Belles on Their Toes

by Frank B. Gilbreth

  We wound up the song standing around the piano, pushing as close to Mother as we could. Frank did his best to sing bass, but all of us knew something was missing from the harmony.

  Underneath the tree, besides the presents we had wrapped, were twenty or more cartons from relatives and friends. Mother slipped into the office to get a stenographer’s pad and pencil, to make notes for the thank-you letters.

  Frank started passing out the presents. The custom was that only one gift was opened at a time, so that everyone could watch and so that Christmas would last longer.

  That year Dan had insisted that he was old enough to do his own Christmas shopping, and Mother had agreed. He had gone downtown by himself, pulling the express wagon after him, and had come home with the wagon piled high. No amount of pumping, even on the part of Fred from whom he had few secrets, could elicit the slightest information about the nature of the gifts.

  It was obvious, though, from just a casual glance under the tree, that Dan’s purchases were identical and that he had wrapped them without assistance.

  There were eleven of them. He had placed them in a row, a little away from the general pile. Each was as large as a basket ball, although irregular in shape.

  Each gift, whatever it was, was enmeshed—trapped rather than wrapped—in green tissue paper, held in place with scores of stickers. Some of these wished you a joyous Yuletide; others voiced dire threats about what would happen if you opened it before Christmas.

  All of us had wondered about Dan’s presents, ever since he had brought them down from his bedroom the night before. Even Mother and Martha hadn’t managed to pinch out a single clue.

  In Christmases past, Dan had been primarily interested in presents for himself. Sometimes he had been impatient at the delay involved in distributing the gifts one at a time, and had asked Dad to dig through the pile and find all of the presents for him.

  But this Christmas Dan was quiet. Even when he opened a present for himself, he seemed detached and the usual enthusiasm was lacking. He kept his eyes on the eleven packages he had wrapped.

  Mother sensed the situation and whispered something to Frank. Frank walked over to the row of misshaped green bundles and picked up one.

  “To Mother with love from Dan,” Frank read the scrawl on the tag. “Here you are, Mother.”

  Dan now was squirming with eagerness and embarrassment. “You probably won’t like it,” he mumbled. “It isn’t much.”

  “I wonder what in the world it can be,” said Mother.

  “It’s nice,” Martha told her, dropping her voice, “that you have at least one surprise left.”

  “I can’t imagine what it is, Dan,” Mother said.

  “Aw, I’ll bet you’ve already guessed what it is,” Dan replied. “It isn’t much.” His cheeks were flushed and he was staring at the floor. He knew all eyes were on him, and he didn’t want to meet them.

  Mother pulled off the last of the paper, and the thing stood naked and revealed.

  To begin with, let us say it was a very big china ashtray, large enough to accommodate a whole family of chain smokers, which our family certainly was not.

  Besides being large, it was hideous. It was, in fact, possibly one of the most hideous ashtrays ever to come out of the Twentieth Century, which in future centuries may become best known for its production of the atomic bomb and hideous ashtrays.

  The main bowl was of white porcelain and looked as if it had no business being in the parlor. It was decorated with green and gilt cupids, nude except for floating pink ribbons that would have interested Isaac Newton. Around its perimeter were four holes, from which four unused cigarettes protruded. If one could forget the cupids, which one couldn’t, the whole would have resembled the business portion of a cow, inverted and ready to milk.

  A look of pained incredulity, that any such monstrosity could be devised by a fellow human being, passed briefly across Mother’s face. For a moment she couldn’t say anything.

  “I guess you don’t like it,” said Dan, now looking straight at her. “It doesn’t look like much, once you get it home from the store.”

  Mother tried to talk, but at first nothing came. Frank almost laughed, but Anne kicked him.

  “I thought it was wrapped real nice, anyway,” Dan said desperately, fighting off tears. “And the cupies are pretty, even if nobody smokes.”

  “Why Danny, dear,” Mother whispered, now fully recovered, “it’s just what I’ve always wanted. And just what we need around here, especially when there’s company. Do you mean to tell me you picked this out all by yourself?”

  She went over to him and kissed him.

  “Aw,” said Dan, and his eyes were aglow now, “it’s not so much. Do you really like it?”

  “Look at it, children,” Mother told us. “Isn’t it simply lovely? Such perfect taste. And so practical.”

  “It only cost fifteen cents, too,” Dan crowed.

  “Think of that, children,” Mother said. “Only fifteen cents.”

  “The price is right,” Martha conceded. “It’s really beautiful, Dan.”

  “Some people have all the luck,” Anne said, eying the ten similar packages. “I sure wish someone would give me something like that.”

  “Do you, honest?” asked Dan. “Honest?”

  “Gosh, yes,” said Anne.

  “Gee, me too,” said Frank.

  “Same here,” said Ernestine. “Lucky Mother!”

  Frank went over to the row of presents and picked up another one. “To Fred with love from Dan,” he read.

  “Gee, give it here,” said Fred, who knew a cue when he heard one. “I wonder what in the world it can be?”

  Fred started to shred off the green paper. Dan relaxed and sighed. It was a sigh of ecstasy.

  13. Platform Manners

  SOMEHOW MOTHER FOUND THE time to take part in Sunday school and Parent-Teacher affairs, to serve on the Montclair Library Board, and to make motion study speeches throughout the country.

  Her platform manner was as natural as if she were talking to us in the parlor. Often she’d crochet or knit until she was introduced. She had a knack of popularizing a technical subject, by illustrating her points with everyday experiences. Her talks always went over well, and colleges and labor and management groups extended her an increasing number of invitations.

  The money from the speeches didn’t go toward running the house. Mother used it to set up special funds, so she could give us things that we wanted, but which the budget couldn’t otherwise afford.

  “The speech in Chicago will go for Martha’s new overcoat,” she’d say as she ran over her itinerary with us, “and the one in Detroit will be for Ernestine’s college wardrobe.”

  All of us wanted a small sailboat for Nantucket. Mother had Martha open a separate savings account at the bank—the Gilbreth Boat Fund. Certain speeches were earmarked for that account, and within two years it reached its quota.

  Mother traveled by bus or upper berth, to keep her expenses down to a minimum. Most of the speeches were on week ends, so they didn’t interfere with the course.

  None of us liked her to be away from home. But we could see she was doing it for us, and it was easy to cooperate.

  No fees, of course, were connected with the talks Mother made at our schools, and we thought that these were speeches she could well forego. In fact we would very much have preferred it, because they were a source of constant embarrassment. But we didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so we didn’t say anything about them at first.

  Mother believed that every resident of a community had civic obligations and responsibilities. No matter how busy she was, she’d drop everything for a PTA meeting.

  Her biggest school chore was the annual “Be Your Child” session. This was sponsored by the PTA, and the mothers were supposed to sit at their children’s desks, meet their teachers, look over their textbooks, and review their papers.

  The program was geared for mothers of average-sized familie
s, and failed to take into account the unlikely possibility that someone might have eight children simultaneously in the school system.

  Mother would hire a cab for the evening and race from home to the elementary school, where she’d sit at four different desks; from the elementary to the junior high, where she’d sit at two, and from the junior high to the high school, where she’d sit at two more. With the help of a memorandum book she managed to keep straight the compliments and complaints she received concerning each of us.

  “I never thought I’d have to give an ‘F’ to one of your children,” Frank’s Latin teacher told her at one “Be Your Child” session. “I’ve had Anne, Ernestine, and Martha. But Frank is simply impossible.”

  “I know too much about what a fine teacher you are to believe you think any child is impossible,” Mother replied with her sweetest smile. “Some pupils are just more of a challenge to teachers than others, isn’t that right?”

  “I guess so,” the teacher said doubtfully. “Put it this way, then—he’s the biggest challenge I’ve run into in fifteen years.”

  Mother made a memorandum to help Frank with his Latin, and to ask Ernestine to help him, too.

  “I’ll see that he’s tutored at home, and I’m confident that meanwhile you’ll work everything out,” Mother challenged the Latin teacher, heading for the door and her waiting taxicab.

  At the high school, Ernestine’s English teacher was indignant. She had discovered that Ern had turned in a book report based—in fact lifted—from the blurb on the jacket, and hadn’t bothered to read the book itself.

  “I can’t tell you how shocked I was, Mrs. Gilbreth. It’s not at all the sort of thing Anne would have done. And I certainly didn’t expect it from Ernestine. I always had considered her the soul of honor.”

  “I don’t think there’s really much reason to change your opinion,” Mother replied a little hotly.

  “I consider it plagiarism, plain and simple.”

  “Maybe it is,” Mother said, “but thinking back I suppose I’ve done the same thing. Sometimes when I’m with a group of people who are talking about a new book, I guess I’ve given the impression that I’ve read the book, instead of reviews about it in the newspapers.”

  “Why I’ve done that too, I suppose, but …”

  “It’s really the same thing, isn’t it?” Mother smiled.

  “No, I don’t consider it at all …”

  “Don’t reproach yourself for it,” Mother interrupted. “After all, if a person tried to read everything that comes out, he wouldn’t have time for anything else, would he?”

  “I suppose not,” said Ern’s teacher, throwing in the sponge.

  “There’s no reason for you to feel bad about it. It’s really laziness more than plagiarism. And all of us, whether we like to admit it or not, are a little lazy sometimes, aren’t we?”

  Mother headed for the door. But the fact she had dismissed the matter with such glib talk at school didn’t mean she wasn’t going to have a heart-to-heart talk with Ernestine.

  Some of the teachers thought it simply impossible that Mother could earn a living and supervise us properly at home. Jack’s kindergarten teacher, who was new to the school system, tried to pump him about it one day.

  “What does your Mother do, John?” she asked.

  “Lots of things,” said Jack. “She’s busy.”

  “Like what, dear?”

  “She mends my stockings when there are holes in them, and serves the plates at the table, and gets me up in the morning, and tells me stories, and plays the piano so we can sing.”

  “But she can’t do all that, John.”

  “Why can’t she?” Jack asked suspiciously.

  “Doesn’t she have a career, John?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why you know perfectly well she does,” the teacher said accusingly.

  “Well if she does,” Jack shouted, “she never showed it to me.”

  When Mother started speaking to the Parent-Teacher groups, she explained about how she and Dad had tried to adapt motion study methods to bringing up a large family. This involved telling a number of stories about us, and we’d hear about them the next day from the children whose parents had been present.

  That was bad enough. But when Mother was drafted for school assemblies and commencement exercises, it soon became too wet to plow.

  Her first appearance was at Nishuane, the elementary school, where she told the children about how Dad had made motion studies of himself, so he could sleep later in the mornings. Dad used to lather his face with two shaving brushes, to save time, and could get into a tub, soap himself, rinse, and get out again, in a minute or less.

  “It’s a good thing to learn the quickest way to soap yourself,” Mother said, “because then even if you oversleep you won’t be late for school.”

  At recess later that morning, a boy in the sixth grade got a cake of soap from the lavatory, brought it out on the playground, and handed it to Fred.

  “Here,” the sixth grader said while a crowd quickly collected. “Show us how your father soaped himself.”

  Fred knew how, even though he was a half-hour soaker himself. But he had no intention of sitting down on the cinders and demonstrating, especially before a mixed audience.

  “Come on inside,” he mumbled, “and I’ll show you there.”

  “No, right here,” the big boy leered. “Here, take it and show everybody, so they won’t be late to school.” He cackled, and gave Fred a push.

  Fred was in the third grade, and more than a head shorter than the other boy. It seemed hopeless to fight. If only Bill hadn’t graduated up to junior high that year—when he was a sixth-grader, Bill could handle anyone in Nishuane and frequently did, if sufficiently provoked. Fred took the soap in his right hand, and put it on his left shoulder.

  “You start at this shoulder,” he almost whispered, looking at his feet, “and you bring the soap down your left side.”

  A girl tittered, and Fred faltered.

  “You bring the soap down your left …” Fred stopped, looked up from his feet, and drove soap and fist into the belly of his tormentor.

  “See if you’re big enough to make me do it,” Fred hollered. Then, trying his best to imitate Tom’s fighting stance and fierce grimaces, “I don’t take nothing from nobody, understand? Nothing from nobody.”

  It felt good to be a man instead of a mouse, even if it meant a licking, and Fred grinned and walloped him again.

  The sixth grader knocked him down, and sat on him. Fred was informed he either was going to eat the soap or go through the motions of lathering himself. About half the bar of soap had been forced down his mouth, before Lill, who was roller skating at the opposite side of the playground, discovered what was going on and summoned Dan and Jack.

  Lill went into action, holding a roller skate by the strap and swinging it around her head. It wasn’t exactly Marquis of Queensbury, but extraordinary action seemed called for. Dan used his fists and Jack kicked and bit.

  A single blow of the skate took all of the fight out of Fred’s antagonist, who quietly consumed the other half of the soap, while Lill sat on his forehead, Dan his feet, and Jack his stomach. Fred held his arms and did the feeding.

  Lill and the boys wanted to tell Mother about it, so she’d stop making references to family incidents in any future speeches at their school. But the older ones talked them out of it.

  “You’d only hurt Mother’s feelings,” Ernestine said. “What do they have, savages at your school?”

  “They sure do,” Fred agreed.

  “The only reason Mother made the talk,” Ernestine told them, “was because she thought she was helping you. And if you complain about it, she’ll think you didn’t appreciate it.”

  “If you want to know the truth,” said Lill, “we didn’t appreciate it very much. Everybody looks at you while she’s speaking, and afterwards they giggle.”

  “And they feed you soap,” Fre
d nodded. “The dark gray kind that’s meant to take grease off your hands.”

  “The talk went over well, didn’t it?” Ernestine asked. “You ought to be proud of Mother.”

  “It went over fine,” Lill admitted. “We’re proud of her. But I hope next time she gets asked to talk at your school.”

  Mother’s next invitation was to address the junior high, where Frank and Bill were pupils. Frank told her at the dinner table, as tactfully as he could, that it would be a good idea to steer clear of family matters.

  “Why of course I will, if that’s what you boys want,” Mother promised, but her feelings were a little hurt. “I won’t make the talk at all, if you don’t want me to.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Ernestine told Frank. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Mother.”

  “Oh, we want you to make the speech, don’t we, Bill?” Frank said with all the heartiness he could muster. “We’re looking forward to it.”

  “Sure,” Bill agreed, “especially if it isn’t about the family.”

  Mother tried, in her speech at junior high, to explain the importance of standardizing nuts, bolts and machine parts, to eliminate waste. She saw she had aimed over the children’s heads, so she sought to illustrate.

  “Here’s what I mean,” she said, “Take boys’ shirts. Almost every shirt has a different type button. When one comes off and gets lost, you know how much trouble your mothers have to find one just like it.”

  The children seemed to understand that, so Mother continued.

  “Think how much time would be saved if all shirts had exactly the same kind of buttons. Do you know what I do? When one of the buttons comes off a shirt, I cut off the button at the collar, and move it down to replace the missing button. Then I just put any old button at the collar, because the tie hides it and it doesn’t show.”