Cheaper by the Dozen (Cheaper by the Dozen, Book 1) by Frank B. Gilbreth

By Frank B. Gilbreth

The vintage American memoir of twelve young children, mom and dad, and an international of laughter and love

Translated into greater than fifty languages and tailored into vintage films, more cost-effective through the Dozen is the unforgettable tale of the Gilbreth extended family as instructed by way of of its participants. during this endearing, fun memoir, siblings Frank Jr. and Ernestine trap the hilarity and middle of growing to be up in a large family.

Mother and pop are world-renowned potency specialists, assisting factories fine-tune their meeting traces for max output at minimal rate. At domestic, the Gilbreths themselves have cranked out twelve youngsters, and pop is out to end up that potency rules can observe to relations in addition to the office. The heartwarming and comedian tales of the jumbo-sized Gilbreth extended family have thrilled generations of readers, and should hold you and yours guffawing for years.

This e-book beneficial properties an illustrated biography together with infrequent images from the authors' estates.

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Additional info for Cheaper by the Dozen (Cheaper by the Dozen, Book 1)

Example text

I continued to do so without any thought of achieving satisfac­ tion, until the age of twenty-eight. It was a pastime, it reassured me. I smelled my fingers, I breathed in the extract of my being, to which I attached no value. Aime Patureau, a boy of seventeen with a pretty round face, with sandy puttees round his calves, hurt his foot. The wound became infected, he stayed at home, he lifted his window curtain and called me. Seeing him alone in his parents' house while they were out working, seeing his leg stretched out on a chair in the silence of the dining room rendered me speechless.

One Sunday morn­ ing in winter my mother was not in our bed when I got up. I shov­ eled the ashes out of the stove, I heard two people laughing on the ground floor, in the room where Fideline had died : one of them was my mother, the other was Juliette, a former cook. She often came to see my mother. They would talk about my mother's seducer, about his parents, about his home, where they had been in service together. The wall of Juliette's cafe was next to the main gate of their garden. The barman did odd jobs for the family.

Why, tell me why ? Was I as much of an encumbrance as all that ? I don'L remember my mother leaving ( IJ me in the establishment and thank heaven for that privilege. I do remember my grief, my stamping on the tiled floor after she had gone. Screams, tears, groans, those days were to be an icy compress, always too heavy and too cold. The headmistress was afraid I would go into convulsions; she sent a telegram and my mother took me back home. She once gave me her photographs of him. It is a strange moment when you gaze questioningly at an unknown figure in a picture and the picture, the unknown figure, is your nerves, your joints, your spinal column.

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