"I went back to uni at 71"
<p><em><strong>Now 84-years of age with three books under her belt, this is Doreen Wendt-Weir’s story about her shy young self who didn't think studying was an option, and how she grew into a woman who plucked up the courage to go to university at 71-years-old. </strong></em></p><p>I have done this, not for myself, if this can be understood, but for that timid little person that I once was… that shy young girl who was so eager to please, so hungry to meet approval; whose vision was so narrow, and who was not endowed with, nor did she develop, any great degree of courage.</p><p>Terribly meek, often wary, she hardly spoke to any adults who might have visited their dairy farm, but viewed them silently from behind her father’s trouser-leg, her chubby arms encircling his lower limb, eyes almost lost behind the deep, dark fringe that fell into the obligatory “basin-cut” of those depression years. The feet were always bare and brown; the handed-down dress was mostly too long or too short, and sometimes a cotton bloomer leg, elastic broken, would dangle below the hem-line.</p><p>She felt secure enough, there was no doubt. Sometimes her father’s fingers touched her small shoulder as he engaged in conversation with a friendly caller, but she was not included in any way in the exchange. She was seen and not heard. However, her father was there. Just to be able to feel his sturdy thigh through the dungaree was a great comfort; to hear his well-modulated, though still quite “country” voice meant all was well with the world; there was no need to feel afraid of anything… not snakes, or angry bulls; vicious dogs or boogie men. Her sister, older by two years, was “Mummy’s little helper”. Named Joan, this fair-haired sibling set the table, folded the clothes and helped her mother make the beds. She had a wide, attractive smile and an easy way about her. Joan was indeed a lovely girl, her mother always said.</p><p>It was to her father that the younger, dark-haired sister gravitated. When he was not planting corn, or ring-barking, or checking the dry paddock, but when he was herding the cows for milking, or feeding the pigs, or even when he was knocking the innards out of the plates from old car batteries, so that the remaining lead frame could be melted down to form an ingot of saleable metal, she would be there with him, mostly silent, but intently observing, always noticing the slightest detail of what was being done. Not many words passed between them. He was not a teacher, but he included her in his work.</p><p>“Pass me that jam tin, Muffet,” he would say as he prepared, on the forge, an iron ladle filled with molten lead. “Out of the way now…” as the liquid lead ran into the old tin, to be followed by another, and another. Then the glistening row of tins would be lowered, one by one, held fast by huge metal tongs, into the old galvanised bath tub, half filled with precious water. Here they would sizzle and steam angrily until all the heat had gone from them. When they were cold and set and hard, and he had the time, her father would cut the tin away.</p><p>“Hand me the snips now,” he would say to her… leaving a block of solid lead that would be sold to a metal merchant next time they were in the city.</p><p>They had a tennis court, which he had made himself out of ant bed. It was their only luxury, and once or twice a year, a group of friends would gather to have a few serious games. But first, the court must be prepared, which meant the nutgrass had to be removed, the holes filled in with more ant bed, the whole thing rolled with his homemade roller, and the white lines marked where they should be. The little girl was sent to get some coarse salt from her mother’s adequate pantry. Carrying the tin of salt, she would follow her father around the court as he prised the nutgrass gently, so gently as he dug deeper to retrieve all the nuts that clung to the earth. He put the despised grass into a wooden box, as she proffered him the coarse salt. Taking a handful, he funnelled his fist to allow the dry salt to run into the hole thus made.</p><p>“This’ll fix that old nut grass, Muffet,” he would say as he smoothed over the ant bed.</p><p>I suppose you could say that she actually did learn a lot. She finally was able to carve an aeroplane propeller out of a small length of pine, using an old kitchen knife. Attaching the propeller to a slender wand of wood was another acquired art. She knew better than to forget about the washers that were needed to get it to spin in the wind as merrily as she hoped it would. At aged four, she was given her very own cow to milk. Adelaide was black, with a white star on her forehead, and could be relied upon not to kick the heavy bucket from between the little knees that endeavoured to hold it firm. Getting the milk to flow seemed to come naturally to a small country girl. After all, she had watched her parents for long enough as their capable hands induced the milk down with sweeping, competent movements. In only a few years, in a good season, she would be milking a dozen or so cows each morning, before breakfast and the three-mile walk to school. Husking corn, feeding pigs and poddy-calves were all fine things to know about, but this knowledge was not much help when she finally went to school in the city, and did not know what ‘interval’ was when the school went on an excursion to the local picture theatre, thereby causing much merriment and derision.</p><p>From a one teacher, one roomed school of eighteen pupils, she was thrust into a class of some thirty or more children. Although she knew about the geography befitting a senior student, and could recite poems from the School Readers several classes above hers, she had no idea what mental arithmetic was, let alone how it was done! So she was put in the front seat with the dunces, having one on either side of her. She became quite used to the order, “Hands on heads!” when the answer was presumed to be known, and to the further “Answers down!” when the final number was written on the slate. It took a couple of months, but one day, every one of her answers was correct. When her hand shot up first, a very surprised, kindly teacher perused her results. And gently and quietly enquired had she copied them from someone else? But there was nobody in her near vicinity that had arrived at even a few correct answers. Her upwardly mobile journey had begun.</p><p>The subject of English was a firm favourite with this young person, and Parsing and Analysis was a complete revelation! The old country habits of saying “I done,” and “I seen,” were soon discarded, Composition became an eagerly awaited assignment, and Latin Roots seemed to take precedence over all. The school nurse who visited once a year discovered the serious short-sightedness that had probably plagued her all her life, and suddenly, life and learning became easy!</p><p>World War II had been raging in Europe for several years by the time our student went to High School, but it was the fall of Singapore that caused the most chaos in the lives of school-goers. Slit trenches were mandatory, air-raid alerts with wailing sirens became feared and schools were closed altogether for some time. She was one of the lucky ones. Being considered a bright student, she was sent to a country boarding school to continue her education. Many fellow students simply ended their schooling thus, and sought jobs, being part of the war effort. </p><p>Finally back home, with a good Grade Ten pass and an Extension Scholarship under her belt, it was, nonetheless, a foregone conclusion that she would enter the workforce. The advance of the Japanese through the Pacific, rapid and terrifying, meant the end of her education. Not the end of her learning, but the finish of schooling.</p><p>After spending two years establishing and running an army library for technical manuals, this young person went on to a nursing career, marriage and four children. </p><p>Finally, alone, as the elderly person that I have become, I seem to have reviewed my life backwards, ending with that little girl who forever hugged her father’s leg, too shy by far to come forward.</p><p>At 71, I considered that I deserved to have a university education, to exercise my active brain. I had earned the right, at least, to discover what academia was all about. I had learned so many things in life; I should be able to cope with this next adventure. And I did.</p><p>I worked hard at my assignments, gaining a grade point average of six out of seven. I obtained a Bachelor of Arts degree, going on to achieve an Honours degree a year later.</p><p>This accomplishment has not only been a help in my writing career; it has helped me to understand myself, to realise that I am a capable, intelligent human being who has much to offer...a far cry perhaps from the shy little girl who grew up on a dairy farm on the Logan.</p><p><strong>Doreen’s tips on studying as a senior</strong></p><ul><li>When taking notes, have plenty of white space.</li><li>Always believe that you can do it!</li><li>Remember, even the young ones face hurdles.</li><li>Just keep pushing your boundaries.</li><li>Instead of saying “Why?” it is oft times better to say '”Why not?”</li></ul><p>Doreen has written three books – <a href="http://www.sexinyourseventies.com/content/knee-deep-logan-village-paperback" target="_blank">Knee Deep in Logan Village</a>; <a href="http://www.sexinyourseventies.com/content/barefoot-logan-village" target="_blank">Barefoot in Logan Village</a> and <a href="http://www.sexinyourseventies.com/content/sex-your-seventies-0">Sex in Your Seventies</a>. To read more about Doreen, visit her <a href="http://www.sexinyourseventies.com" target="_blank">website</a>.<a href="http://www.sexinyourseventies.com"><br></a></p><p><em><strong><a href="https://www.open2study.com" target="_blank">Click here</a> </strong>to read about the wide range of FREE courses offered by <strong><a href="https://www.open2study.com" target="_blank">Open2Study</a></strong>.</em> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
