Cheaper by the dozen - Chapter 14 Flash fowder and funerals

FRANK BUNKER GILBRETH, Jr. CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN - CHAPTER 14 SCANNED BY THẨM TÂM VY, Feb. 04th, 2020

CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN By Frank BUNKER GILBRETH, Jr.

CHAPTER 14

Flash Fowder and Funerals NEXT to motion study and astronomy, photography was the science nearest to Dad's heart. He had converted most of the two-story barn in Montclair into a photographic laboratory. It was here that Mr. Coggin, Dad’s English photographer, held forth behind a series of triple-locked doors. Children made Mr. Coggin nervous, particularly when they opened the door of his darkroom when he was in the middle of developing a week’s supply of film. Even in front of Dad and Mother, he referred to us as blighters and beggars. Behind their backs, he called us’orse thieves, bloody barsteds, and worse. At one time,shortly after Dad had had an addition built on our cottage at Nantucket, he told Mr. Coggin: “I want you to go up there and get some pictures of the ell on the house.” “Haw,” said Mr. Coggin. “I’ve taken many a picture of the ’ell in your ’ouse. But this will be the first time I’ve taken one of the ’ell on your ’ouse.” When Mr. Coggin departed after the unfortunate debacle concerning our tonsils, a series of other professional cameramen came and went. Dad always thought, and with some justification, that none of the professionals were as good a photographer as he. Consequently, when it came to taking pictures of the family, Dad liked to do the job himself. He liked to do the job as often as possible, rain or shine, day or night, summer or winter, and especially on Sundays. Most photographers prefer sunlight for their pictures. But Dad liked it best when there was no sun and he had an excuse to take his pictures indoors. He seemed to have a special affinity for flashlight powder, and the bigger the flash the more he enjoyed it. He’d pour great, gray mountains of the powder into the pan at the top of his T-shaped flash gun, and hold this as far over his head as possible with his left hand, while he burrowed beneath a black cloth at the stern of the camera. In his right hand, he’d hold the shutter release and a toy of some kind, which he’d shake and rattle to get our attention.

Probably few men have walked away from larger flashlight explosions than those Dad set off as a matter of routine. The ceilings of some of the rooms in Montclair bore charred, black circles, in mute testimony to his intrepidity as an exploder. Some of the professional photographers, seeing him load a flash gun, would blanch, mutter, and hasten from the room. "I know what I’m doing,” Dad would shout after them irritably. "Go ahead, then, if you don’t want to learn anything. But when I’m through, just compare the finished product with the kind of work you do.” The older children had been through it so often that, while somewhat shellshocked, they were no longer terrified. It would be stretching a point to say they had developed any real confidence in Dad's indoor photography. But at least they had adopted a fatalistic attitude that death, if it came, would be swift and painless. The younger children, unfortunately, had no such comforting philosophy to fall back on. Even the Latest Model was aware that all hell was liable to break loose at any time after Dad submerged under the black cloth. They’d behave pretty well right up to the time Dad was going to take the picture. Then they’d start bellowing. “Lillie, stop those children from crying,” Dad would shout from under the black cloth. “Dan, open your eyes and take your fingers out of your ears! The idea! Scared of a little flash! And stop that fidgeting, all of you.” He’d come up in disgust from under the cloth. It was hot under there, and the bending over had made the blood run to his head. “Now stop crying, all of you,” he’d say furiously. “Do you hear me? Next time I go under there I want to see all of you smiling.” He’d submerge again. “I said stop that crying. Now smile, or I’ll come out and give you something to cry …