take you for every dime.’
But those are just middle-of-the-night thoughts. Marriage is a psychological
condition, not a civil contract and a licence. Once a marriage is dead, it is dead,
and it begins to stink even faster than dead fish. What matters is not who killed it
but the fact of its death. Then it becomes time to divvy-up, split up, and run, with
no time wasted on recriminations.
So why am I wasting time eighty years later brooding over the corpse of a long-dead
marriage – when I am having enough trouble from these murderous spooks? I feel sure
that Pixel does not fret over the ghosts of long-dead tabby cats. He lives in the
eternal now… and I should, too.
In 1946, as soon as I was back in Kansas City, the first thing I wanted to do was to
register as a college student. Both the University of Kansas City and Rockhurst
College were a mile north of us at 53rd Street, each a block off Rockhill Boulevard,
Rockhurst to the east and KCU to the west – five minutes by car, tem by bus, or a
pleasant twenty-minute walk in good weather. The Medical School of the University of
Kansas was just west of 39th and State line, ten minutes by car. The Kansas City
School of Law was downtown, a twenty-minute drive.
Each had advantages and shortcomings Rockhurst was very small but it was a Jesuit
school and therefore probably high in scholarship. It was a school for men but not
totally so. I had been told that its coeds were all nuns, schoolteachers improving
their credentials, so I was not sure that I would be welcome. Father McCaw,
president of Rockhurst, set me straight:
`Mrs Johnson, our policies are not set in stone. While most of our students are men,
we do not exclude women who seriously desire what we offer. We are a Catholic school
but we welcome non-Catholics. Here at Rockhurst we do not actively proselytise but
perhaps I should warn you that Episcopalians, such as yourself, exposed to sound
Catholic doctrine, often wind up converted to the true Church. If, while you are
among us, you find yourself in need of instruction in faith and dogma, we will be
happy to supply it. But we will not pressure you. Now… Are you degree-seeking? Or
not?’
I explained to him that I had registered as a special student and potential
candidate for a bachelor’s degree at KCU. ‘But I am more interested in an education
than I am in a degree. That is why I have come here. I am aware of the reputation of
the Jesuits for scholarship. I hope to learn things here that I would not learn on
the other campus.’
‘One may always hope.’ He scribbled something on a pad, tore it off and gave it to
me. ‘You are a special student now, entitled to attend any lecture course. There are
additional fees for some courses, such as laboratory courses. Take this to the
Bursar’s office; they’ll accept your tuition fee and straighten you out on other
charges. Stop in and see me in a week or two.’
The next six years, 1946-52, I spent in school, including summer sessions. My home
had no babies in it and no small children. There is not much work in such a
household and what there was, I delegated – to Doris, sixteen and just starting to
check her Howard list under my protective chaperonage, and to Susan, who was only
twelve and still virgin (I felt fairly sure) But an outstanding cook for her age. So
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I started in on her sex education, being aware of the strong correlation between
good cooking and a high libido… only to find that Aunt Betty Lou had done well by
my girls in bringing them up as innocent sophisticates, well-informed about their
bodies and their female heritage long before they would have to face that heritage
emotionally.
I had just one son at home, Pat, fourteen in ’46. I decided, somewhat reluctantly,
that I was going to have to check on his knowledge of sex – before he contracted