“You look different,” Grandpa said over dinner.
“How?”
“Harder. Like you’ve been fighting something.”
“Just learning. It’s intense.”
“Good intense or bad intense?”
“Both.”
We spent Friday in the barn working on the John Deere’s annual maintenance. My hands remembered every movement, every bolt, every adjustment.
This was home in a way Boston would never be.
“You’re going to make it,” Grandpa said quietly while we were checking valve clearances.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re Lorelei’s granddaughter. And Hartwell women don’t quit.”
Spring semester brought engineering design.
My team was assigned to improve efficiency in agricultural equipment.
Finally, something I actually knew about.
We designed a modified fuel injection system for small tractors. The math was solid, the design elegant.
But when we tried to build a prototype, nothing worked.
My teammates wanted to scrap it and start over.
I insisted we could fix it.
“This is exactly what happened with my tractor. The design is sound. We just need to debug the implementation.”
We spent three weeks troubleshooting.
Slowly, the prototype started working.
Then working well.
Then exceeding our projections.
Our professor entered it in a regional competition.
We won third place and scholarship money.
The local newspaper ran a story.
“Kansas Farm Girl Brings Practical Knowledge to MIT Innovation.”
Grandma framed the article.
Summer 1971.
I came home and worked on the farm full-time, but differently now.
Every problem became an opportunity to apply what I was learning.
I redesigned the irrigation system using fluid dynamics equations and modified the grain storage ventilation based on thermodynamics principles.
The farm became my laboratory.
Virgil Brennan hired me for two weeks to overhaul his equipment fleet.
The work was hard but satisfying, seeing theory translate into results.
And he told everyone about it.
By August, I had more job offers than I could accept.
The money was good.
More importantly, it was proof that education had value beyond just knowledge.
My second year at MIT started with confidence I hadn’t had before.
I knew the campus.
Knew the expectations.
Knew I could handle the workload.
I also started tutoring freshman students who were struggling. I shared the techniques that had helped me bridge abstract concepts with concrete understanding.
One student, Rachel from rural Maine, reminded me of myself.
Smart but unprepared.
Capable but doubting.
“You belong here,” I told her. “I promise you belong here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because a few years ago, someone told me the same thing. And they were right.”
Spring 1972 brought a letter from Engineering Monthly magazine.
They were doing a feature on women in engineering and wanted to interview me.