THE CARS ENDED UP AT THE KINGSTON TROLLEY MUSEUM. ONE CAR, #601 WAS SITTING IN THE OPEN, ABANDONED, LOOTED AND DETERIORATING UNTIL ABOUT 10 YEARS AGO. THE MUSEUM HAD NO INTEREST OR FUNDS TO RESTORE IT. EVENTUALLY IT WAS USED FOR SALVAGE AND ONLY THE MEMORIES REMAIN.
CREDITS
Text by Judith Berdy Thanks to Bobbie Slonevsky for her dedication to Blackwell’s Almanac and the RIHS Thanks to Deborah Dorff for maintaining our website Edited by Melanie Colter and Deborah Dorff
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
Brooklyn‘s Sunset Park really is a park, on a hillside facing the sunset, but it’s also busy avenues, schools and churches and hospitals, thousands of homes, commerce and transportation hubs, down to and including the vast, flat, industrial waterfront of Bush Terminal (later Industry City).
The neighborhood adds up to more than the sum of all its many and diverse parts, its past and present and fast-arriving future, because all these parts interact. Everything is subject to change, and open to debate. Boundaries are moot, new names always lurking. The name came with the park in the 1890s, but wasn’t attached to the whole neighborhood until the 1960s, when real estate needed help.
Still, let’s start at the top, infrastructure at its most infra: not a hill so much as a ragged line of hills, the remains of a ridge, lying northeast to southwest, marking the southernmost advance of the last glaciers to cover Long Island.
The glaciers may have stood a thousand feet high. As they began to melt, and recede northward, they dumped boulders, gravel, and dirt. (People moving out always leave things they don’t want.) Down-running streams carried the smaller bits to enrich the flat, once-fertile fields of Dutch Gowanus, the southernmost reach of the old town of Brooklyn.
These are the Brooklyn Alps: Mount Prospect, 200 ft., on Eastern Parkway, next to the Brooklyn Public Library; Lookout Hill, 177 ft., at the south end of Prospect Park; Battle Hill, in Green-Wood Cemetery, 220 ft. and the highest point in Brooklyn; Sunset Park, 164 ft., the “peak” just west of 7th Avenue at 43rd St.; then slowly dwindling to Owl’s Head Park, 69 ft., in Bay Ridge, before bolting up across the Verrazano Narrows as Todt Hill, 401 ft., on Staten Island, the highest point in the five boroughs of New York City.
Not the Swiss Alps, to be sure, but in Brooklyn, we are proud. Some of us even climb them all.
At least one internet travel site is convinced that Sunset Park is the high point of Brooklyn, but no one can dispute that the views compete with any other B-Alp. Just to the north, the cemetery rises as a tree-covered hill and forms one natural boundary of the neighborhood. A second, plainly, is the harbor to the west, on gorgeous view.
Buildings block the eastward prospect, and whether in that direction Sunset Park ends at 7th Avenue, or down the hill at 8th or 9th, before becoming Borough Park, depends on whom you ask. The southern view along the ridge line, also limited, does not extend to the expressway cut below 64th St., the practical border of Bay Ridge, formerly the westernmost portion of New Utrecht, founded in 1657.
Like almost every other hill in Brooklyn, the ridge was chopped and graded and gridded, starting in the 1830s, as streets of houses replaced farms. The top of the hill became — and surely will remain — residential.
In 1891, seven years before the merger with New York City, the City of Brooklyn bought some land around the greatest elevation, and from there the park slowly grew and developed, over two decades, to its present dimensions, bounded by 5th and 7th Avenues, 41st and 44th Streets. Once there was a carousel, and six holes of golf. On a hillside.
The modern age of Sunset Park began 80 years ago, thanks to the Works Progress Administration (WPA), with a redesign, new park buildings, and a large public pool that opened in 1936 — one of an astounding 11 public pools to open in New York City that summer.
The local economy endured some alpine drops in the decades that followed, but the place and park endured, and people climbed back up. The City rebuilt the pool, plumbing, and playgrounds again in the 1980s, and the Sunset Play Center, as it’s called now, goes on.
You should see for yourself. From any direction, you’re looking up at it, and that’s appropriate. The faces have changed with time, but Chinese families and Latino families and Jewish families and hipster families and whoever else passes through Sunset Park, continue to enjoy and benefit from what’s here and largely unchanged. A nice place to gather. Swimming lessons and tai chi.
Through an era of “urban renewal” that often failed to renew, the Sunset Play Center has done what it was meant to do, it helps hold the place together. It belongs at the top of the hill. It is aspirational.
THE ROOSEVELT ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY NEW YORK ALMANACK
This essay by Marc Kirkeby was first published on the New York City Municipal Archives Blog. The Municipal Archives preserves and makes available New York City government’s historical records. Records include office documents, manuscripts, still and moving images, vital records, maps, blueprints, and sound recordings. Learn more about historical records the Municipal Archives at their website.
Illustrations, from above courtesy NYC Municipal Archives: Undated photo of Sunset Park showing the main swimming pool and one of the smaller semi-circular pools. When the pool opened, it had a separate diving pool on one end and a wading pool on the other; rendering, proposed Sunset Park swimming pool, signed C.M. Flynn, Del, ’34; R.C. Murdock, Landscape designer; M.A. Magoon, Architectural designer. January 5, 1935; Brooklyn’s Sunset Park under construction in 1935; and Brooklyn’s Sunset Park Sunset Play Center entrance, November 2016 (photo by Marc Kirkeby).
FRIDAY MORNING ON VANDERBILT AVENUE
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
We posted the image below of a 1930’s map of the south end of the island a few days ago.
Here are images of the structures on the map. This is the area of the island that is in the current Southpoint Park. You can see that the island ends at the Smallpox Hospital. All land south of that point is landfill.
Judith Berdy
Smallpox Hospital, converted to New York Training School for Nurses
City Hospital: Large one-story extension to Reception Pavilion. Wood pier.
City Hospital: Patients’ Waiting Room in Reception Pavilion.
City Hospital District: Long 3-story brick building; male dormitory.
Three-story stone building with porch in City Hospital area.
Maternity Pavillion
Building with columns
Strecker Laboratory
City Hospital closed in 1955
CREDITS
THE ROOSEVELT ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY THE MUNICIPAL ARCHIVES OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
Last night, RIOC CFO Dhruvika Patel Amin and Deputy General Counsel Gerrald Ellis joined @roosevelt_island_history for their monthly meeting hosted at #BlackwellHouse. The RIOC interim leadership team introduced themselves to RIHS members and discussed a wide array of topics specific to the island. Thanks to RIHS President Judy Berdy for the invite!
Last night Gerrald Ellis and Dhruvika Patel Amin met with the RIHS board members and guests. We had expected a quick introduction, but a wonderful surprise both stayed for our 90 minute meeting and were involved and interested in our island groups.
We had general conversation and had of some of the obstacles facing the island operations. Our concerns were noted and we did not blast them with “tram” questions. They are interested in our community and how we have been left out of participation in plans, such as restoration of Blackwell Park.
Our board members represents to many careers including: architecture, engineering, records management, publishing, senior center, historic preservation scholars, travel and tourism. arts, and tech industries.
One result of this meeting is that this RIOC is finally interested in the people and talents of the island residents and should be involved as participants not ignored.
This must be continued and the old days are gone and new ideas are welcome and pursued.
We hope that this is the beginning of discussions with many island groups to unify our relationship amongst all of us and RIOC.
Judith Berdy
TAKE A LOOK OF WHAT EXISTED ON THE ISLAND IN 1936 WE ARE RUNNIN LATE TONIGHT. WE WILL DESCRIBE THE BUILDINGS ON THIS MAP LATER THIS WEEK.
CREDITS
RIOC INSTAGRAM BRYANT DANIELS JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
Right now, if we could flip back the calendar to January in the Gilded Age, we would find ourselves in the middle of the exhilarating swirl of balls, parties, and charity events that made up elite society’s winter social season.
It was an annual ritual for decades. The season kicked off in November with the horse show and the opening of the Academy of Music’s opera series. (Though some of the select box seat holders tended to arrive late and leave early, more interested in gossip than opera.)
December was reserved for the weekly Patriarchs Balls held at Delmonico’s. And in January, the most anticipated gathering of old-money New Yorkers would commence: Caroline Astor’s annual ball.
Caroline Astor, of course, was Gilded Age Gotham’s society doyenne, a plump, plain-looking woman with a black pompadour (later a black wig) and a penchant for diamonds.
With her Knickerbocker heritage and 1853 marriage to John Jacob Astor’s grandson (who preferred sailing his yacht and carousing with other women over playing second fiddle at his wife’s social events), Mrs. Astor was able to propel herself into the role of society queen bee from the 1870s into the early 20th century.
Mrs. Astor reigned with help from her sidekick, Ward McAllister. The Southern-born McAllister was the inventor of the Patriarch Balls as well as the “Astor 400″—a list of the most socially prominent New Yorkers. At some point “the four hundred” were thought to be the number of people who could fit comfortably in the Astor ballroom, but the origin of this is in question.
In any event, Mrs. Astor’s mansion was certainly roomy enough to hold hundreds of people. But who would receive an invitation? According to Gilded Age socialite and memoirist Elizabeth Wharton Drexel, Mrs. Astor would carefully scan the Social Register, winnowing down potential invitees.
“Failure to be invited signified that, whatever your pretensions, you were a goat and not a sheep,” wrote Lloyd Morris, author of 1951’s Incredible New York.
Once a guest list was finalized, each hand-written invitation would be sent out. This “coveted slip of cardboard,” as Drexel described it, began with “Mrs. Astor requests the pleasure….”
What would these chosen guests—the “graded ranks of her hierarchy,” according to Morris—expect as they alighted from their carriages in front of Mrs. Astor’s rather staid mansion (second image) on Fifth Avenue and 34th Street?
On that night, “her mansion was ablaze with lights, and all its splendid rooms were banked with masses of flowers,” described Morris. “Through a wide hall, guests proceeded to the first of three connected drawing rooms, where their hostess received them, standing before the life-size portrait which she had recently commissioned from [portrait artist] Carolus-Duran.” (Top image, from 1890)
As she greeted her invitees, Mrs. Astor glittered in her Gilded Age finery, purchased during her annual trip to Paris.
“A tall, commanding woman of formidable dignity, she was magnificently gowned by Worth,” continued Morris. “Precious antique lace draped her shoulders, edged her huge puffed sleeves. Her pointed bodice and long train were of rich dark velvet, her skirt was of satin, embroidered with pearls and silver and gold.” A diamond tiara rested on her pompadour.
After greeting Mrs. Astor, guests made their way through the drawing rooms to the mansion’s art gallery (above photo), which functioned as a ballroom. While the orchestra played, a supper catered by prominent French chef J.A. Pinard was served in Mrs. Astor’s dining room where “the delicately embalmed bodies of terrapin and fowl reposed on ornate silver.”
In 1896, Mrs. Astor departed her Murray Hill mansion and moved into a sumptuous new palace on Fifth Avenue and 65th Street (below, in 1926). This French Renaissance double mansion was shared with her son John Jacob Astor IV and his young family.
After the move uptown, Mrs. Astor resumed holding her January ball, receiving 600 guests. “It was the largest and most elaborate ball given this season,” the New York Times noted.
The atmosphere was more luxurious than ever. On January 8, 1901, The New York Times covered the festivities once again, noting that this year’s ball had a record attendance of “the most representative men and women in society.”
“It was fully midnight before the last guest had arrived,” the Times wrote. “The entrance of the house was banked on either side by boxwood trees and masses of Southern smilax, in which were placed crimson poinsettias.”
“Mrs. Astor received alone in the drawing room, which was decorated with mauve orchids in golden vases, to the left of the main hall,” continued the Times. “She wore a superb gown of black velvet pailletted in silver, and all her famous diamonds.” (Below, in black with her tiara)
Supper was catered by Sherry, the restaurateur who operated his eponymous French eatery on Fifth Avenue and 44th Street frequented by old money and nouveau riche New Yorkers. The menu consisted of several dishes, including terrapin (clearly a Knickerbocker New York favorite), canard canvasback, foie gras, bonbons, and pommes surprises.
After supper, the cotillion began. Ninety couples danced to a live band. After the dancing ended around 3:30 a.m., many stayed for a second supper, the Times reported, along with a list describing some of the gowns female guests wore.
Mrs. Astor died in 1908; when she held her final ball isn’t clear. According to her obituary, she had suffered a nervous breakdown in 1906, living mostly in seclusion until her passing from heart disease two years later at age 78.
Her timing was impeccable. Lavish balls like hers were falling out of fashion, old money and new money had long intermingled, and society as she understood it was about to be lost to the ages.
TAKE A LOOK OF WHAT EXISTED ON THE ISLAND IN 1936 WE ARE RUNNIN LATE TONIGHT. WE WILL DESCRIBE THE BUILDINGS ON THIS MAP TOMORROW.
NEW COPPER DOME RECENTLY COMPLETED PHOTO: DEMIAN NEWFELD
THE ALTAR AND NAVE OF THE CATHEDRAL.
Divine Pathways is a stunning, site-specific textile installation created by artist Anne Patterson for the vaulted Nave of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.
Divine Pathways was created in concert with communities and organizations from across the Morningside Heights neighborhood, New York City, and the Episcopal Diocese of New York. Community members were invited to write their hopes, dreams, and prayers onto the ribbons that make up the piece. Individual prayers are anonymous and beyond the viewer’s sight, but their collective presence creates an experience that is both intimate and immense.
Join us for an experience that celebrates the collaborative process and community itself.(Cathedral press)
GUASTAVINO TILE STAIRCASE LEADING DOWN TO THE CRYPT
THE CRYPT LEVEL IS MASSIVE UNDER THE SEVEN CHAPEL ABOVE
THREE FORMER BISHOPS ARE INTERRED IN THE CRYPT, WHICH WAS ORIGINALLY A CHAPEL.
HOW THE LAMPS LOOKED IN THE OLD PENN STATION
Comparing photos of the torchiers now to photos of them in the station, you’ll notice some differences. The torchiers were originally topped with eight globe lights and stood on tall stone bases within the grand waiting room which had a classical Roman design. To better fit the Gothic aesthetic of the Cathedral, the heads were changed and pared down to just three lights. Instead of globes, they are now topped with hexagonal lanterns adorned with tiny spires.
THE LAMPS ARE SAFELY STORED NOW AND REMOVED FROM THE POLES.
IT IS A SUBTERRANEAN ATTIC
ALL TYPES OF CHURCH FURNISHINGS ARE STORED HERE
IN THE 1980’S ATTEMPTS TO ADD TO THE SOUTH TOWER BROUGHT MORE STONECUTTERS HERE AND THE PROJECT STOPPED AFTER A FEW YEARS. SOME NEWLY CARVED PIECES ARE STORED FOR AN EVENTUAL CONTINUATION.
THREE SAINST SEEKING A HOME.
THE ANGELIC KNIGHT IS UPSTAIR IN THE RELICS ROOM IN THE MAIN SANCTUARY
I TOOK THIS TOUR SPONSORED BY UNTAPPED NEW YORK. IT WAS A FUN HOUR EXPLORING THE HISTORY OF THE CATHEDRAL. IT WAS A GREAT WAY TO SPEND A SUB-FREEZING AFTERNOON.
TAKE A LOOK OF WHAT EXISTED ON THE ISLAND IN 1936
WEEKEND PHOTO
F. W. I. L. Lundy Brothers restaurant in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.h, how my parents LOVED that place. It was still going strong all through the 1960’s when only one brother was active in the business. Strictly fresh seafood, clams and oysters on the half-shell, almost nothing on the menu for “landlubbers” – and absolutely HUGE. The photograph either doesn’t show the whole building or the extensions (built 1939?) were not yet added. The din inside that music hall-sized structure at dinner time was incredible. In all the years I was taken there (1956 – 1973), I never knew it to be anything but jammed.
Guy Ludwig R.I. and Warren, VT
CREDITS
ROOSEVELT ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY ARCHIVES UNTAPPED NEW YORK NEW YORK CITY MUNICIPAL ARCHIVES JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
There are two kinds of lines in New York: the line for the latest must-have item (cronuts, tickets to Book of Mormon, the latest iPhone) and dreaded transit lines (trains, airport security, elevators). In fact, an IBM study indicated that New York office workers spent a total of 22.5 years in 2010 waiting for–or stuck in–an elevator. If time is money–and it usually is–then elevator travel in large buildings can be expensive. “Smart” elevators, such as the Schindler Elevator Company’s Miconic 10, clusters passengers based on similar destinations to cut travel time by an average of 50 percent. The passengers first enter in their desired floor as they approach the elevators. The keypad sorts them into groups of similar destinations and assigns specific elevators to each passenger. So passengers going to floors 26, 28 and 32 would be assigned one elevator, while passengers who keyed in floors 50, 54 and 55 would take another. In cases when every second is necessary, the Schindler elevators can also detect employees via their ID badges.
On the way down, full elevators skip floors to minimize wasted stops. The Miconic monitors each car’s current weight, and ceases to make stops once the weight passes a certain limit. The system also tracks traffic patterns and remembers the most frequently called floors. The decrease in trips preserves equipment longer as well.
“It’s like taking a limousine rather than a bus,” Schindler president of North American Operations Scott Stadelman said in 2006.
While the smart elevator is designed to be intuitive, smart technology always takes some adjustment. In the Miconic 10, there’s no need for buttons, which may feel counterintuitive for first-time users.
As of 2006, the Miconic had been installed in over 200 New York buildings, including Hearst Tower and the New York Marriott Marquis Hotel. With the average elevator wait cut from three minutes to just under a minute, it looks like New Yorkers have freed a few years of their schedule–so they can wait on line for more worthwhile things, like Umami Burger.
ROOSEVELT ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY ARCHIVES UNTAPPED NEW YORK JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
FROM OUR READERS:
I appreciated your Historical review of Elevators untill Myrita just called from Motorgate where she was with a heavy bag and two dead , inoperative elevators !! Have we come very far ? Where is Mr. Otis when you need him ?? Ross Wollen
As a kid growing up in New York City (and one who LOVED elevators!),
I was fascinated by the variety and opulence of our elevators. To begin with,
most elevators had operators. Whether at Lord and Taylor or my parent’s
friends apartment building on East 59th Street, an attendant — quite often in
uniform – was present to preside over the ride. And the equipment had endless
variety: At Masters – a department store in Flushing, Queens – the operator not
only made the car move with an elaborate brass handle, but he physically had
to open both an interior gate and an exterior door, by hand. At Bloomingdale’s
the bank of cars also had gates but the operator merely started the motion of
the car and it miraculously travelled to the next floor, glided to a
smooth stop and the doors opened by themselves, AUTOMATICALLY!
My father owned a fine watch and it required repair. The facility was in the brand-new Seagram’s building on Park Avenue on one of the top floors. I came along (in 1959?) and experienced my first self-service high speed ride. How fast? Dad said when the car slowed down and landed near the top of the building, his “body and soul separated”.
At Sak’s Fifth Avenue, the operators were provided with cards, which
went into a little slot above their control panel. Each said the person’s name:
“Operator: Miss Jones”. At Saks 34th Street, the line of elevators stood behind a three story wrought-iron facing,
and one could stand anywhere on the regal first floor and watch the cars sail upstairs silently and majestically.
At Macy’s. sometime during the sixties, the store began replacing the original elevators with self-service models — but, astonishingly, they TALKED. A
recorded voice – female -would pour from a loudspeaker in the new, modern interior and say “Arriving fifth floor. Going Down”. The express cars even had a little commercial, which played while you rode from floor one to seven: “This is Macy’s – the world’s largest store – Arriving Seventh Floor. Going Up”.
Elevators in New York were made by dozens of manufacturers, and the names were prominently displayed. Of course Otis and Westinghouse cars were everywhere but so were machines by Armour, Serge, A-B-See, Turnbull, Plunger … and Watson. Watson elevators were of particular interest to me because they would show up in little buildings – a two story medical office or small store or bank. They were small, with a three to four person capacity. I guess, being small myself, they were kind of like toys and I probably would have liked to take one home.
The Watsons were, of course, self-service. But as I mentioned earlier, most elevators in our city were in the hands of operators. It was sad, as the sixties progressed , to watch the operators disappear. Often, a “relationship” developed between operator and passenger, particularly in an office or residential building. My first Manhattan job was in Rockefeller Center and, even in the 70’s, many of the elevators still had uniformed men running them. “Good morning, Mr. Ludwig”, they would say. “How was the weekend?” One didn’t say a floor; they knew where you were going. Alas, that mechanical voice on the new Macy’s cars just wasn’t the same….
guy ludwig
warren, vermont
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
Elevators were first created in 236 BC and have evolved over the years from hand-operated creations known as flying chairs to electronically powered stainless steel boxes. New York City alone contains 70,000 of the world’s elevators, according to the Department of Buildings. A look at the historic elevators in this city tells a fascinating story of technological advancements and urban development.
Elevator in the E. V. Haughwout & Company Building, 488-492 Broadway in 1970. Courtesy of the Library of Congress. Photographer: Cervin Robinson
Elisha Graves Otis is the man credited with the creation of the modern elevator. Otis presented his safety passenger elevator inside the Crystal Palace at the Exhibition of Industry of All Nations, New York City’s very first World’s Fair, in 1853. Spectators were immediately impressed. It didn’t take long for the new technology to be adopted.Passenger elevators were thoroughly needed in the city. Before the introduction of Otis’ safety brake, there existed “hoisting elevators,” which were platforms elevated by manpower. These inventions were dangerous and susceptible to cord snapping. Otis perfected a new design, finding his first client, E.V Haughwout, after the Convention.
Haughwout hired Otis to install a passenger elevator in his luxury store, lifting clients to discover the various departments spread throughout the 5-floor building. The first elevator opened in New York City in 1857 at E. V. Haughwout’s department store on the corner of Broadway and Broome Street in SoHo.The steam-powered elevator cost $300 to install and traveled under 0.5mph. What seems ordinary to us now was revolutionary then. The grand opening of the store on March 23rd, 1857 drew thousands of curious New Yorkers, but the press made few mentions of the elevator. In From Ascending Rooms to Express Elevators: A History of the Passenger Elevator in the 19th Century, author Lee Edward Gray notes that there was only a brief mention in The New York Tribune.
The installation of a passenger elevator inside the Fifth Avenue Hotel, which opened in 1859, made a bigger splash. In 1870, the Equitable Life Assurance Building was the first office building to install passenger elevators- a revolutionary development in the world of urban business.
Before the creation of elevators graced New York, buildings in the city were limited to the height that people were willing to climb via stairs – about 6 stories. The upper floors were usually servant’s quarters due to the hassle of reaching them.
Once the elevator was implemented in New York, it was still rather difficult for building owners to convince their tenants to live on the upper floors. The previous stigma of high floors being for poorer residents prevailed for a long time. This stigma began to fade away in the 1920s when luxury apartment buildings with top-floor penthouses became desirable.
This new attitude towards living higher in the air was largely led by architect Emery Roth’s Ritz Tower on Park Avenue, completed in 1926. At 41 stories, it was the largest residential building at the time. The setback upper floors were lined with terraces. Roth followed this building with other tall apartment complexes including The San Remo and the Beresford, with upper floors boasting views of Central Park, another perk of being higher off the ground.
Penthouses at these luxury towers became signs of wealth as mansions of the Gilded Age were torn down. The elevator became a status symbol for wealthy city goers, the higher up and more private, the better.
Though the novelty of elevators has worn off and they have become a mundane, and necessary, part of everyday life, this invention was critical to NYC’s vertical growth. New York skyscrapers touch the sky, and thanks to this handy creation, we’re able to go farther than we ever imagined.
The Floating Hospital was founded by St. John’s Guild of Trinity Church. Before the guild had enough funds to purchase its own boat, ferry rides were chartered for patients thanks to the generosity of wealthy donors. The first boat rides set sail on July 3, 1872. More than 18,000 impoverished children and caretakers enjoyed the fresh sea air and countryside picnics in that first year.
When The Floating Hospital (TFH) was established in 1866, sea air was one of the few remedies available for the poor and sick children of New York City. Founded with a mission to offer aid “without regard to creed, color, or nationality,” TFH welcomed tens of thousands of thousands of patients and their mothers onto its boats each year to escape the polluted air of New York City’s streets. From 1872 through the early 2000s, five different ships were used as floating refuges. Learn more about each ship below, and join Untapped New York Insiders for a live virtual talk with TFH’s President and General Counsel, Sean Granahan, where we’ll dive into TFH’s bountiful historical photo archive!
This virtual talk on January 31st is free for Untapped New York Insiders! Not an Insider yet? Use code JOINUS and get your first month of membership for free.
The first boat owned by TFH was a steamboat named River Belle, often referred to as The Floating Hospital of St. John’s Guild. This boat went into service for the hospital in 1875. The idea of quarantining the sick on boats was not new, however, TFH’s holistic approach was. Aboard The Floating Hospital, patients didn’t just rest and take medicine, they were part of a “health excursion that combined medical care, healthy eating, and entertainment into one experience.” Patients aboard TFH ships “enjoyed puppet shows, dancing, sing-a-longs, art classes, games, celebrity appearances, and movies” as they admired the stunning views of New York City passing by.
Photo Courtesy of The Floating Hospital
River Belle was renamed The Emma Abbot in honor of a famous opera singer and benefactor of the hospital. The next two boats were also named for a patron of the arts, Helen C. Juilliard. The Helen C. Juilliard I was launched in 1899 and was later sold to the city for use as a tuberculosis camp for children. In 1916, Helen C. Juilliard II set sail from the shipyard of the American Car Foundry Company in Wilmington, Delaware. It featured four wards, an operating room, an irrigation room, and a plant for sterilizing water, instruments, and bandages.
The fourth ship, Lloyd I Seaman, hit the waters in 1935. All of The Floating Hospital ships were built without engines. This helped to reduce vibrations and make them safer for the children on board. As a result, each vessel needed to be pulled by tugboats. The tugboat pilots and crews were an essential part of the hospital’s operations.
Photo Courtesy of The Floating Hospital
In 1977, the fifth and final boat was christened at a celebration at the South Street Seaport with New York City Mayor Abe Beame, Sandy, an Airedale from the Broadway musical Annie, and 4-year-old David Lando, the hospital’s 5 millionth passenger, in attendance. As hundreds of balloons floated into the sky, crowds cheered for The Lila Wallace, once again named after a benefactor. Lila was a publisher and philanthropist who, with her husband, DeWitt Wallace, created and published Reader’s Digest.
The Lila Wallace was decommissioned in the early 2000s and the hospital opened up a land-based facility in Long Island City. Today, The Floating Hospital continues to provide care, education, and essential supplies to New Yorkers in need. Patients of TFH can seek primary medical, dental, and behavioral healthcare services, in addition to select specialties such as optometry, podiatry, and cardiology. You can support the hospital’s mission by donating here.
Learn more about the history of the hospital and its current services in a talk with the President and General Counsel of TFH, Sean Granahan, where we’ll explore amazing photographs from the TFH photo archive!
Through the ups and downs of nearly 100 years, Coney Island’s boardwalk has been the beachfront spot for untold millions to stroll, catch some sun, meet friends, munch hot dogs, or just look out at the water. And, like all big new projects in New York City, bringing the boardwalk to life hit snags and was kicked around as a political football while its cost went up and work moved more slowly than expected.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view looking east from Municipal Bath, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
The first serious talk of building a public boardwalk came in the 1890s, when Coney Island was transitioning from a private playground for the rich – with giant fences preventing public access to the beach – to a place of fun, leisure and a little weirdness for all.
The Municipal Archives holds some 200 pictures of what was originally known as the Coney Island Boardwalk, including dozens of the construction in 1922 and 1923. Newspapers of the day, especially the old Brooklyn Daily Eagle, tell the story.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view, looking west from Martino’s Bath, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
While the idea of a public boardwalk was debated for years, planning didn’t begin in earnest until August of 1912. The West End Improvement League, consisting of merchants and developers, launched a campaign to build the promenade, starting a local newspaper and mailing 12,000 postcards to politicians, business owners and influencers. Although there was strong public support locally, landowners along beachfront area fought the proposal bitterly and tried to find friendly lawmakers to stop it.
On October 24, 1912, the Eagle reported on the first legal salvo in the war to build a boardwalk: “State Sues to Win Back Coney Island Beach for the People,” the headline screamed. “Demands Removal of Obstructions Preventing Free Passage for Purposes of Bathing, Boating and Fishing.” The story reported that State Attorney General Thomas Carmody had filed suit against the owners of the Steeplechase Company and other landowners, claiming the beach belongs to the public and branding the fencing and barriers “a public nuisance.”
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view showing pouring of a reinforced concrete girder, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
A lawyer for the owners, claimed they had a legal right to the beachfront land and said, “…we certainly intend to fight the state’s claim to the finish.” The “finish” came rather quickly: A judge upheld the state’s claim in 1913 and the Court of Appeals affirmed it in 1916.
Political wrangling in the State Legislature delayed progress for several years, but on August 22, 1920, The Brooklyn Eagle optimistically reported: “Coney Island Boardwalk to be Completed by 1921.” Brooklyn Borough President Edward Riegelmann, an “energetic booster” of the plan had laid out details earlier that month.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view, looking west from Municipal Bath, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
Riegelmann, who some dubbed the “Father of the Boardwalk,” said it would be 80 feet wide and two miles long running from Ocean Parkway to Sea Gate. He estimated the boardwalk would be built at a cost of $4 million (more than $50 million today). It would use 1.7 million cubic yards of sand, 110,000 tons of stone, and 7,700 cubic yards of reinforced concrete. Workers would build 16 rock jetties spaced 600 feet apart to protect the boardwalk from violent waves, while others drove 28-foot-long piles 19 feet deep into the sand. But the political wrangling continued even before the first shovel hit the ground. On Jan 6, 1921, the Eagle reported that the plan had hit “a $7 million snag,” the amount the owners claimed they would lose in property values – perhaps the first sign that the boardwalk would not be completed in 1921.
Boardwalk, Coney Island general view, looking east from Martino’s Bath, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives
Five months later, a fight erupted over whether to use timber or concrete for boardwalk supports. Advocates for the use of concrete argued that wood would not be “permanent” and would have to be replaced or shored up from time-to-time. Wood supporters argued that concrete was much more expensive than creosoted timber and noted that wooden trestles under the LIRR’s Jamaica route were still in good condition after many years and that the first concrete-supported Santa Monica Pier had “gone to pieces” in just a few years. Concrete won the day.
Undeterred by the delays, a long story in the July 3, 1921 edition of the Brooklyn Eagle breathlessly – though erroneously – reported: “Coney Island is to Replace Atlantic City as Society’s Playground, is Prediction.” The story began: “If the prediction of the Coney Island Boardwalk enthusiasts should be verified in the not distant future, the sad waves will murmur ‘Good night’ to Atlantic City and gently rock that out-of-date seaside resort to sleep … Good-bye hot dog; Good-bye chamber of horrors; Good-bye museums of monstrosities …”
Boardwalk, Coney Island hauling floor beams to the top of the walk by tractor, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
Boardwalk construction finally began in 1922, with wooden planks in a chevron pattern atop the concrete and steel bearings. The first section, from Ocean Parkway to West 5th Street, opened to the public in October 1922. The second section, from West 5th Street to West 17th Street, opened with pomp and a ribbon-cutting on Christmas Eve of 1922 attended by Borough President Reigelmann and thousands of celebrants.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, Borough President Riegelmann opening the Boardwalk between West 5th and West, December 24, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
The city held a formal opening of the entire boardwalk – which was re-named the Riegelmann Boardwalk – in May 1923. Some mildly amusing controversy continued: In June 1923, the Eagle reported that 25 people plead guilty and were fined $25 each for violating a public ordinance by strolling along “only in their bathing suits.” And that August, there were complaints that mothers were bringing their children to benches on the boardwalk to eat, leaving food scraps and refuse on the boardwalk – and that amorous couples were “spooning” on the benches.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, looking northeast from Boardwalk, near West 12th Street, showing present character of buildings, September 6, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
The boardwalk would be repaired many times over the years and, in 1938, under City Parks Commissioner Robert Moses, parts of it were expanded, straightened, and relocated 300 feet inland. He tried to expand it again into Manhattan Beach, but that plan was defeated.
The city declared the Riegelmann Boardwalk a landmark in 2018.
