Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Someone had sent them my name, probably that counselor, and they were inviting me to apply for their engineering program.
The letter sat on my dresser for a week.
I’d take it out.
Read it.
Put it back.
MIT was for geniuses.
For rich kids with prep school educations.
For people who belonged in places like that.
Not for farm girls from Kansas who smelled like tractor grease.
Grandma found me staring at the letter one evening.
“What’s holding you back?”
“I don’t belong there. Look at me. Look at where I come from.”
She sat on my bed and patted the space beside her.
“When I was your age, women weren’t supposed to manage money. That was men’s work. I taught myself bookkeeping from library books. Practiced on my father’s farm accounts when he wasn’t looking.”
“What happened?”
“People said I was being uppity. Getting above my station.”
“What did you do?”
“I kept doing it anyway. Got so good that eventually people had to admit I was right. Changed what was possible for women in this town.”
Her hand found mine.
“You think you don’t belong there because no one like you has gone before. But someone has to be first. Why not you?”
“Because I’m scared.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
“Fear means it matters.”
I filled out the MIT application on a Saturday in December.
I took the required tests at a high school in Junction City.
I wrote essays about modifying tractors, learning from failure, and understanding that the bravest thing isn’t succeeding on the first try.
I sent it all off in January and tried not to think about it.
The John Deere Model B kept running through another winter.
Another spring.
We used it for our own work and hired it out for custom jobs, the extra income slowly building our savings to numbers that would have seemed impossible two years ago.
Iris got married in June.
A small ceremony at the Methodist Church, reception in the parish hall with cake and punch.
She looked radiant in a simple white dress.
Marcus looked terrified.
Everyone cried during the vows.
I stood next to her as maid of honor, wearing a dress that felt foreign after years of coveralls and work boots.
At the reception, she pulled me outside into the warm evening air.
“I’m scared, Goldie. Scared of moving away. Scared of being a wife. Scared of all the things that could go wrong.”
“You’re the bravest person I know.”
“No. You are.”
I almost laughed.
“You took apart the tractor that kept us alive. That’s the scariest thing anyone in this family has ever done.”
She smoothed her dress and looked back toward the parish hall, where Marcus was dancing with Grandma.
“But scared doesn’t mean don’t do it. It just means it matters enough to be worth the fear.”
In May 1970, I got my acceptance letter from MIT.
Full scholarship.
Room.
Board.
Tuition.
Everything covered.