The Day the Sky Turned Dark in New York City -- January 24, 1925

                          

It was the third decade of the 20th century, about the middle of the

roaring 20s.  Technology and industrialization, along with the

Great World War of the prior decade, had helped to transform the

United States into a major world power, and with that

transformation New York City became the world's powerhouse.  

Calvin Coolidge, who had been the Vice President of the United

States under Warren G. Harding, was now the President since

Harding had suddenly died in office on August 2, 1923. At that

time there was no way, unlike today after the passage of the 25th

amendment to the Constitution in 1967, to nominate and confirm

a Vice Presidential candidate to fill the vacancy created by

Coolidge’s ascendancy to the Presidency.

During 1924, Coolidge ran for President on the Republican ticket,

with Charles G. Dawes as his running mate against John W. Davis

and Charles W. Bryan on the Democratic ticket.  In the November

1924 election Coolidge and Dawes won the election, but in those

days, since inauguration day was still March 4, of the following

year, Coolidge would have no sitting Vice President until after the

inauguration in March.

In New York City, John F. Hylan was the Mayor. New York City

had just become the most populous city in the world, having

overtaken London.

January, 1925, arrived and departed like a polar bear and New York

City was the unwelcome recipient of almost 27 1/2 inches of snow,

the most ever recorded for any January up to that time (this record

was finally eclipsed in January, 2011, when the city recorded 36

inches of snow).  On January 20, 1925, New York City got hit with

two blizzards in one day. On January 27 more snow fell and then

the coup de grace; another giant storm on January 30 that affected

the entire metropolitan area.

But, on January 24th of that year, on that cold and wintry Saturday

morning the temperature was hovering around zero degrees, and

David Franklyn Yerex, a professional photographer who had worked

for a number of years for Underwood and Underwood, the world’s

largest producer of stereoscopic cards, arose early and took his

photographic equipment to Highbridge Park just north of the High

Bridge on the Manhattan side before dawn and set up his camera to

get a good view of the High Bridge and the Harlem River. David

grew up with cold weather. He had been born in a small town in

Ontario, Canada, in 1876.  But, despite all the adverse weather

conditions, at precisely 9:11 am he took a picture that made him

somewhat of a celebrity. He had taken a very rare picture of a total

eclipse of the Sun at precisely the right time.

It was known for quite some time prior to the actual eclipse that this

eclipse was going to come on January 24th, but in order for a viewer

in New York City to get a view of the total eclipse the viewer had to

be in the very narrow path where the eclipse was total.  In fact, had

Mr. Yerex been south of approximately 96th St. he would have only

seen a partial eclipse. Below is the map prepared by Consolidated

Edison Companies based upon actual observations of where this

particular eclipse was total and where it was only partial. You will

note the somewhat diagonal dotted line (actually it is going almost

directly east/west) through the northern part of Central Park, starting

at about 95th St. at Riverside Drive and ending at about 106th St at

the East River. Points south of this line were in partial eclipse for the

event and points north of this line were in the path of the total eclipse.

Below is a local news article on the anticipated path of the area

where the total eclipse would occur on that day.

You can see that New York City is on the southern fringe of the

area covered by the total eclipse.  

The following beautiful and rare art photo of the Total Eclipse of

the Sun was taken by David Yerex from Highbridge Park on

Washington Heights, overlooking the Harlem River and the Bronx,

New York City, January 24th, 1925 at about 9 A.M.

Image copyright 2016, Friends of the High Bridge, LTD.

It shows the historic High Bridge before the steel span over the

Harlem River would be installed a few years later. Also, the

street lights were turned on during the eclipse; and you can see

the small tug going up the river; and smoke from a passing train

still visible; also shown is the reflection of the eclipse in the water.  

This is the only photograph of the “Great Event” which shows the

marvelous streamers of the Corona that resemble an arrow

shooting through the disk of the Moon.

A beautiful hand colored enlargement of this picture was hung in

The American Museum of Natural History and has been highly

endorsed by astronomers, artists, photographers and other

capable critics who have proclaimed it to be a stunning picture of

the eclipse.

To get an idea of how infrequently a celestial phenomenon such

as this happens, the last previous total eclipse in New York City

was in 1838, just as the Croton Aqueduct was starting to be

constructed, and that eclipse was not a total solar eclipse, it was

an annular solar eclipse. You would have to go back to the year

1478, before Columbus even discovered the New World, to find

the last total solar eclipse to pass over what is now called New

York City. And, if you are interested to know, the next total solar

eclipse to pass over New York City will be in the year 2079.

David Yerex, would go on to take pictures of other future eclipses

including the total solar eclipse of August 31, 1932 in New

Hampshire, and the total solar eclipse of April 7, 1940 in Florida;

and was honored by Life Magazine in 1940 with Life Magazine's

Picture of the Week Award for the picture of the total eclipse of

April 7, 1940, taken by him in Green Cove Springs, FL, just south

of Jacksonville.

David Yerex led a colorful life. He lived in Providence, RI upon

immigrating to the US in about 1893 and then met and married

Annie McGregor Belmore after she immigrated from Nova Scotia

to Boston in 1898. They moved to Boston where he was with the

firm of E. Chickering. He was noted for his critically important

photographs during this period of time. He divorced Annie and

moved to New York City in the early 1910s, where he was

employed by Underwood & Underwood. Underwood & Underwood

was the world's largest producer of stereoview cards. It was during

the 20s that the stereoview cards were losing market share and

the firm was moving into photo images for the press, much like AP

and UPI. He became naturalized as a citizen in 1917 and married

a local girl named Helen of Irish descent. In 1920 he had moved

to Washington Heights on 160th St. By the mid 1920s he had his

own studio in the Bronx, not far from the High Bridge. Perhaps he

walked the High Bridge from the Bronx with his equipment that

cold wintry day to shoot the picture of the eclipse. During the

1930s he operated a photo studio providing portraits and other

photographic services for the general public while he pursued his

interest on the artistic side of the field.

Around 1940 he moved back to Boston and lived there until his

death. Very few of his known works still survive.

Who was the First to recognize that Light has a Finite Speed and to Measure its Speed?

 

By Brent Meeker

 · 

Galileo tried to measure the speed of light by having a servant take a lantern to a distant hilltop. Galileo was to open his lantern and as soon as the servant saw the light he was to open his lantern. When Galileo saw his servant's lantern he would have a measure of the round-trip-time. But of course, Galileo could only conclude that the light travel time was small compared to the servant's reaction time…i.e., it was very fast.

The first real measurement of the speed of light was made in 1675 by the Danish astronomer Ole Roemer. He kept track of the times that moons of Jupiter were eclipsed.

When he compared these data to calculations assuming uniform orbital motion he saw that the eclipse intervals got a little longer as the Earth moved further from Jupiter and a little shorter then as Earth approached Jupiter in the Earth's annual orbit around the Sun. He realized this was due to the increasing travel time for light. So knowing the size of the Earth's orbit he calculated the speed of light to be 200,000 Km/s.

Roemer's result wasn't very accurate. The first reasonably accurate value was calculated in 1728 by an English physicist, James Bradley.

Because of the Earth's speed in orbit a telescope has to be tilted slightly in the direction of motion toward a star. This is called stellar aberration. By comparing the angles for observations of a star six months apart and knowing the Earth's speed in orbit, Bradley calculated the speed of light to be 301,000 Km/s. Quite close to the current value.

February 11, 2026 Marks the 222th Anniversary of the Death of Joseph Priestley in Northumberland PA

We last visited the graveside of Joseph Priestley in Northumberland, PA, on February 6, 2004, almost 22 years ago on the commemoration of the 200 years since his death. Priestley is as relevant, if not more so, today than when he died there over two centuries ago, shortly after the birth of our nation.

History Today said, "President Thomas Jefferson of the United States wrote to Joseph Priestley, clergyman and chemist, when the latter was seriously ill in 1801, ‘Yours is one of the few lives precious to mankind, for the continuance of which every thinking man is solicitous.’ Not everyone in America or Britain would have agreed with this sentiment. On the contrary, Priestley’s radical views on religion and politics had made England too hot for him. A mob in Birmingham had destroyed his home, his books, and his laboratory with all his apparatus ten years before and he had felt in danger ever afterwards. In 1794, he and his wife, Mary, emigrated to America, where their three sons had already preceded them. After a horrible seasick voyage of eight weeks against contrary winds, they arrived in thick fog in New York City to great acclaim and went on to Philadelphia, where Priestley was again received with flattering attentions."

On the morning of February 6, 1804, at his home in Northumberland, PA, after dictating final revisions to a manuscript which was a memoir of his life, he famously declared, "That is right. I have now done," and passed shortly after, a death marked by his son and family present. He was buried near his home, and his death followed the years of political turmoil in England that led him to emigrate to America. 

If you are interested in seeing the post on our visit to his resting place, click here.

Mystery Island

                                                          

Every morning, without fail, I find myself at the window, staring out toward an island just off the coast. It’s a place I’ve come to know intimately through years of watching, yet it remains forever mysterious. The island is covered in thick, lush vegetation—a jumble of trees, shrubs, and vines that seem to grow wildly without human intervention. At times, it is covered with a haze, making it appear impenitrable. Sometimes, in the early morning light, I think I can see flashes of green through the canopy, hints of what might be hiding within. But as the day wears on, the island remains silent and still, an untouched patch of the world that calls to my curiosity.

I’ve never seen a boat go there, nor anyone venturing near its shores. Over the years, I’ve watched countless ships and small boats pass by, but none have ever headed toward that mysterious place. It’s as if the island exists in a separate time, separate space, disconnected from the bustling world beyond the coast. The locals around here don’t speak of it much—perhaps because it’s always been there, a quiet sentinel of the sea, or maybe because no one dares to venture close.

Sometimes, I imagine what could be on that island. Could it be uninhabited, left as a secret sanctuary? Or might there be something more—an old ruin, a forgotten relic of a long-lost civilization, hidden beneath the thick greenery? I think about the stories I’ve heard of explorers and adventurers who chase after the unknown, and I wonder if they’ve ever tried to reach it. Yet, as far as I know, no one has succeeded.

Each day, the island’s mystery deepens. The winds shift, stirring the trees and causing shadows to dance on the vegetation. The sun casts a golden glow, making the leaves shimmer like emerald flames. I feel a strange sense of longing whenever I look at it, a desire to step across the water and uncover its secrets. But the distance is too great, and I’ve never seen anyone brave enough to attempt the crossing.

Still, I keep watching, imagining stories for the island. Maybe someday, something will change—perhaps a boat will appear, or I will find a way to explore its hidden depths. Until then, it remains my silent, verdant mystery, just beyond my reach, a quiet reminder of how much of the world’s secrets we’ve yet to discover.