As a nice primer to the era, today I present a Harlem Line employee timetable from 1878, covering the area from Grand Central to Mott Haven. By this time the Harlem’s street-running trains (many still pulled by horses) in lower Manhattan had become a separate and distinct service, and the Hudson and New Haven had been united with the Harlem in the first Grand Central. You’ll see references to the Spuyten Duyvil and Port Morris Junction, or what we’re more familiar with as Mott Haven Junction today. The story of the SD&PM will figure prominently in our upcoming articles, but the short explanation is that it provided the integral link that brought the Hudson River Railroad into Grand Central Depot, beginning the process of launching that road into prominence, and relegating the Harlem on its own tracks (case in point, when the electric division was established, Grand Central to Mott Haven became part of the Hudson, with the Harlem “starting” beyond that point).

While seeing the times of trains is certainly fascinating, the gold is really in the rules of the road. From Hudson being identified by the color yellow, and the Harlem by green, to the antiquated signaling rules, there’s plenty of delightful little tidbits to find throughout. Roger had not made his big debut yet, it was okay to acknowledge with simply an “all right.” And detonating signals, or torpedoes, served a real purpose beyond sticking them on the rail to celebrate an old timer’s retirement (this yougin’ may have just dated herself…).

Take a read, and let us know in the comments which rules of the road you find most interesting!

Today’s Botanical Garden station has the honor of having the most name changes of any station along the Harlem. Although there are a few stations that have had two different names, Botanical Garden has had four within its 150 or so years of existence. Initially starting off with the name of Jerome Park, the station served the race course of the same name, which opened September 25, 1866. The course was a popular venue, hosting the first Belmont Stakes in 1867, and the first outdoor polo match in the United States in 1876. Upon opening the closest station for rail access was Fordham, but the Jerome Park station was established shortly thereafter, providing at least a walkable trip to the course.

Nonetheless, the walk from Jerome Park was still uphill and about a mile in length, so the establishment of alternate methods of access were considered for several years. An initial attempt to build a railway connecting the Harlem to the racetrack failed in 1876 due to litigation regarding the chosen route. A second attempt was made in 1880, this time successful, and the 1.67 mile road was constructed in a total of 34 days, opening on May 29th. President Leonard Jerome took fifty well-to-do invitees on a special opening excursion on the road that morning, departing Grand Central at 11 AM, and arriving in time for a fancy lunch at the course’s clubhouse.

The new partially elevated tracks ran to a small depot that had not yet been completed behind the track’s grandstand, with a wooden bridge connecting the two structures. For the opening of the line, a simple platform greeted the esteemed guests. After a lunch filled with toasts to good health and the celebration of the new line, the guests returned to their train for a 2 PM departure. All-in-all, it seemed to be a rather chaste celebration in comparison to the boozy excursion that marked the opening of the line to White Plains.

Map of the route of the Jerome Park Railway, highlighted in purple, extending from the Harlem just beyond the current Botanical Garden station.

Race day through trains were operated from Grand Central Depot with a fare of 60 cents round trip (20 cents more than a round trip to Jerome Park on the Harlem proper). Decoration Day (referred to as Memorial Day today) was an extremely popular day for the races, and over ten thousand people crammed Grand Central Depot to board trains, with two-thirds of them going either to Jerome Park, or to pay their respects at the Woodlawn Cemetery. The crowd at the depot was so large that extra police were summoned, at one point barring further patrons from entering. The two main ticket offices had lines that were so long, a third impromptu office was set up to sell tickets, but even that was not enough to accommodate the throng. Over 4,500 tickets were sold for the 1:45, 2:10, and 2:30 through trains to the raceway, and many other tickets were sold to Fordham for those who could not get onboard one of the specials.

This first day of opening to the public essentially set the tone for the just over one decade of existence of this branch. It was extremely popular, yet generally reviled due to the massive crowds and the inability of the infrastructure to accommodate them. 4,500 tickets were sold on those first specials, yet across the three trains there were only 2,160 seats. A less-than-happy rider recalled that on one trip “[people were] packed into the cars until they were so uncomfortably crowded that ladies and even strong, robust men almost had the life crushed out of them.” People would get extremely irate, write angry letters to both the editor and to the Commodore, yet would forget about these troubles in the off-season and be back to ride the trains again in the spring. All this despite lines extending from ticket booths all the way out the depot, onto the sidewalk, and around the corner, massive throngs of people, and late trains that sometimes even missed part of the races. As one letter writer concluded, “Commodore Vanderbilt does not care in the least what anybody says about his management while he is comfortable in the certainty that they can do nothing.”

Although some of the blame realistically could be placed on the Harlem for their operation of the trains, especially in regard to on time performance, there was much outside their control. Initial plans for the Jerome Park Railway called for a double tracked line, though it was never constructed this way. A second track only existed at the end of the line near the depot for the racetrack. Without additional tracks to run on, it was largely impossible for the Harlem to increase the amount of service and end the overcrowding problem that plagued the line from its inception. Complaints were plentiful enough that an announcement was made in 1887 that work would soon begin to double track the line and create more sidings near the track to allow for additional service, but these plans never came to fruition. As time ticked on, it became increasingly obvious that the Jerome Park Racetrack would not be around much longer.

The beginning of the end for the Jerome Park Railway was the closure of the raceway as the new site for a new reservoir for the city. The site had been identified as the best place for the reservoir around 1886, yet was subject to negotiations for the acquisition of the property. The race track finally closed after the 1894 season, and became property of the city on January 1, 1895. The railway branch was eventually leased to John B. McDonald, a contractor that had worked on the building of the IRT subway, and was hired to work on the excavation of the area around the reservoir. McDonald used the line, along with an extra four miles of temporary trackage that he constructed extending over the Harlem’s tracks out the area near Parkchester, to fill in the marshlands for development.

Back of an old photo

Back of an old photo

Back of an old photo

Images from the excavation for the Jerome Park Reservoir, utilizing the tracks of the Jerome Park Railway.

Highlighted in red, part of the temporary line that John B. McDonald constructed for the dumping of excavated material. This line extended four miles through Bronx Park and following along the Pelham Parkway to the marshlands.

Lying disused for several years, Bronx Borough President Louis Haffen ordered the remainder of the branch’s tracks to be torn up across Webster Avenue on May 6th, 1906, and expected the section between Willow Avenue and Bronx Park to be removed the day afterward. Haffen had accused some “mystery opposition” of stopping previous plans to remove the tracks, and fully expected the Harlem to object to the removal… yet no further objection ever came. Just 26 years after its construction, the Jerome Park Railway was officially dead.

As for the station along the Harlem proper, around 1887 Jerome Park was renamed Bedford Park after the neighborhood it was located, likely due to confusion with the branch itself. Just a few years later it was again renamed to Bronx Park, reflecting the recently opened park alongside it, where the Botanical Garden was established. Timetables often included a notation that Bronx Park was the location of the Botanical Garden, and eventually it just became easier to outright rename the station yet again to its current iteration—Botanical Garden.

In New York City, the firm of Ames & Rollinson was noted for their work in the field. Around the 1930s, hand illuminated diplomas were their bread and butter—twenty-five artisans churned out over 10,000 diplomas each year, most of which were printed on traditional calfskin vellum. The company also produced many other unique and special documents, including the $25,000 prize check given to Charles Lindbergh from Raymond Orteig’s New York to France non-stop flight challenge, award certificates given to American Telephone & Telegraph Company employees that showed devotion by sticking to their posts during fires, floods, or gun battles, and an array of bound folders commemorating business executives upon their deaths.

In lieu of any established name for said documents, I began referring to them in my mind as “death notes.” Typically, when an executive, president, or board member of a prominent company passed away, the board of said company recognized their efforts and achievements in the minutes of their next meeting. The transcript for that portion of the meeting was then sent to the artisans over at Ames & Rollinson, who produced an illuminated and bound copy to be presented to the next of kin. No expense was spared for these commemorative folders—they were bound in the traditional Moroccan style with a gilt tooled and dyed goatskin cover, a watered silk doublure, sheep or calfskin pages, and illuminated with either Italian gold or French platinum leaf. The resulting book would then be signed by a representative of the company before being sent off to usually the deceased executive’s wife.

Ames & Rollinson created documents like these for a wide array of notable names, including Henry Morton Stanley, J. Pierpont Morgan, William Tecumseh Sherman, Walter P. Chrysler, George Pullman, and Chauncey Depew… whose original “death note” recently came into my possession. Commissioned by the New York Central Railroad Company, the Michigan Central Railroad Company, and the Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago, and St. Louis Railway Company, the ten page document provides a brief biography of Depew, along with a heartfelt tribute, and a listing of all of the board members for each of the railroad companies. Along with the folder is the original letter written by railroad secretary Edward Stephenson to Depew’s widow May Eugenie Palmer when the book was mailed to her.

Born in Peekskill on April 3, 1824, Depew was a graduate of Peekskill Military Academy and Yale University. Admitted to the New York State bar in 1858, Depew operated a law practice in Peekskill. Around the time that Cornelius Vanderbilt came calling to offer him the position as attorney for the New York & Harlem Railroad, Depew had already been offered the position of US Minister to Japan. According to lore, when Depew told Vanderbilt about how the resident minister position offered better compensation, the brusque Vanderbilt retorted, “Railroads are the career for a young man; there is nothing in politics. Don’t be a damned fool.” And that is how Robert B. Van Valkenburgh became the US Minister to Japan, and Chauncey Depew became a railroad man.

When Depew started at the Harlem in 1866, Vanderbilt’s railroad holdings consisted of only around two hundred and fifty miles of territory. Ultimately, Depew would end up overseeing a massive railroad system of over twenty thousand miles as President and Chairman of the Board of the New York Central Lines. Depew’s legacy has been commemorated in the village of Depew in Erie County (where today you’ll find Amtrak’s station for Buffalo), several streets including Depew Place outside Grand Central and Depew Street along the Harlem in Pleasantville, and in a unique old manuscript, which I share with you today.

Objectively, the 1966 Giants were quite awful. Playing their home games at the old Yankee Stadium, they proceeded to lose every single match except for one. They managed to tie their first game on the road, but subsequently lost the remainder. Not only did they have the worst record in the entire league that year, the 1966 season was the worst in franchise history, with the fewest total wins, and the worst point differential (-238)^[2]. In fact, the season ranks as one of the all time top 25 worst seasons for all teams in the entire NFL^[3].

If for some reason you had wanted to watch that hot mess of a team back in ’66, the New York Central did offer special Harlem Division trains for each of the home games. Leaving from North White Plains, the train made local stops to Mount Vernon before proceeding to Melrose, several blocks away from Yankee Stadium. Round trip fare was $2 from North White Plains through Scarsdale, and $1.50 from Crestwood through Mount Vernon—a $1 discount from the normal coach fare at the time.

Interestingly enough, to facilitate faster egress the train made a reverse move to dispense passengers on the northbound platform, which had exits on both 162nd and 161st Streets, as opposed to the southbound platform which only exited near 162nd (this platform does not exist today—the current platform is located north of 162nd Street, with the end situated where the tracks for the Port Morris Branch used to split off from the Harlem. The location of the old Melrose platform is now covered by the Morrisania Air Rights housing project).

Anyone who rode the special train received a commemorative brochure which explained how to get to the stadium from the station, as well as included a list of players on both sides and current league rankings. We’ve posted some of these before, but I recently purchased a few new ones, and figured I’d share.

https://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/ppmsca.70815

https://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/ppmsca.70820

https://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/ppmsca.70826

On the way home, the second and fifth cars of the consist were bar cars, and likely the place where many fans drank away their sorrows after the Giants considerable losses.

These special trains were short lived, and although it might be funny to blame their cancellation on the Giant’s abysmal record, it probably had something more to do with the Central’s lackluster financial situation, leading to their merger with the Pennsylvania Railroad two years later.

No matter which of those historical eras you find yourself most enamored with, every inch of the station provides a visually interesting viewpoint to appreciate. While a visitor’s camera lens could focus on something old, or something new, the (somewhat cliché) shot to get is from the platform stairs, capturing the steel arch of the new train hall framing the historic structure—a blend of 1914, 1952, 2014 all in one image.

Hardly known until Grand Central’s restoration in the 1990’s—and rarely talked about since—many simply assumed that only a select few individuals who had the chance to traipse across sky-high scaffolding would ever gaze upon these signatures 116 feet above the floor. In reality, the full-frame 45 megapixel Canon R5 coupled with an RF 100-500mm lens is sufficiently capable of capturing much of the approximately two inch tall hidden writing, when wielded by a photographer with a will to search the stars!

But why are there any names up there to begin with, and to whom do they belong? For the answers to those questions, we must delve into the backstory of artist Charles Gulbrandsen…

A feature that interested me was the use of small dots, no bigger than a silver dollar, of almost neutral coloring. I said, “Nobody on the floor of the concourse, even with binoculars, could see these dots. Why did you put them here?”

—Charles B. Driscoll recounts of a conversation with Charles Gulbrandsen while touring the sky mural high above Grand Central. Neither the dots nor the signatures were ever intended to be seen from the floor.

Enter Charles Gustave Gulbrandsen

Born in Brooklyn on December 3, 1890 to Norwegian immigrant parents, Charles Gustave Gulbrandsen grew up surrounded by music and art, and family members of considerable creative talent. Charles found a love in painting, commencing with an early career in creating murals, and in his later years designing scenery for theatrical sets, and for television. As an apprentice at Hewlett-Basing Studio, Gulbrandsen played a small part in the creation of the first celestial mural above Grand Central’s main concourse.

Grand Central’s original skylight concept, and the constellations that we actually got.

Originally conceived to be a skylight, both timing and financial constraints led to the alternate concept of a fresco night sky. While much of Grand Central was strong and built to last, perhaps the fact that the ceiling was a bit of an afterthought ultimately led to a less sturdy construction. No matter the cause, it did not take long for the ceiling to begin leaking. Just over a decade later, it had deteriorated to the point of being an eyesore—seeping water had left cracks, streaks, and mold. New York Central executives approached artists for replacement ideas, including Robert Winthrop Chanler, who envisioned a more fantastic starry sky, albeit even less astronomically accurate. Despite these plans the cost of a replacement would be high, and thus no action would be taken for nearly twenty more years.

By the 1940s wartime railroad traffic was booming, and Grand Central set records year after year for visitors passing through. Railroad officials began to have serious fears that the Terminal’s corroded sky was more than simply a cosmetic issue—were any plaster to fall from above it could cause grievous injury. Ultimately, Charles Gulbrandsen was recalled to redo the ceiling, this time as the primary artist. By this time he had worked on several other noteworthy murals, including the ten in the National Newark Building, the Daughters of the American Revolution’s Constitution Hall, and Cornell’s Willard Straight Hall.

Though there was debate about whether the ceiling should be made “correct”—placing the constellations in their appropriate places, and not flipped—Gulbrandsen was set on a near-faithful recreation of the original. Some may have called the work a restoration, but in reality it was a complete do-over. Using large sheets of four foot by sixteen foot tracing paper, details from the original mural were transferred to the new surface—a one-eighth inch thick layer of pressed asbestos board. Then Gulbrandsen, along with five assistants, repainted the entirety of the mural in oil paints. The original mural had taken a year to create, while the recreation took about half that time, the majority of which consisted of bolting the steel rod scaffolding directly to the ceiling girders, and fastening the new board above the old plaster.

The ceiling is decoration, not a map. The constellations are north. They should be south. So what?

—Charles Gulbrandsen on the design of the sky ceiling, 1944. According to Gulbrandsen, the initial reversal was an intentional artistic choice, adapting a subject matter more suitable for a dome onto the Terminal’s barrel-vault configuration.

In total, the painting work took only ten weeks. As new constellations came to life, friends and family members were often invited up onto the scaffolding by Gulbrandsen to get an up-close look at the work going on. Many of the visitors picked a spot to leave their mark, signing their names or other messages for posterity, all invisible to the naked eye of the millions of travelers far below. Even today you can find the names of Gulbrandsen’s eldest children, his wife, several friends, railroad employees, reporters, and others scattered across the vast space of the sky. And when the ceiling was restored in the 1990s, several added to the tradition, including conservator John Canning, whose company worked to clear the grime away.

During the pandemic, finding the names hidden in the sky became a minor obsession for me. I started with the only location I had ever heard mentioned previously—J.V. Brophy’s name hidden in the eye of Pegasus. From there, I was able to determine that my camera, with its super telephoto lens and additional digital zooming, could actually capture the names. The next step was simply to search—I snapped photos of the constellations, merged them in Photoshop, and looked for “abnormalities” in the super-high resolution images. When you ignored all the other details that were too small to see from the ground, like the round holes that the original scaffolding was mounted through, the large staples fastening the boards to the ceiling, and the random streaks of dirt, you’d often find someone’s personal mark.

There was considerable excitement in finding a name, which quickly turned to curiosity. Who were these people, and why were their names there at all? Throughout the journey I learned a lot about an entire clan of talented artists and musicians, became well acquainted with the frustration of not being able to figure out who everyone was, and experienced a profound sadness for a young man whose life was tragically cut short very soon after signing his name in the heavens. It was uniquely exhilarating to find how these people fit into the larger puzzle, and especially so when I sighted the name of an artist whose name I recognized, who likely signed their name while capturing a famous photograph.

The next time you are in Grand Central, look up! There are secrets in the stars, and I am confident that I did not discover them all…

Cancer

Starting off at the northwest end of the Terminal’s ceiling (which would realistically be in the southeast, if the constellations were not reversed) is Cancer, the crab. Look to the right claw and you’ll find two sets of names, one surrounding the star Tegmen, and the other at the claw’s very tip.

1. Moses & Marguerite Harris

Born in 1899 in Brooklyn, Marguerite Harris is remembered as a talented “force of nature.” Leaving home at age fourteen to escape her staunchly religious parents, Marguerite became the assistant to Geoffrey Scott, editor of The Boswell Diaries. With a keen eye for art, Marguerite ran several art galleries in Los Angeles and New York City, including the “Ten Dollar Gallery,” where every painting cost just that amount (after the Great Depression, it became the “Twenty Dollar Gallery”). She was married several times, notably to film producer Sam Zimbalist, from whom she separated around 1940. After returning to New York, she married Moses Harris, and became known as a successful poet and editor. She founded the poetry journal Wand, was a force behind the Woodstock Poetry Festival, and was a recipient of the Edwin Markham Prize for Poetry.

2. 1997 All For Thomas & Jarett

I wasn’t able to track down who Thomas and Jarrett were, but someone wrote their names up on the ceiling of Cancer’s right claw during the restoration of the mural in the 90’s. If you’re ever looking for a signature to spot, this is the brightest and largest, so it would be my first recommendation to beginning ceiling stargazers.

Gemini

Following along the line of the ecliptic (the path of the sun through the stars), the next constellation we arrive at is Gemini, the twins. At least two signatures can be found within.

1. Rose & Mickey Flinn

2. Tom Glason

Orion

Moving on is Orion, the hunter, just below the ecliptic, and the only constellation to not be reversed. Signatures can be found in several of the constellation’s major stars, including Rigel (in the hunter’s foot) and Betelgeuse (in the shoulder). Passing through the bottom of the constellation is the celestial equator, a projection of the Earth’s equator into the sky.

1. T.A. Gilbert

2. P. Bock 1945

3. Ingrid Gulbrandsen

Born on November 8th 1890 in Arendal, Norway, Ingrid Lovold was a talented pianist that was educated in Belgium. She met Charles Gulbrandsen shortly after emigrating to the United States, and they wed in 1911. Together they had five children, including three whose names can be found on Grand Central’s ceiling.

4. Olga Yashina

5. Alfhild Engborg

Born in 1916, Alfhild Gulbrandsen was the second child of Charles and Ingrid Gulbrandsen. She grew up playing the piano and singing, and later attended the Packard School for Business to train as a secretary. Shortly before her name was written here, she married Arvid Robert Engborg.

Engborg held various jobs as a secretary throughout her life, including at the publishing house Doubleday, and was later a customer service representative for Sears Roebuck. She continued to play the piano throughout her life, and was remembered for other creative pursuits, including dressmaking.

Taurus

Next along the ecliptic is Taurus, the bull. Many signers chose stars for their marks, and here is no different. You will find names around the notable stars Elnath (tip of the horn) and Aldebaran (in the bull’s face), along with several others.

1. Nancy Green

2. Lt. H.C. Allington Jr. & Marge Allington

Born in Tarrytown on October 27, 1924, Homer Clifford Allington grew up in Binghamton, and later Port Washington, New York. Through his high school days he was known as “Sug” and was President of the Fratry, the local boy’s service organization. Although short in stature, Allington was a lover of sports (except badminton), and worked on beefing up his muscles by doing the Charles Atlas workout, with the hopes of joining the Navy Air Corps.

Allington instead became a member of the Army Air Forces, and was stationed in Guam as part of the 19th Bombardment Group. He took part in the firebombing of Tokyo in March of 1945, where he was the bombardier aboard B-29 Zero Auer. Shot down by anti aircraft fire, the plane crashed in Kawaguchi City, just north of Tokyo.

Shortly before shipping out, Allington scrawled his and his mother’s name around Zeta Tauri, the star at the tip of Taurus’s right horn. Decades later, it is a memory of one of many young people lost too soon during a brutal World War.

Allington was linked to the Gulbrandsen clan by his elder sister Helen, who married Charles Frithjof.

3. Charles B. Driscoll, New York Day By Day, 1945

Charles Benedict Driscoll, born October 19, 1885 in Wichita, Kansas, was an author of Irish descent, penning the book “Kansas Irish” about his Irish-born father’s life after immigrating to the United States. He worked as a newspaper reporter and editor, and was the author of the column “New York Day by Day” from 1938 until his death in 1951.

Driscoll was given a tour of the work by Charles Gulbrandsen himself, describing the work in the New York Day by Day column which appeared on June 6, 1945.

4. Signe Fay

Born in 1914, Signe Gulbrandsen was Charles and Ingrid’s first child. A talented lyric soprano, she received scholarships to the Curtis Institute of Philadelphia and the Julliard School of Music. As a professional vocalist Gulbrandsen appeared in many concerts in New York and New Jersey, and sang with the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra in 1937. She appeared on Broadway as Mary in the play “Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines” in 1938, and one year later married Thomas Bernard Fay.

5. John Christian

Musca & Triangulum

Further along the ecliptic we pass Aries (the ram), where I did not find any names, and reach the constellations of Musca, Triangulum, and the deprecated Triangulum Minus. Several signatures can be found throughout this group.

Gulbrandsen’s extra triangle

Although not a signature per se, I was unable to find any actual signature by of the artist himself. That being said, the second triangle in Triangulum is a departure from the original mural. Intended to be a faithful reproduction of the original, why was a second triangle added? Perhaps it was a special way for Gulbrandsen to leave his own mark.

As a constellation, Triangulum Minus is considered obsolete, and no longer recognized as an official constellation.

1. CHAWG

2. T.E. Lynch

3. J.A. Zang

4. G.A. Hall

5. Helen Hall

6. E. Nowak

Edwin Stanley Nowak was born on April 18, 1918 in Wyoming County, New York, and grew up in Rochester. Throughout his youth he photographed with a Kodak Brownie, developing his negatives at home. After a short stint studying chemical engineering at the University of Michigan, Nowak landed a lucrative job testing photographic film at Kodak, never returning to finish his degree. Alas, laboratory work left young Nowak unfulfilled, and he took a pay cut to work at a local photography studio.

The allure of more interesting and well-paying photography work lured Nowak to New York City, where he found jobs in the fashion industry and taught darkroom technique at the School of Modern Photography. He persuaded the New York Central Railroad to hire him, and served as the company’s on-staff full-time photographer until 1954, and later on a contract basis. Nowak’s body of work provides an impressive look at the final heyday of a great American railroad.

Later in life Nowak moved to Fort Myers, Florida, where he passed away on January 13, 2002.

Pisces

Next along the ecliptic is Pisces, two connected fishes. Look to their starry eyes, which hold the signatures we are seeking.

1. June & Larry Archer

2. Lois Cannon

3. W. E. Gallaher, Hudson Cond.

William Edwin Gallaher was born in 1908 in Crugers, New York and died in 1992. He worked for the New York Central Railroad as a conductor on the Hudson Division. On his World War II draft card he lists Irvington as his place of residence, and Grand Central’s Room 1612 as his place of employment.

Pegasus

The last constellation along the ecliptic is Aquarius (the water carrier), alas I did not find any signatures there, so we pass along to the opposite corner of the mural, where you will find Pegasus. Notable star Scheat, or Beta Pegasi, holds a total of four names, two along the top, and two more along the bottom.

1. J.V. Brophy

2. Edwin C. Hafker

Edwin Charles Hafker of Port Chester, New York. Born July 8, 1908. Hafker worked as a carpenter for Percy L. Smith Builders of Scarsdale. Died September 2, 1996.

Close to Hafker’s name is another bit of writing, but I was unable to decipher it. Perhaps you may be able to make a discovery of your own right here!

3. “Bub” & Helen Gulbrandsen

According to Gulbrandsen family lore, this was written by the elder Charles in celebration of the nuptials of his son Charles Frithjof Gulbrandsen – “Bub” and Helen Welte Allington.

Charles Frithjof was born September 7, 1920, attended St. Lawrence University after the war, and worked for IBM on Madison Avenue in Manhattan.

4. Mike DeLuco, John Canning, 1996

John Canning is a graduate of the Glasgow Stow College of Building, the Scottish Decorative Trades Institute, and the Glasgow School of Art. He emigrated to the United States in the early ’70s, and established a studio focusing on historic preservation in Cheshire, Connecticut. Some of the studio’s early projects included restoration work at Yale University and Connecticut’s state capitol building. The company was selected to work on Grand Central Terminal’s ceiling as part of the larger restoration efforts in the late ’90s under Beyer Blinder Belle.

Michael Albert DeLuco is a painter originally from Maine that has worked for John Canning’s company since 1987. He worked as a restorer on Grand Central’s ceiling in 1996 and 1997.

Hopefully, the above information will provide the next stargazers a place to begin their own journeys. Know some information about any of the people above, or find something new on the ceiling yourself? Drop me a line or comment below, and I’ll keep this list updated!

Special thanks to Amanda Murphy, great granddaughter of Charles Gulbrandsen, who provided photos and information for this article. Additional family photos were accessed through Ancestry family trees.

The new station to which the train had arrived was a simple wooden affair, which the guests likened to a “barn-like shanty.” It simply blended in with the rest of the small farming town of just over a thousand inhabitants. At the time White Plains was merely a “sweet inland village” just over the “pleasant hills and through the valley of the Bronx.” It was remembered as a battlefield of the Revolution, and where George Washington kept his headquarters for a time. But now, linked with rails of iron (and they were iron—not the metal-strapped wood rails the Harlem had spent much money to experiment with and later replace) to the city of New York, surely this sleepy town was bound to grow exponentially!

Adding to the crowd already surrounding the station, the three hundred or so railroad brass and their invited guests ambled out and onto dinner just a short ways away. Their trip began at New York’s City Hall, stuffed until they were practically overflowing into cars hauled by horses of the flesh and blood variety. Transferring over to a steamer at 27th Street they began their journey of “romantic and historical tradition and reminiscence” which is just a fancy way of saying that when the president of the railroad is on board and wants to stop to fill up on alcohol, by God you stop the train at Harlem and Fordham to get more, of course!

Thankfully railroad president David Banks was not too inebriated to provide a rousing speech highlighting the Harlem’s past obstacles and opposition overcome, and provide optimism for the future of the railroad—North to the Housatonic? West to Albany? Something great surely would be happening forthwith as it was the manifest destiny of the capitalists and businessmen of New York to build a railroad to Lake Erie and then the west!

And one cannot forget the toasts!

To the Judiciary of New York—their learning and judgement—as well as the ladies, of whom we see many here—how can the Harlem Railroad fail to prosper, supported by law, love, and physic?

To the farmers of Westchester County, may they reap the benefit of riding on a rail!

Those were, of course, two of many mentioned that night. As far as reaping benefits, it was not only the farmers of Westchester that would be advantaged, but likewise many of the men that celebrated that evening… and the residents of a tiny village that would eventually grow to become the city we know today.

Although there was a good road—thank the sticks and stones, and iron, and other hard materials, including the hard-fisted laborers who worked on it; although there was good weather—thank God—it requires the whole of these commendable considerations together to reconcile one to a dreary, monotonous kill time journey of 3 hour’s duration on 23 miles of a railroad.

—An unfortunately sober reporter for the New York Herald

These [the Harlem Railroad and New York ferries] being cheap and public modes of conveyance, are crowded with masses of people escaping from the city, and pouring themselves out upon the places in its immediate vicinity. The influence arising from this evil is most deleterious. It allures the population from the sanctuary to scenes of mirth and sin. It inflicts on the inhabitants of these adjacent localities, the curse of a vicious and reckless influx of strangers. Intemperance, licentiousness, profaneness, and every form of irreligion, are thus fostered, both in the city itself and in the places of resort around it.

—New York Evangelist rails against the sinful methods of public transportation which operated every day of the week, ignoring the Sabbath, in 1842.

The true measure of distance, especially from a historical perspective, cannot be accurately gauged in miles, but instead in the duration of time it takes one to get there. With the advent of railways, people and goods were able to travel much further than they ever were before, in far less time. But any technological advance of such magnitude inevitably draws out the naysayers, fearmongers, and conspiracy theorists…

The railroad is unnatural! It is sinful! Men were never intended to move at such great speed. Women! Their ovaries will fall from their wombs, rendering them sterile. The jarring motion of the locomotive will make your blood boil, and cause permanent injury to your brain! Madness will certainly be induced by the speed of the dastardly beast! People will surely suffocate! And the cows! Think of the farm animals that will cease to graze, disturbed by this unholy contraption! Hens will quit laying eggs, birds will plummet from the sky in the throes of death.

All of these, and many other, nonsensical beliefs were attributed to the coming of railroads; when preparing their road’s extension, the directors of the Harlem almost expected to hear some of these senseless ideas from the commoners of Westchester.

While no protest would stop the expansion of the Harlem, the cooperation of a succession of land owners along the proposed route of the road was needed. Thus the “diplomatic” and “amiable” Gouverneur Morris Jr. was sent out to negotiate, or “overcome the minds of many of the land owners’ existing prejudices against railroads.” In some cases, little fighting was necessary, as residents intuited the value of having a railroad nearby. Two members of the Purdy family fell into this camp— Jacob, who transferred the land for White Plains, and Isaac, whose land later became the aptly named Purdy’s station. In both cases the land transfers were for nominal fees of a single dollar.

Once the land was acquired, construction steadily moved forward. Many of the laborers constructing the road were Irish immigrants, paid up to 75 cents a day and their board—dirt floor hemlock shanties along the future right-of-way. By June of 1844 service to Tuckahoe was open to the public, and the next six miles into White Plains soon thereafter. The openings were well attended curiosities, and for some it was the first time in their life they had ever glimpsed the magnificent iron horse.

For two full years White Plains served as the terminus of the Harlem Railroad. As such, the road required all the necessary infrastructure to operate, including a roundhouse and turntable. Two small railyards existed on either side of Railroad Avenue (today’s Main Street), with the one on the north end having the turntable, roughly located where the current White Plains station is today. On the south end there were several tracks that directly served some of the new industries that had popped up adjacent to the railroad, including animal feeds, coal, lumber, and other building materials.

Although industries may have found the rails useful, the population of White Plains did not immediately explode after the coming of the Harlem. The added connectivity was certainly valuable, it was just not frequent—service began with only four round trip passenger trains per day, with the trip taking well over an hour (even without the pit stops for acquiring more alcohol). Over time the frequency of trains steadily increased, and the ride time shortened, thanks to new technology (including electrification) and newly scheduled express trains. And instead of a single flat fare for every trip, new types of tickets were introduced, including booklets intended for commuters with 150 ride coupons, valid for three months from the date of purchase.

Just before the turn of the century the Harlem’s single train schedule was split out into two—Form 112, which included the more distant locations along the Harlem, and the Form 113, which were the commutation trains from Grand Central. The timetables also were broken down into weekday and weekend schedules, with additional southbound frequency in the mornings, and northbound in the evenings, new offerings tailored to the commuter. Finally, White Plains had become a realistic suburb, where both living in “the country” and working in the city was feasible, or as New York Times noted in 1927, “White Plains is but thirty-six minutes from Grand Central Station [sic] and actually nearer in point of time than many subway terminals in New York City.”

The present [railroad] service is the result of a steady and satisfactory growth from year to year, until, at the present time, about as many trains are run during the rush hours of the day as the present track accommodations will take care of… for years the service given has actually exceeded the bare necessities of the business to be taken care of, and that instead of being a little behind the times with its service, the railroad company has led the procession…

In addition to all its other charms as a suburban home center, the village of White Plains has that most indispensable feature of suburban life, a first-class train service; and in this respect it is excelled by no other village in the outlying districts of the center of the universe commonly called New York… If the recent growth of both the village and the train service is any indication, White Plains has a very gratifying future indeed.

—John Rosch’s Picturesque White Plains, 1906.

Looking back over the past hundred-plus years of White Plains’ history, did the city live up to the hopes of Rosch and other citizens of yesteryear? Beyond the railroad, what other factors influenced the growth of this city? How did the railroad, complete with two railyards, come to the state it is now? What transit-oriented development can today’s citizens hope to see in the next decade? All of these questions will be considered in the upcoming continuation of our series on the history of White Plains… coming soon!

Although so long ago, in some respects we today are in a similar situation. The city was likewise gripped in a pandemic, although in this case the killer was cholera. Arriving on the shores of New York from oceangoing vessels, the bacterial disease killed 3,000 New Yorkers by the end of the summer in 1832. Laborers building the railroad found parts of the city deserted, as nearly 100,000 people fled the city in fear of cholera. Several of the workers contracted the disease, which some blamed on the apples they would eat from an orchard along Third Avenue, but it wouldn’t be until 1854 that John Snow discovered that the affliction was transmitted through contaminated water. Many of the city’s upper-class denizens were apathetic toward the disease, blaming the poor and their “moral depravity.” Despite cholera’s predominant effect on the working class, construction of the railroad continued.

On November 14, 1832 the festivities were far greater than the groundbreaking the previous year—every New Yorker in the vicinity wanted to see the opening of the New York & Harlem Railroad. The mayor and railroad executives arrived by carriage to the depot near Union Square, and every window in every building facing the tracks had little heads peeking out to catch a view of this novelty of transportation. Two railcars resembling an omnibus had large iron wheels that fit the flanges of the rail, and were each pulled by two horses. Each car, upholstered in fine cloth and complete with fine glass windows, could accommodate forty passengers inside and out. Getting up to a speed of about twelve miles per hour, the horses were able to pull far heavier loads over the rail than if they were on the pavement.

A horsecar on the New York & Harlem Railroad

“The comfort and convenience of this railroad to our citizens will be inconceivable. Instead of being cramped and confined to a single lot of ground and a close atmosphere in the city, an acre or two will be purchased and a comfortable house built at a reduced expense, a garden, orchard, dairy and other conveniences follow; and the train of railroad carriages will start from Trinity Church and convey passengers to Harlem and the intermediate stopping places, with as much facility and ease as they are now conveyed to Greenwich Village. These are a few of the advantages which this small undertaking promise; and in fact it will make Harlem the suburbs of New York.”

—New York Courier and Enquirer

Many were already dreaming for the future. The New York Courier and Enquirer predicted the creation of suburbs because of the railroad, although they were conservative in their estimation that only Harlem would be the suburb. The rail line would eventually spur growth in Westchester and beyond, making New York City easily accessible for commuters. But at this time everyone except the idealists saw the little rail line as just an experiment. Cars were frequently full, although they only operated from 9 AM to 5 PM on every day except Sunday. Stations were largely suggestions—it was permissible for drivers to stop anywhere a passenger needed.

Eventually the line became an established method of transport, with a second track and trains running every fifteen minutes. Locomotives were acquired, supplanting horses on the northern end of the line. Further tunnels were bored, including a 600 foot long tunnel through solid rock in Yorkville between 88th and 95th Streets. By fall of 1837 the line had reached the banks of the Harlem River, and operated from designated stations: Walker, Grand, Broome, Prince, Bond, 4th, 9th, 18th, 21st, 25th, 28th, 32nd, 42nd, 50th, 61st, 71st, 79th, 86th, 92nd, 109th, 115th, 125th, and 133rd.

View of the Tunnel of the Harlem Railroad by Nicolino Calyo, circa 1837.

“The Harlem Railroad may now be considered as completed. This road may be considered but a great link to greater and mightier undertakings. When the rails are laid as they unquestionably will be to Albany, it is certain that there will be one uninterrupted line from this city to Buffalo.”

—New York Evening Express

No one had expected the railroad to go beyond Harlem. A previously chartered road, the New York and Albany Railroad, was unable to complete their line after six years and surrendered their rights to the New York and Harlem in 1838. The state legislature authorized the construction of a bridge over the Harlem River, and construction began to Putnam County and beyond. By February 1840 the railroad owned 140 horses and 6 locomotives: Minerva, Westchester, New York, Harlem, Yorkville, Brother Johnathan. Two years later the line had reached Williams Bridge, and in another two years, White Plains. It finally reached its northernmost point of Chatham in 1852.

The railroad will always hold a special place in New York’s history as the city’s first railroad. Although its importance diminished over the years, playing second fiddle to the line along the Hudson River and later experiencing partial abandonment, the line will have both riders and fans in its current incarnation as Metro-North’s Harlem Line for many years to come.

Introduction to "Summer Homes on the Harlem Railroad"

The ticket office at Tryon Row, 1839.

The famous “Rut Milk” train passes through Mott Haven in the 1950s. The milk trains were eventually replaced by trucks. Photo by Victor Zollinsky.

Milk depots were established at many train depots, and local farmers could bring and sell their milk, which was then transported to the city. One of the Harlem’s most famous freights was the Rutland Milk train, which brought milk to New York City from Vermont – transferring from the Rutland Railroad to the Harlem in Chatham. Every day a swap would occur where a train full of milk changed hands at Chatham, exchanged for the previous day’s empties.

Today’s random tidbit from the archive is a letter from F.T. Hopkins to William Hooker. Hopkins was a milk dealer who operated the Harlem Railroad Milk Depot in New York City. The letter is addressed to Hooker at Wing’s Station – an earlier name for Wingdale.

Borden on the Harlem Line

New York Condensed Milk Company / Eagle Brand condensed milk promotional card.

Even if the milk transported by train to the city was considered “pure” and not of the “swill” variety, it did not last very long before spoilage in the days prior to refrigeration. Condensed milk stored in cans, however, could last for years without spoiling. Not only was condensed milk transported along the Harlem, it got its start here.

There are many ways to describe Gail Borden Jr.: a perpetual wanderer, deeply religious (anecdotal evidence suggests that he bought bibles for placement on the Harlem’s trains), eccentric inventor (he scared his friends by taking them on a ride straight into a river in a self-invented amphibious wagon – the “terraqueous machine”), an endlessly stubborn optimist that never gave up. All of those traits led him from his birthplace of Norwich, New York to Kentucky, Indiana, Mississippi, Texas, Connecticut, and ultimately back to New York and the Harlem Railroad to launch his most successful invention – condensed milk.

For some time Borden had been interested in preventing food from spoilage. One of his first food related inventions was a meat biscuit, made from rendered meat and flour or potato and baked into a cracker, which could be eaten as is, or crushed into boiling water to make soup. He also experimented with preserving and concentrating fruit to make juices, and making coffee extract which took up far less space than regular coffee. Despite winning prizes for the meat biscuit, none of those endeavors were commercial successes. After debts forced him to give up on the meat biscuit and sell some of his property to pay creditors, Borden wholeheartedly pursued his milk preservation idea in Connecticut – starting a factory in Wolcottville. He eventually ran out of money and that factory closed, later replaced by a different factory in Burrville. Unfortunately, the Financial Panic of 1857 marked the end of that venture as well.

The first successful condensed milk factory, Wassaic, New York

The original Borden factory today, now occupied by the Pawling Corporation, which manufactures architectural products.

A chance encounter on a train ride, however, brought Gail Borden and financer Jeremiah Milbank together, and Milbank found promise in Borden’s idea. With Milbank’s money, Borden founded the New York Condensed Milk Company in Wassaic, New York, right next the the tracks of the Harlem Railroad. Borden’s tenacious spirit had finally paid off this time around, as his product became a commercial success. Another factory was constructed along the Harlem in Brewster to keep up with demand – and condensed milk became a staple for members of the Union Army during the Civil War.

After Borden’s successes he moved back to Texas, but upon death was returned by train to New York. He forever remains next to the Harlem Line, buried in Woodlawn Cemetery with a large monument that bears the following quote:
“I tried and failed. I tried again and again and succeeded.”

Borden’s final resting place at Woodlawn Cemetery

With the aid of old timetables, I was able to track the history of the banner, and the trains it once represented. Though the train number changed a few times, for the majority of it’s life, the it was for a Sunday-only morning train from New York to Chatham.

Unknown – 1958: Train 1053, which made a stop at Boston Corners.
1958 – June 30, 1964: Train 905. Ghent was blacked out in 1959 when it was removed as a stop.
July 1, 1964 – November 30, 1968: Train 909.
December 1, 1968 – March 19, 1972: Train 9009. Number was changed after the Penn Central merger.
March 20th, 1972 – unknown: Eliminated stations were covered in black paint, and used for Train 9013, a Saturday and Sunday train.

Early photo of Grand Central’s lower level, showing two departure banners, and the cabinets the banners were stored in when not being used.

After purchasing the banner, I was slightly torn as to what I should do with it. Keep it as is, as a testament to what happened when Penn Central eliminated the Upper Harlem? Or should I restore it, to what it once was, showing all of the original stops? Part of what swayed my decision was that it was obvious that the writing underneath was not completely gone. You could just barely make it out under the black layer of paint, but it was still there. I decided to see how difficult removing the black would be, and to my surprise, it wasn’t that hard. With a little bit of elbow grease, I revealed a line once hidden under black – “Visitors not permitted through gate”:

I made my decision. I was going to restore this banner. I started next on the paint covering the station names… Ghent and Chatham are revealed:

The big reveal was, of course, getting the original destination at the top of the banner to show. Dover Plains has morphed into Chatham…

After revealing everything that was hidden in black, much of the paint was chipped and fading. Repainting was the final step of the restoration.

Although it still needs a little bit of work, for the most part, the sign is done.