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 made up our minds, creative entrepreneur whose occupation and character defy each stereotype approximately girls. We first meet her as a self-sufficient little woman engaged on a Virginia tobacco farm, an adolescent who, whilst she bought a "lickin," by no means cried yet "stood there as an issue of satisfaction" and took her medication. 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 motive force, boarding residence keeper, and evening membership singer, between different occupations. She by no means stopped operating, residing far and wide New Mexico, ranching, operating as a deputy sheriff, and promoting genuine property.

Cecil Dawkins has made Frances Nunnery's taped reminiscences right into a vigorous tale that sounds as if Nunnery have been telling stories to an outdated pal at her kitchen desk. there's something usually western in Frances's ingenuity and resolution, yet you don't want to have an interest within the West to get pleasure from her memoir.

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Additional resources for A Woman of the Century, Frances Minerva Nunnery (1898-1997): Her Story in Her Own Memorable Voice as Told to Cecil Dawkins

Sample text

You can’t kill it out, and the stumps never rot. Clifford and I liked to explore everywhere. We climbed around under the wild honeysuckle and Virginia creeper and found apples that had wintered under the vines still fresh and good to eat. There were whole fields of wild strawberries, and the old orchard was full of them. Just about every kind of berry grew on the place. The fences crawled with wild grapevines, and the swamp was full of wild water lilies. The men went possum hunting at night when foxfire glowed on swamp stumps and fallen logs.

You had to be pretty self-sufficient on a plantation then. We made our own soap by boiling lard and lye. At first it came out soft, but then it hardened and we cut it into cakes. And our wooden bedsteads were homemade with holes drilled in the two-by-six sides and rope strung through them for springs. We made our nightdresses from flour sacks, and we slept on straw tick mattresses we stuffed ourselves. Bedbugs bred in the poplar trees, and in the summer we were plagued by them. They have a peculiar sour smell and leave red spots where they bite you.

My grownup brother Carl had put them there. He thought that was funny. Carl was the oldest and he’d grown up without a father to keep him in line. Mother was the only one could do anything with him. He terrorized me with horror stories, especially stories about ❙ MY EARLY DAYS ❙ 15 women tortured and murdered. He gave me nightmares. 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.

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