Cheaper by the Dozen

were both contagious and dire. In comparison, leprosy would be no worse than a bad cold. Dad always opened the door of a public lest room with his coattail, and the preparations and precautions that ensued were "unavoidable delay" in its worst aspect.
    Once he and Mother had discarded filling stations as a possibility, the only alternative was the woods. Perhaps it was the nervous strain of enduring Dad's driving; perhaps it was simply that fourteen persons have different personal habits. At any rate, we seemed to stop at every promising dump of trees.
    "I've seen dogs that paid less attention to trees," Dad used to groan.
    For family delicacy, Dad coined two synonyms for going to the bathroom in the woods. One was "visiting Mrs. Murphy." The other was "examining the rear tire." They meant the same thing.
    After a picnic; he'd say:
    "How many have to visit Mrs. Murphy?"
    Usually nobody would. But after we had been under way ten or fifteen minutes, someone would announce that he had to go. So Dad would stop the car, and Mother would take the girls into the woods on one side of the road, while Dad took the boys into the woods on the other.
    "I know every piece of flora and fauna from Bangor, Maine; to Washington, D.C.," Dad exclaimed bitterly.

    On the way home, when it was dark, Bill used to crawl up into a swivel seat right behind Dad. Every time Dad was intent on steering while rounding a curve, Bill would reach forward and clutch his arm. Bill was a perfect mimic, and he'd whisper in Mother's voice, "Not so fast, Frank. Not so fast." Dad would think it was Mother grabbing his arm and whispering to him, and he'd make believe he didn't hear her.
    Sometimes Bill would go into the act when the car was creeping along at a dignified thirty, and Dad finally would turn to Mother disgustedly and say:
    "For the love of Mike, Lillie! I was only doing twenty." He automatically subtracted ten miles an hour from the speed whenever he discussed the matter with Mother.
    "I didn't say anything, Frank," Mother would tell him. Dad would turn around, then, and see all of us giggling into our handkerchiefs. He'd give Bill a playful cuff and rumple his hair. Secretly, Dad was proud of Bill's imitations. He used to say that when Bill imitated a bird he (Dad) didn't dare to look up.
    "You'll be the death of me yet, boy," Dad would say to Bill. As we'd roll along, we'd sing three-and-four part harmony, with Mother and Dad joining in as soprano and bass. "Bobolink Swinging on the Bow," "Love's Old Sweet Song," "Our Highland Goat," "I've Been Working on the Railroad."
    "What do only children do with themselves?" we'd think. Dad would lean back against the seat and cock his hat on the side of his head. Mother would snuggle up against him as if she were cold. The babies were asleep now. Sometimes Mother turned around between songs and said to us: "Right now is the happiest time in the world." And perhaps it was.

Chapter 5
Mister Chairman

    Dad was born in Fairfield, Maine, where his father ran a general store, farmed, and raised harness-racing horses. John Hiram Gilbreth died in 1871, leaving his three-year-old son, 24 two older daughters, and a stem and rockbound widow.
    Dad's mother, Grandma Gilbreth, believed that her children were fated to make important marks in the world, and that her first responsibility was to educate them so they would be prepared for their rendezvous with destiny.
    "After that," she told her Fairfield neighbors, with a knowing nod, "blood will tell."
    Without any business ties to hold her in Maine, she moved to Andover, Massachusetts, so that the girls could attend Abbott Academy. Later, when her oldest daughter showed a talent for music, Grandma Gilbreth decided to move again. Every New Englander knew the location of the universe's seat of culture, and it was to Boston that she now journeyed with her flock.
    Dad wanted, more than anything else, to be a construction engineer, and his mother planned to have him enter Massachusetts Institute of Technology. By the time he finished high school, though, he decided this would be too great a drain on the family finances, and would interfere with his sisters' studies. Without consulting his mother, he took a job as a bricklayer's helper.
    Once the deed was done, Grandma Gilbreth decided to make the best of it. After all, Mr. Lincoln had started by splitting rails.
    "But if you're going to be a bricklayer's helper," she said, "for mercy sakes be a good bricklayer's