Behind Every Man: The Story of Nancy Cooper Russell

by Joan Stauffer

Overview

After Nancy Cooper married Charlie Russell in 1895, she helped turn a journeyman cowboy and ranch hand who sketched and sculpted in his spare time into a full-time artist who sold and exhibited all over the globe. In Behind Every Man: The Story of Nancy Cooper Russell, Joan Stauffer offers the first biography of the person whom Charles Russell called “the best booster and pardner a man ever had.” Stauffer’s portrait, evoked in the voice of its subject and based on a decade of research, offers readers both a complete life story of Nancy Russell and creative insight into her thoughts and feelings.

Stauffer reveals that Nancy and Charles’s union created a practical synergy. Always an advocate for her husband, a steward of his art, and a liaison to his admirers and critics, Nancy’s greatest contribution may have been the inspiration she provided Charles. “I done my best work for her,” the cowboy artist once remarked.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780806183923
Publisher:	University of Oklahoma Press
Publication date:	11/28/2011
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	384
File size:	3 MB

About the Author

Joan Stauffer has performed her one-woman stage presentation of the life and times of Nancy Cooper Russell more than a hundred times before enthusiastic audiences across the country. A former chair of the Board of Directors of the Gilcrease Institute of American History and Art in Tulsa, Oklahoma, she was honored in 1983 with the Oklahoma Governor's Award for Community Service. Stauffer lives in Tulsa. Her late husband, Dale, assisted in the research for this book.

Read an Excerpt

Behind Every Man

The Story of Nancy Cooper Russell

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By Joan Stauffer

UNIVERSITY OF OKLAHOMA PRESS

Copyright © 2007 University of Oklahoma Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8061-8392-3

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CHAPTER 1

At Grandpa Blue's

I CLOSED THE WINDOWS IN THE PARLOR, but Only as an excuse to look down the river road and try to catch a glimpse of him. The chill of evening was not yet in the air. Earlier that afternoon, I had opened the windows to bring the wonderful smell of fall into the house. It was still warm though it was October. We'd had a light snow the week before, but its foretelling of winter was forgotten in the sunshine of Indian summer. The reds and yellows of the trees, the blue, blue endless sky and the splashing of the river lulled us into a complacency which ignored the coming of a Montana winter.

I went back into the kitchen and reset the dishes on the table. They didn't match, but I liked the array of colors and patterns. They said he was an artist, so he might notice. I rearranged them again, trying to hide the chips and cracks. I put a bouquet of the last of summer's wildflowers in the center of the table.

I had known that it was a special day when I awoke that morning. There was something in the air I could almost taste. I had been feeding Vivian his oatmeal, although he was plenty big enough to feed himself, because I really wanted to help. Ma and Pa Roberts had been so good to me. When Ma Roberts announced that Charlie Russell was coming to dinner, I dropped the spoon.

"What's wrong with you, girl?" Ma Roberts asked.

My face reddened and I felt faint. I couldn't wait to meet Charles Russell, the cowboy artist.

"Now you watch out, Mamie. He's got a fuzzy reputation and with the wrong kind of women, if you know what I mean. He drinks too much. He's too old for you. Why, you're only seventeen and he's thirty-one."

The more Ma Roberts told me to "watch out for Charlie," the more excited I got. The Roberts kids, Gorham, Hebe, and Vivian, were as excited as I was, for they knew Charlie. Hebe made up a song about Charlie's coming. She was only five so it was a simple singsong verse she would say as she danced around the house, twirling in circles. "Charlie's coming. Charlie's coming. Uncle Charlie's coming to supper tonight." Vivian, who was three, mimicked her like a little shadow. Gorham was nine and too old for singing and skipping but I could tell he was as excited as the others. No wonder my stomach was tied up in knots.

I had just turned to rearrange the dishes and the flowers one more time when I heard the creak of the back door and the jangle of spurs. There he stood. The sun was beginning to set behind him, so he was outlined in a halo of golden rays. The Roberts kids heard the door shut and came running into the kitchen, Vivian trailing because his fat little legs couldn't keep up. They ran to Charlie and threw their arms around his legs. Charlie lifted them up one after the other and tossed them in the air. There were continuous bursts of laughter.

"Mo, mo," Vivian pleaded.

But when I looked up into Charlie's blue-gray eyes I could see that he wasn't listening to Vivian. He couldn't take his eyes off me.

Ma Roberts came away from the stove, wiping her hands on her white apron. She gave Charlie a hug and said that supper was nearly ready. Then she pointed him out the back door where there was a bench and a wash basin next to the pump and told him to wash up as if he were one of the kids.

I stood at the back door with a towel while Charlie primed the pump and filled the basin. Charlie's shoulders were broad, his back was straight, and I could see the ripple of muscles through his soft shirt.

He turned and caught me staring. My face grew hot, and I could suddenly hear the sound of my heartbeat. Charlie smiled, took the towel and dried his face and hands. I don't remember what we ate that night. All I remember was trying not to look into those blue-gray eyes because each time I did they were looking at me.

After dinner, while the Robertses put the children to bed, I cleared the table and picked up the bucket to go out to the pump. Charlie took the bucket from my hand and went to the pump himself, then lifted the filled bucket onto the stove to heat. I put a slab of soft lye soap in the bucket, then began scraping bits of food from the plates into two piles, one for the dogs and one for the chickens. We didn't waste anything. Once the water was steaming, I began washing the dishes. Charlie dried them.

"Why do they call you Mamie? Is that your real name?" Charlie asked.

"No, my real name is Nancy, but about everyone calls me Mamie Mann."

"Once an Indian friend of mine asked me what 'Charlie' meant," Charlie said. "I said I didn't know. Then he asked me what 'Russell' meant and I said I didn't know that either. Then my friend said, 'White man got heap of book learning and don't even know what his own name means.'"

We both laughed. Charlie could tell a story like no one else could. Before I knew it, I was telling him all about myself. He listened and understood. He had a way about him that made everyone feel important, as if they were somebody. I was nobody.

After we did the dishes, Charlie suggested we take a walk along the river. There was still a little light left. I took a shawl off the hook by the stove and wrapped it around my shoulders. We walked along the bank, then crossed the bridge and stopped to watch the red and gold leaves fall into the water, float down the river and disappear as the water flowed around the bend. It was the first of many, many walks we would take along the river and across the bridge.

As autumn became winter, we watched snow-flakes fall into the water. At first they melted, then as more and more came they gained a foothold along the banks. As the north wind blew we watched ice form along the banks, break off in huge hunks and float down the river following the path of the leaves around the bend. Suddenly, without our knowing when it had begun, there were patches of green in the snow and a few crocuses were blooming.

We became such good friends. I could tell Charlie anything, and he understood. I told him that I hadn't had much schooling. He laughed and said that was all right because he hadn't had much either.

I told him about my ma, which was hard because it still hurt. My ma and my pa had married real young. Ma was only seventeen and Pa was nineteen when they got hitched in '77 on the twenty-sixth of March. The wedding was at my grandpa's house, near Mannsville, Kentucky. My grandpa was dead set against the marriage. He didn't think James Al Cooper was good enough for Ma. I doubt if Grandpa Blue — everyone called him Blue although his real name was John Bluford Mann — thought anyone was good enough for his little girl, Texas Annie. He wouldn't even set his mark on the marriage license. He thought Al was just trying to get away from a bad situation at home. Al's ma had died and left his pa with a house fall of kids, the youngest only two. She wasn't three weeks in the grave when Al's older sister died. What could his pa do but marry fast? He had to have someone to take care of those kids. Al and his step-ma didn't get along, so Al had to get away. And my ma was pretty.

Grandpa Blue was right. My ma and my pa fought all the time. Finally Pa had had all he could take and he packed up and left. My ma found out she was carrying me. She went home to the Manns.

Although times were hard, Grandpa Blue took her in. He had always had a place in his heart for his sweet little girl, and he convinced Grandma Jennie that family was family. My step-grandma, Jennie, resented having more mouths to feed. She liked it even less when I was born and my ma named me Nancy, after her own real ma, Nancy Bates Mann. Every time someone called me Nancy, Grandma Jennie bristled. And it was a bad thing to get on the wrong side of Virginia Parker Mann, so I was glad that people usually called me Mame or Mamie Mann. Grandpa Blue always called me Nannie.

From the time I was old enough to walk, I was out in the tobacco fields. Everyone had to help, from sunup to sundown. After a long day in the fields, when supper was over, Grandpa Blue would light his pipe, pick me up on his knee, and tell me the story of the Mann family. He knew the story by heart, for he had heard it from his father, who heard it from his father, who had heard it from his father.

The first Mann to come over from the old country was John Mann in 1735. He brought his wife and three sons, John Jr., Moses, and William. They settled in Orange County, Virginia, where Thomas, his fourth and last son, was born. They were devout Presbyterians, and had left Ireland because they were tired of being persecuted by the Catholics.

"But Grandpa, I thought both Presbyterians and Catholics loved Jesus," I said.

"Maybe they loved Jesus, but they sure hated each other. John Mann had to leave Ulster and free himself and his family from those black-hearted Catholics. He wanted a better life for his boys. But only two of the three lived to enjoy it. Moses was captured and killed by the Indians in 1756. Later his brothers avenged him when they fought the Shawnees and won. In his memory both John Jr. and William named their firstborn sons Moses. Then the boys went on to fight with honor in the French and Indian war. Later they founded Mann's Fort on the Jackson River.

"William's boy, Moses, formed the Mann Rangers and fought under Tight-Horse Harry' Lee. After the Revolutionary War, John Jr.'s boy Moses and his brother Asa struck out for Kentucky. Now, that Moses was my pa's pa. He already had kin out here. A nephew, come to Kentucky, by the name of Nathanial Carpenter. He founded Carpenter's Station over in Lincoln County. Well, ol' Moses came out and founded Mannsville. He picked a spot that had a salt lick for he knew how important salt was to man and beast. Some folks called it Mann's Lick.

"One day his son, also named Asa, Nathanial Carpenter, and a hired hand came upon a bunch of Indians. Those savages killed Asa and the hired hand. They sure thought they had killed Nathanial for they scalped him."

"Grandpa, how could he lay still and let them scalp him and not move a muscle?" I always asked when he told me that part of the story.

"It was better to lie still than be killed. Ol' Nathanial was tough. Then he crawled back to Moses and told him his boy had been killed. Well, Moses got his gun and stalked that band of renegades and wiped them out. If you're a Mann, you never let anybody take anything away from you that's yours. Remember that, child.

"Moses only had one boy left. That was John, my pa. My pa met my ma, who was a Bryant. Her name was really Sarah, but everyone called her Sally. They fell in love, got hitched and had fourteen kids. I was number eight. At one time ol' Grandpa Moses had two thousand acres. When he died, it was divided amongst his four younguns. My pa had three sisters. Well, when my pa died, his land was divided fourteen ways; of course, the older boys got the first pick. Some say our land here on Robinson's Creek ain't worth a damn. It's too rocky and hilly to grow much tobaccy, but I always say all it takes is just a little more sweat."

I loved those evenings when I would sit on my Grandpa Blue's lap with my head against his chest and listen to the Mann stories. He told them to me over and over.

"It's too hard to remember," I'd complain. "There are too many Moseses, Johns, and Asas. I can't keep them straight."

"All you have to remember, child, is that you come from a fine family. A family who made a name for themselves out in the wilderness. Hell, the town here is named after your great-great grandpa, Moses Mann. I know we ain't got much right now, with the price of tobaccy down. But don't you ever be ashamed and don't ever forget you are a Mann."

"Stop putting ideas in that child's head. Pride don't put food on the table," Grandma Jennie said. "She does nothing but sit around and daydream as it is. Ever since she was sick, she hasn't been pulling her own weight around here."

I remembered little about the time I was sick. Only about lying in my bed thinking I was going to die. I felt like I had swallowed fire and I was burning up. Then my teeth would chatter and I'd shake so that my body ached. One night I woke up so hot I thought my head would pop like popping corn. Then I felt something cool on my brow. I opened my eyes to see my mother squeezing out rags in a bucket and putting them on my body. She was crying.

"Honey, don't die, don't die. You're all I've got," Ma cried.

I tried to talk but nothing came out. I heard my Grandpa Blue praying. He was kneeling by my bed with his head in his hands.

"Lord, please spare this child. I know she's special and has somethin' special to do."

They say it was a miracle I lived through that bout with diphtheria for many who weren't nearly as sick as I was died, but I guess I had to live for my ma. I had to make things better for her, for if I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times from Grandma Jennie that if Ma hadn't been so hard-headed she would have never married that no-count Cooper, and Grandma Jennie wouldn't have another mouth to feed. Well, this 'other mouth to feed' was five years old, and I knew I could do plenty to help.

Tobacco was our only cash crop. We grew corn and pumpkins, but that was to feed the chickens and hogs. We grew wheat and took it over to the mill at Elkhorn but that was exchanged for flour. The only real hard cold cash we ever got was from tobacco.

"Come on girl. Don't dawdle. You've got brush to pick up. We need a big pile," Grandma Jennie ordered.

"But my fingers are stiff. They hurt," I cried.

"If you work, they'll warm up. Hurry up, now," Grandma Jennie said.

"Here," said Aunt Carrie. "Put your hands inside my hands and I'll rub them. That will warm them up." Aunt Carrie was my ma's younger sister, but she was only nine years older than I was. Her hands weren't much bigger than mine.

"Come on. I bet I can find more brush than you." Aunt Carrie made everything seem like a game.

Everyone helped and when Grandpa Blue thought the pile was big enough, we stopped. Then he set fire to the brush.

"Why do we always have to burn the brush?" I asked.

"It gets the ground ready for the seeds. See the tobaccy seeds," Grandpa said as he poured some out in his hand. The seeds were no bigger than ground pepper. "I got to mix these seeds with ashes, so when I cast them, the wind can't pick them up and blow them away." After Grandpa Blue mixed the seeds with ashes and cast them on the ground, we all gathered around him and bowed our heads.

"Dear Lord," Grandpa Blue's deep voice filled the air. "We have gathered the brush, burned it, cast the seeds, and now we pray for rain and sunshine to make them grow. When the baby plants come up, we will gently cover them each night with fine brush so the frost won't get them. When they are as big as my hand, we will be careful to transplant them. Texas, Carrie and little Nannie B will carry the plants to the tobaccy patch and gently place them on the ground equal distance apart. George, Ed, Fletcher and I will come after them and with our tobaccy pegs, will make a hole, then pick up a plant, put it in the earth and press the dirt tightly around each little stem.

"When the plants bloom, we will top the blossom, leaving the flowers on a few of the strongest, best stalks for next year's seeds. We will pick off those suckers which will sprout after the topping. The men will hoe the weeds, so they won't take over the plants. Texas and Carrie and even Nannie will pick off the tobacco worms. Yes, Lord, give Nannie the courage to pick off those squirming worms. We will do all we can. But we can't make the stalks grow. Only you can, Lord, so we ask you to bless this crop."

When Grandpa Blue had finished, we all raised our heads and said Amen.

And every one of us did what he said we would do. I even picked off those hateful worms that squirmed in my fingers and turned them dark brown with tobacco juice. I had to, for I had to prove that I was brave and that the crop was blessed.

Come August or September, it was time to harvest. The men would cut the tobacco stalks, split them, then hang the stalks on a stick. These sticks were taken to the tobacco shed and hung on the tier poles. From ceiling to floor row after row of tobacco hung to dry. Always some leaves would break off when the tobacco was harvested, and it was my job to pick up every last one of the fallen tobacco leaves, for each was precious. I would hang them between the boards of the tobacco shed, so they too could dry. We had to wait for nature to cure the tobacco. Everyone waited for the tobacco to come "in order," which meant it was ready to take out of the drying shed to strip. This was usually done the first of December. We had to catch a misty day, so the tobacco would be moist and not crumble to pieces when the men took the sticks down. The sticks with the tobacco were laid in neat rows on the ground and covered with quilts to keep the moisture in while the stripping began.

The first leaves were called "trash" because they were small. They were taken off and tied by a tobacco leaf into a "hand." This was Uncle Fletcher's job. The next leaves were Uncle Ed's, then Uncle George's and finally Grandpa Blue trimmed the biggest and best. He was always the fastest at tying a hand of tobacco. He said it was because he had more practice. Aunt Carrie and I stripped the tips because that was the easiest job. Aunt Carrie was good at tying her tips into hands, but my fingers weren't big enough or strong enough, so Aunt Carrie always tied mine too.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Behind Every Man by Joan Stauffer. Copyright © 2007 University of Oklahoma Press. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF OKLAHOMA PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Preface,
Acknowledgments,
1 At Grandpa Blue's,
2 Helena, Montana,
3 Charlie,
4 From Cascade to Great Falls,
5 Back East to St. Louis,
6 New York City,
7 The World's Fair,
8 Helping Charlie,
9 Life in Great Falls,
10 Going Abroad,
11 Jack,
12 Traveling,
13 Crisscrossing the Continent,
14 The Last Summer,
15 Remembering Charlie,
16 Leaving Great Falls,
17 Ross, Vera and Jack,
18 Ted,
19 A Will of Iron,
20 War Scars,
21 Charlie, First and Last,
Afterword,
Source Notes,