Shy, dark-haired, and handsome, I thought he could have doubled for movie idol Tyrone Power. My shyness briefly took a holiday, for shortly after we met, I dropped a telephone number and a comment to his co-worker, “If Quenton doesn’t ask me for a date, I’ll ask him.” Quenton called that night and showed up at my door. It was Halloween, and he always said I tricked him. I did. We married in January 1944 in the little chapel at the Air Force base, followed by an eventful 63 years that blessed us with nine children. During that time, I found that indeed, I could do a great many things.
As my single years were seldom dull, neither were the long years Quenton and I shared as we worked to provide for our growing family. Yet even now, it’s difficult to realize the major step we took in 1960, the action culminated in my book, Westward, Ha! Its flyleaf gives a glimpse of the struggles:
When the Noltes and their eight youngsters left a comfortable and secure life in Texas to establish an uncertain homestead on a section of intractable sagebrush in a remote part of Nevada, they had no premonition of the real price one can pay for an independent venture. Their trials run from the animosity of a quick-tempered rancher who had long leased the land for cattle, to a hasty retreat from a major flood that drove them from their home—this in the driest state in the union. In spite of the obstacles of dust, heat, wind, water and errant cattle that threatened that first important crop on new land, the Noltes gained a patent for 320 acres of land. They later sold the land and returned to Pampa in Texas in 1962.
We established our former ties with Pampa, and settled into life in its usual course of happenings. Quenton opened a bookkeeping and tax office; I accepted an office job at Cabot Corporation; the children finished their education, moved onto their chosen careers, and created their own nesting. Life became secure and satisfying.
But it was not to last. Our fourth son, Alan, graduated from Texas Tech University in Lubbock and Baylor School of Dentistry in Dallas and began his dental practice at Cleburne, Texas. On a spring day in 1978, he died while scuba diving, leaving a wife and two small sons.
After Alan died, I became deeply depressed, sensing emptiness, sadness and withdrawal; emotions of that depth were strange and unusual for me. I continued to sink in despondency, though I never confided in anyone.
Perhaps this period of depression had a bearing on the life-changing event that occurred in 1985. One day I simply opened my mouth and without any thought beforehand, blurted out a question to Quenton: “If I find a house near a lake would you move?” He answered, “Yes.” Little discussion followed; it was simply something we felt we were to do. In a domino effect of events within a few months, we sold our home and Quenton’s business and bought a house overlooking a lovely lake in a small West Texas town with the intriguing name of Ransom Canyon. A section from my book, A Place Set Apart, describes the site:
For miles and forever miles, the flat and featureless land with its sweeping beauty of space and freedom spreads out in all directions from Lubbock on a high dry plateau on the South Plains of Texas. Suddenly and dramatically, the flatland falls off the edge to a full depth of 190 feet in a deep, wide canyon on the Caprock, a canyon that grew a town in the 1960s.
At age 66, we began a new chapter of contentment and fulfillment in our lives. The Texas area, home of the Comanche Indians for 150 years, lay ripe for research and its telling, while my curious nature caught the uniqueness of Ransom Canyon, and I began fact-finding and writing. Quenton became involved in civic activities and served as mayor for a term.
But enough: this writing is not about all those earlier years, it’s about what additional things I discovered I could do with my curiosity and motivation in advancing years. Age was only an illusionary figure in my life, not to be taken seriously. I found I could enroll at a prestigious university as a freshman at age 71 after 53 years from high school graduation. My college graduation at 89 inspired many people of all ages to say to me, “You need to tell people what you did, and what they can do, that age can have a positive effect on their lives.”
This is that telling.
Although I thrive on goals, I never listed enrolling in college as one to reach. If it had occurred to me, my logic would have dismissed the thought and moved along to more attainable targets. Six of our nine children graduated from Texas Tech University in Lubbock, so I knew of the entrance tests required for institutions of higher learning, and clearly it was not for me.
But maybe it was. I believe God gives us each a path if we open our mind and heart to accept it. He knows our unique nature, and plans our paths accordingly, giving us the graces we need to complete our goal in life. God doesn’t deal in limitations; our perceived limitations mean nothing to him. We must work with them, through them, or around them.
So perhaps this was his plan for me, for conveniently in the fall of 1990, Texas Tech dangled a tantalizing carrot in front of would-be older students. In a program called Senior Academy, Tech offered streamlined admissions and registration procedures for students 55 or over. The university required no transcripts or SAT/ACT scores, but once admitted, a student maintained the same academic standards, and paid the same tuition and fees as traditional students. I was among the first to inquire, take a tour of the campus and enroll. I would handle my self-imposed limitations.
Two of my college-seasoned daughters, Marsha and Tricia, took my hand and led me to register for classes and obtain my ID, textbooks, and parking permit. Bewildered kids followed parents all over the campus that enrollment day. This bewildered parent followed kids.
Later we did a dry run: “Mom, park here and wait for the bus. Get off here. Walk to this building. Go in this door. Here’s your classroom and the restroom. Here’s your next class. Go out this door and wait here for the return bus.”
More words to the unwise: “Sit on the front row. Record the lectures. Enter into class discussions. Talk to your professor during office hours if you need help.” I wondered if the girls would check my homework and report card.
We shopped for new jeans, shirts, and sneakers. I said I needed a book satchel. “No, Mom, you need a backpack—here try this one. No, not on your back, slip one arm through this strap.” (The rest dangles and flops.) I decided privately I would sneak out and choose my own lunch box and crayons.
Later, as I sat reading a textbook in preparation for my first class, my daughter Tricia called me. I complained, “College is too hard. I’ve read three pages in a book, and I don’t know what they say. I may drop out.” She gave an enormous sigh. I hoped I would not become a problem child. They had such high hopes for me.
At that moment, a profound surge of emotions—an epiphany—set me back in my seat. I had come full circle in my life. When the time came for my children to begin a new and exciting phase of learning in their young lives, I took the hand of each of the nine and led them, observed and encouraged them, through all the years of schooling and into successful careers. They, in turn, now closed the circle, extending the same love and care to their mother in her new venture. Perhaps the master planner held my hand also, to lead me in a new direction on my path. Now I waited to see what came of this new impulse of mine born of the desire for personal growth and achievement. I smiled in contentment, picked up my textbook and continued reading.
As I drove away from home for my first 8 a.m. class, I glanced at the sunrise’s billboard in my rearview mirror. It seemed to ask, “Where you going…the beauty and things you love are back here…why are you leaving?” And it nagged, “The flower beds need clearing, the bird baths need cleaning, and…” I waved nonchalantly, “later…the other kids are calling me.”
The campus swarmed with the other kids as I struggled to find the classroom for my first English class. A bit late, I stumbled into the room and stared at the sea of faces. One student asked, “Are you
