Ticker Tape Parades
My first, full-time job with Foster & Adams in New York began in the spring of 1961. The firm was a mid-sized brokerage partnership, a member of both the New York and American Stock Exchanges. My mentor and a senior partner of the firm was Milford J. Milem. He required that I become thoroughly versed with each position in every department in the firm. Likewise, I had to familiarize myself with the firm’s six branches scattered across New York State and New Jersey.
Since joining Foster & Adams, I had been cloistered in the firm’s back-office. The training program was both intense and fascinating. Occasionally, I would meet with Milem for progress updates at his luncheon club atop 120 Broadway.
At noon on March 1, 1962, Milem paged me, “Tony, come to my office as soon as you can.” I was being summoned to the Partners’ Room overlooking and just down from Broadway’s historic Trinity Church. Arriving at his office, I saw Milem peering out of his opened window looking down on Broadway. He waved me in making room for me at the window.
The air was choked with a flurry of ticker tape fragments swirling in all directions. For the first time I was witnessing one of Wall Street’s spectacular events. That day New York City was honoring Astronaut Lt. Col. John Glenn and his wife with a full-blown ticker tape parade. Accompanying them in a Chrysler Phaeton was Vice President Johnson and his wife. In February, 1962, as one of the original astronauts of Project Mercury 7, Col. Glenn had become the first American to travel into space orbiting the Earth aboard Friendship 7. Project Mercury 7 was America’s first human-in-space program.
Colonel Glenn had been preceded by Soviet Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, the first ever human being to travel into space while orbiting the Earth aboard Vostok I in April, 1961.
The long procession of dignitaries and a number of military brass bands trailed the lead car north to City Hall. It was reported that over two million onlookers that day had roared their salute from the skyscrapers and sidewalks along the route. More than three million tons of ticker tape showered down on the parade. From our vantage point, the slow-moving procession could barely be seen through the confetti. Onlookers swarmed near Col. Glenn’s car seeking to get as close as possible to America’s new hero. Enthusiasm was wild across America. Still peering through the clouds of ticker tape I, too, leaned out of the window and snapped a few black and white photos for posterity. For me, that parade was a rare, historic moment.
View of Trinity Church from my office window during a ticker tape parade.
It wasn’t long before Wall Street celebrated another space feat. In May, 1963, the youngest of the original Project Mercury 7 astronauts, Col. Gordon Cooper, became the first American to spend more than an entire day (34 hours) in space on his historic, solo, orbital mission.
On May 22nd, Foster & Adams’ assistant office manager, “Knobby,” came to my office with a guest, Orlando Fernandez, a press photographer for the “N.Y. Daily News.” He was seeking a perfect spot to photograph that day’s ticker tape parade. He asked if he might use my office window to capture the lead car carrying Col. Cooper. By using my office on the sixth floor of 120 Broadway, he hoped to incorporate the astronaut with the American flag flying just below our firm. Fernandez’s suggestion was accepted. I opened the large window. As he was preparing his cameras, I saw that he intended to take pictures from outside, not inside, my office window. Hurriedly, Knobby and I identified a couple of solid anchors in the office that might secure Fernandez who was to hang outside the window.
We chose the cast iron radiator next to the window and my heavy desk as anchors. Knobby wedged his leg behind the radiator. I, in turn, grasped the desk with an arm. Neither anchor was perfect -- and not without risk.
As Colonel Cooper’s car rolled into view, Fernandez crawled on top of the opened window sill. A sudden, strong gust of wind rushed in through the window blowing both the curtains and bits of ticker tape fragments into the office. By the time Fernandez was on his stomach and beginning to inch out, Knobby and I, confident of our anchors, grabbed his belt. Then, with a free hand, Knobby also latched onto one of Fernandez’s legs. With seemingly little concern for his safety, Fernandez exited the open window. Casually, he telescoped himself further into the void. Once fully extended, with his thighs still on the window sill, only his stomach muscles supported his fully extended upper body. Knobby and I kept shouting at Fernandez to make sure he wasn’t losing altitude. Increasingly concerned, we tried to reassure ourselves, “Will the belt and his pants hold?”
Within what seemed forever, Fernandez finally managed to frame Col. Cooper’s Broadway cavalcade and the American flag flying just below.
Photo by O. Fernandez. New York City, May 22, 1963
[Note: In the far upper left-hand corner of the photo, another high-risk viewer can be seen poised dangerously high on a ledge above the Chock full o’Nuts coffeehouse and the Kabuki restaurant.]
After many shots using several cameras , Fernandez signaled us to pull him back through the window. Once inside and with a broad smile he shouted , “I think we got a good one.” Pulling himself together he thanked everyone involved and was gone.
Oddly, I do not recall actually having seen this photo in the “Daily News.” Maybe I missed it. Or, did Fernandez use a different photo? In any event, on that special day millions of onlookers got to see another American hero.
