’s 3 a.m. run to the patent attorney’s office. That very night the Burts secured their hold on history.
“The Eskimo Pie was first,” concedes Good Humor representative Al Reynolds with the generosity of a winner. “But it just didn’t have the stick.”
A mere five years younger than the bar itself, Reynolds began his career selling Good Humors on the Bronx’ Grand Concourse when he returned from Patton’s Army in ’46. “I was making $100 a week. That was a lot of money back then!” says the vet. Wednesday and Saturday nights left him especially flush because the park sponsored dances, and revelers crowded his cart. A Good Humor bar cost 10 cents.
In ’47, Reynolds was promoted to manager and henceforth taught two generations of ice cream peddlers how to do their job.
“We had a manual called, `Making Good with Good Humor,”‘ recalls Reynolds. “It was very touching. It told you to wear white socks, make sure your fingernails are clean, shine your shoes every day. They even told you in the evening when you get home to soak your feet in warm water with bicarbonate of soda. It was quite a program!”
Back then, Good Humor men were required to wear white suits with a bow tie. A name pin identified the salesman by the moniker of his choice. “Some were `Uncle Jack,’ or `Uncle Al,”‘ says Reynolds.
And why not? Many of the Good Humor guys kept the same route for years. They watched their clientele grow from dribble-covered Dixie Cuppers to straight and tall toasted almond aficionados.
The clientele, in turn, exhibited Pavlovian predictability. To this day, many an adult salivates at the sight of a hinge-covered truck, the feel of a waxy, air-puffed wrapper or the glorious sound of tinkling bells.
Those bells were originally snatched from Harry Burt Jr.’s bobsled, Reynolds says. Mr. Burt not only invented the Good Humor, he also invented the marketing to go along with it. He hired chauffeurs and dressed them in uniforms, added bells to their fancy cars and introduced the world to automobile-delivered ice cream.
The company prided itself on its promotions. Until 1962, Good Humor always featured a flavor of the week. Some of them, including the Chocolate Eclair bar and Strawberry Shortcake, became part of the regular retinue. Others, like the black raspberry bar, faded into memory.
By far the company’s most popular promotion was the Lucky Stick. Lick your way down to a specially printed stick and you’d win a free ice cream! “We packed one free stick in every 12 bars,” says Reynolds. What could be more exciting? Not much. So why did it end? Don’t ask.
“In 1938 or ’39 the Federal Trade Commission gave us a cease and desist order,” says Reynolds, still miffed. Because the promotion required one to actually purchase an ice cream, it fell under some sort of interstate gambling prohibition. Today, you’ll notice, most contests say, “No purchase required.”
From that moment on, Good Humor changed with the times, finally moving from the street into the grocery store. No tinkling bells, no white uniforms, no more dry ice required. Nowadays, the company doesn’t even have its own trucks. Anyone peddling Good Humors is an independent operator.
An era is over but its ice cream lives on. So, in its 75th year, ring a bell, lick a bar and salute the days when the most popular dealer on the street was peddling nothing stronger than candy-coated ice cream.
