You'd never know it if you came across her at 7 a.m. in Society Hill, walking her ritual two miles in 30 minutes as she has almost every day for 14 years.

Or chatting up Ken, the concierge at the front desk of the condominium where she and her husband, Herman, have lived for 12 years.

Or getting takeout at the deli next to her Center City office, where she spoons out a demure serving of chicken and broccoli from the buffet, but accidentally takes two Styrofoam containers, which the cashier notices and repacks without properly closing the lid. So by the time Mattleman sits down for a conference with her staff to organize an all-night chess marathon for city kids, brown sauce has pooled in the bottom of the plastic bag.

Watching Mattleman in these settings is like the papparazzi catching Meryl Streep yawning in one of those "see, celebrities are normal, just like us" photos.

Don't kid yourself.

That deceptively delicate-looking woman with her white hair brushing against her shoulders is no ordinary grandmother out for a power walk. She's a gifted educator, canny social entrepreneur, and tireless fund-raiser who has operated for 30 years in a decidedly higher realm than the rest of us earthlings.

Today, in recognition of her contributions to Philadelphia's underprivileged youths, Mattleman will receive the Philadelphia Award, the city's highest civic honor.

"I've had a huge amount of support, both emotional and financial, that enabled me to follow my instincts and act with independence," Mattleman says. "There is an enormous satisfaction to help other people get what they want from life.

"When you have a kid go to college who never thought they could, or learn to read, or win a chess tournament, and shake the winner's hand, it's wonderful to see."

She was chosen, says Happy Fernandez, chairman of the award commission, to honor her work this past year organizing after-school activities for the city's children, and recruiting thousands of volunteers to lead chess clubs and debate teams and teach hip-hop and yoga. But the prize is also an acknowledgment of her life's considerable accomplishments.

A partial accounting: Founder of Philadelphia Futures, the mentoring and scholarship program for underprivileged kids. Founder of Philadelphia READS, a literacy program for underprivileged kids. Founder of ASAP/After School Activities Partnerships. Appointed to boards and commissions by President Bill Clinton, Gov. Rendell, and Mayors William J. Green and W. Wilson Goode. Longtime trustee at the Free Library and Community College of Philadelphia. Member of Mayor Nutter's transition team. Author of scholarly articles and books.

When the awards ceremony is held this afternoon at Temple University, where Mattleman, 78, earned three degrees and taught education for 18 years, you can just imagine the kind of clout that will be seated in the audience.

And, of course, standing for the ovations.

They will rave about her dedication. Her drive. Her knack for inventing small, efficient programs to help children make the most of their lives.

They will talk about her family - the three children and six grandchildren, who have all followed her lead by doing public service. And her 57-year marriage to Herman, a former president of the Philadelphia School Board, who won the Philadelphia Award 17 years ago.

All impressive.

But if you want to know what makes Marciene (pronounced mar-SEEN) Mattleman truly extraordinary, here's one man to ask.

Ken Leeman, that guy who works the front desk in her apartment building.

"She's pretty generous," Leeman says. "She pretty much took my son under her wing."

She got the 16-year-old boy involved in chess tournaments and arranged a full summer of activities at the Samuel S. Fels Community Center in South Philadelphia.

"She'd also take him to her office and take him on trips," Leeman says. "She set him up pretty good."

This is what Mattleman does for just about anyone in need who crosses her path.

"There is no kid or adult who possibly needs help that she's not willing to reach out to," says her daughter Barbara, executive director of the humanitarian Operation Understanding. "For years, we'd lose our cleaning ladies. She'd either get them into school or find them better jobs. She always believed if you're smart and you want to do something, there should be no barrier."

In the last 25 years, Mattleman has built a network of contacts so dense and influential that there is almost no one in city government or business she can't call to ask for a favor. Favors, invariably, that involve helping someone.

"It's hard to say no to her," says Pedro Ramos, a partner at Blank Rome. "When she calls to ask you for something, I don't think the word ever gets out."

Pushy?

That's one way to look at it, says Ramos. He prefers "persistent, perpetually energized and directed."

"When she starts a conversation, she's already three or four steps ahead," he says. "She's already thought through how you can be helpful."

One of her closest friends, retired Superior Court Judge Phyllis Beck, recalls the genesis of Philadelphia Futures in 1989.

"She's amazing at getting an idea and then bringing that idea into reality," Beck says. "When she first thought about Philadelphia Futures, we talked about it as just an idea in her head, what the name should be, and before I turned around - there was the organization."

Ten years later, Mattleman resigned.

Unlike others who start nonprofits, stay for decades, and try to expand them to the fullest extent, Mattleman believes in creating small and efficient operations, then setting them free to live an independent life.

"She needed an interim president, so she asked me," Beck recalls. "I didn't have the time. I couldn't possibly have done it. But you don't say no to Marciene. You try, but it's practically impossible. When she calls you at 7 a.m. and you've said no three mornings in a row . . ."

Beck laughs. "You know why you can't say no to Marciene? Because if you needed her, or you needed Herman, you know they would do anything for you."

Beck, who has known the couple for 30 years, says she thinks of the two as one entity. Their romance, which began at Tel Hai Camp in Bucks County when she was 16 and he was 20, appears to be perpetually sweet and symbiotic.

She cooks; he does the dishes. They talk six times a day on the phone. He listens faithfully to the weekly education reports she has been broadcasting on KYW radio for 10 years. She gently chides him for buying too many books but, honestly, wouldn't have him change a thing.

"June 25, we'll be married 58 years," Mattleman says, showing off the picture of the two of them on a boat on the Delaware near their country house in Bucks County. "It seems just incredible to me. We really think of ourselves as kids. I know that sounds silly."

Their children say the storybook love affair is genuine.

"They are an amazing team," says Barbara, who remembers, as a child, watching them dancing in the living room and getting the whole family to sing together. "I did the same with my family."

The feistiness, she says, was also part of their legacy. When she was in high school in Merion during the Vietnam War, she and her mother went to a protest outside the local draft office.

"I thought it was going to be a rally, but when we got there, it was just the two of us. We marched in circles singing antiwar songs."

Years later, she reminded her mother of that day. "She had no idea what I was talking about. Or what an incredible impact that had on my life, learning that it didn't matter how many people were there, you did what you believed was right."

Mattleman's other daughter, Ellen, vice president and policy director for the Committee of Seventy, says her parents set high standards for behavior.

"She's a tough act to follow. When the phone rings at midnight or at 6 a.m., I don't get alarmed. I know it's my mother calling to talk about something she's been thinking about. Someone with that kind of energy can be pretty daunting if you're her kid."

However fiercely she may work for the public good, Ellen says, her mother's greatest devotion is to her family.

"When I heard that she got this Philadelphia Award, I welled up. I was so happy for her to get this honor."

Then Ellen called her to congratulate her.

"Did you cry when they told you?" Ellen asked.

"No," Mattleman said. "I only cry when I burn the meat."

"That's true," Ellen explains. "Because if she burned the meat, it would mean she wasn't doing something wonderful for her family. . . . She is very, very wonderful as a grandmother and mother, and sometimes that gets lost in all the stuff she does."

Last week, Mattleman met with her staff in the conference room to work out the final details of a marathon youth chess tournament that would begin Friday evening and last through all day Saturday.

On the wall hang photographs of children engrossed in chess games, a picture of a city councilwoman practicing yoga with two school kids, and a whiteboard scrawled in red, "Congratulations Marciene!"

The staff wanted to hold a party for her early last month as soon as they learned she was winning the Philadelphia Award. But the announcement had come within days of a family tragedy.

Mattleman's great-nephew had died of cancer, and as the matriarch of the family, she had been shuttling back and forth to New York during the last weeks of his illness and then for his funeral.

The youngest of three girls and the only surviving sibling, Mattleman says she was brought up believing in the importance of family and the personal imperative to help the less fortunate.

She grew up on Woodcrest Avenue in Wynnefield, where her father, a businessman, served as president of his synagogue. "They used to remind me that Anne Frank was my age. . . . There but for the grace of God . . ."

One of her sisters was a psychologist, the other "a wonderful, good-hearted woman." She is the only one who maintained a compulsion to keep working, well past retirement age, for the public good.

"I have my father's energy and drive," she says. "He lived to 95. I hope I do, too."

For the chess marathon, Mattleman planned to take the Friday night shift, "from 7 until whenever." She wanted to make sure there would be enough children - and sponsors - to keep the event vibrant even in the odd hours.

The leaky chicken and broccoli has left a puddle on the table. "I'll clean it up," she says, and disappears for a minute.

In her absence, her staff, who are mostly in their 20s and 30s, say working with Mattleman is like earning a master's degree in nonprofits. An experience both inspiring and humbling.

"When we're at a fund-raiser and someone is talking slow, she'll kick me and say, 'We've got to get going. I have things to do!' " says Justin Ennis, a 23-year-old graduate of the University of Pennsylvania who is working for AmeriCorps. She can't stand having to wait for an inefficient speaker to get to the point.

"We call it the ninth circle of hell for her," says Ennis.

Any signs that she's slowing down?

None, says Ennis, shaking his head. "It's terrifying."

Mattleman returns with a napkin. Wipes the table clean. "There!" she says, then leaves to get on with business.