By Cecil Dawkins, Max Evans
Anyone who nonetheless believes girls are frail, powerless, and incapable of facing equipment may still learn the tale of Frances Nunnery, a decided, creative entrepreneur whose profession and character defy each stereotype approximately ladies. We first meet her as a self-sufficient little woman engaged on a Virginia tobacco farm, an adolescent who, while she received a "lickin," by no means cried yet "stood there as an issue of satisfaction" and took her drugs. At 13 she went to paintings on the Heinz plant in Pittsburgh, and at twenty-one she used to be shipped off to Colorado to be married to a guy she did not understand. In 1921 she escaped to New Mexico in a version T Ford, settling in Albuquerque, the place she labored as a chauffeur, bus driving force, boarding apartment keeper, and evening membership singer, between different occupations. She by no means stopped operating, residing everywhere New Mexico, ranching, operating as a deputy sheriff, and promoting genuine property.
Cecil Dawkins has made Frances Nunnery's taped memories right into a energetic tale that sounds as if Nunnery have been telling stories to an previous buddy at her kitchen desk. there's something typically western in Frances's ingenuity and backbone, yet you do not need to have an interest within the West to get pleasure from her memoir.
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Extra info for A Woman of the Century, Frances Minerva Nunnery (1898-1997): Her Story in Her Own Memorable Voice as Told to Cecil Dawkins
Benny was in charge of 18 ❙ A WOMAN OF THE CENTURY ❙ the mule team and the horses. His name was Benjamin James Portales Ramrodsman Poivatan Perval Woodson, but his little brother Henry had only that one name. Martha was their sister, Big Henry was their father, and Aunt Nanny was their mother. My mother would look at me with her hands on her hips and say, “You’re a sight! ” And I’d run, and Aunt Nanny would laugh. ” She untangled my hair and braided it again, and that lasted for several days. I ﬁnally sweet-talked Benny into letting me get on Julie’s back.
Being the bottom rung on the family ladder was pretty rough in those days. At Christmas we had fried chicken and sweet potatoes and onions, and other vegetables ﬂavored with sage and mustard and the ground-up roots of horseradish dug up from the big sand pile where Mother buried them to keep them from rotting. And we had apple pie made with apples from the root cellar. Mother canned and dried all summer. So we might not have presents, but we always had a Christmas feast from the garden, especially if the preacher came to call, driving his one-horse buggy.
I found out there was a big stockyard down in the South Valley. So I put some boards across the bustedout ﬂoor of the Model T, and I got several wash tubs, and I went down to the stockyard and ﬁlled them up with sheep manure and sold it to people as fertilizer for their yards. I charged them two bits a tub. It was a good thing cars were open then. Sheep manure is smellier than a hog pen in the rain. Well, I was making a little change oﬀ that, and I also got a job at the Franciscan Hotel as a maid.