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by Stannie Anderson
I never wanted to be Dr. Karl Menninger's enemy. In fact, I wasn't his enemy, but he certainly thought I was. To mutual
friends he referred to me as "that girl reporter who spends all her time going through dusty papers at the courthouse."
I incurred his wrath innocently.
After living in Topeka a year, I had applied for a job as a reporter at The Topeka State Journal. The managing editor said
there wasn't an opening at that time--but asked if I would like to rotate around the newsroom for a month and fill in for
a couple of reporters who were going on vacation. He said he expected to have an opening in the society department in a month,
and he would hire me for that position. I accepted with joy.
My first assignment in Topeka was to fill in for the education reporter. I liked those two weeks. Then I began substituting
for the health reporter. I loved those two weeks. I realized almost immediately that this was a beat I had longed for all
my brief journlistic life. I loved the interviews with doctors and scientists. I was fascinated by medicine and treatments.
And I found myself right in the middle of exciting times in mental health in Topeka, home of the world-renowned Menninger
Foundation, headed by the famous Menninger brohers--Drs. Karl and Will.
At the end of my rotating month, I moved over to the society department. But before I did, I asked the managing editor
if he would consider me for the health beat if it ever came open. He promised he would. Three months later Dave Hicks, the
reporter, left for another job, and the health beat was mine.
Before Dave left, he gave me telephone numbers of people to call for stories that had not yet broken. One concerned a chapel
project at Topeka VA Hospital. The other was a big land deal involving the Mennninger Foundation. Dutifully I made the calls
each week. When at last it appeared the Menninger story was about to jell, I called the information office to request an interview
with Dr. Karl. But Dr. Karl sent word back that he didn't want to be interviewed about the story. He said, however, that when
it was ready to be published he would give it to me.
At first I was pleased to hear I would get the story. Then doubts crept in. Dr. Karl had met me twice and neither meeting
had registered with him. I knew he wouldn't know me if he saw me on the street. Why would he give such a big story to a woman
reporter he didn't know? My city editor was young and aggressive. My job depended on him--and he had told me "handle that
story any way you please, but don't lose it." My publisher owned the opposing newspaper, but the competition between the two
opposing reporters on the health beat was murderous. So, as insurance, I continued to make my weekly calls to several informed
sources.
Then came the day that one of those sources called me.
"You've been so faithful about calling me," he said. "I probably shouldn't do this, but I've got to tell you: That land
deal is going through today." I immediately tried to call Dr. Karl. He wasn't available.
I was on deadline and desperate. On the one hand was Dr. Karl, who was known to have a towering temper and a firm grip
on mental health stories. Would I have any future on the health beat if I defied him? On the other hand was a city editor
who didn't like to be beaten on a big story. I knew my facts were accurate. I also knew the competition was on my heels. So
I gritted my teeth and started writing.
Dr. Karl didn't call me after he read the evening newspaper, as I thought he would. But his silence was ominous. Mutual
friends told me he was furious.
A few months went by, and I heard nothing from Dr. Karl. I knew things had been in turmoil at the Menninger Foundation
for some time. My sources told me Dr. Karl and Dr. Will had had a serious disagreement. The acrimony continued to build up.
Eventually Dr. Karl accepted a part-time consultancy with millionnaire W. Clement Stone in Chicago. He continued to come back
to Topeka, but nothing was the same.
About that time the Sunday editor wanted me to do an in-depth interview with Dr. Karl for the newspaper's Midway magazine.
I contacted Don Richards of the Information Office. He began talking with Dr. Karl, telling him I really was a nice person
and he would like me if he got to know me. Eventually he got Dr. Karl to agree to the interview.
It occurred on a Saturday morning when the Menninger offices were deserted. Dr. Karl went to a dental appointment first
and was late in arriving for our interview. (I later was told this probably was fortunate, because Dr. Karl was a stickler
for punctuality and was thrown off balance by being late.)
"Probably I'm cheating the psychiatric residents by being away from Topeka so much," Dr. Karl observed, his back toward
me as he headed for his desk.
"Yes," I said. "Probably so."
That evidently wasn't an answer he had expected, and he whirled around with astonishment on his face.
I explained, "They come here to learn about psychiatry from Karl Menninger, but Karl Menninger isn't here. He's in Chicago."
"They don't want me here," he said gruffly. "I don't belong here any more."
"I don't think that's so, Dr. Karl," I said. "I've talked with lots of staff members. They love and admire you. Your roots
are here. The limbs of a great tree may extend to Chicago, yet its roots remain in Topeka."
So we got off to a contentious start.
The hours went by. We talked about a lot of things. But still I knew I had not really reached him. He was still angry with
me. He invited me to go home with him for awhile and talk some more.
He headed down the stairs, turning off the lights as he went, and passed by the dimly lit front hallway, with its wall
inscribed with the words of Santana:
"We must welcome the future
Remembering that soon it will be the past.
And we must respect the past
Remembering that once it was all that was humanly possible."
He stood for a few moments atop Martin Hill, this pioneer of psychiatry, the wind ruffling his white hair, his eyes on
the hazy skyline of Topeka, the town where he was born. It had been a long day.
The talk continued at his home.
I wasn't getting anywhere, and I knew it. At one point, Dr. Karl said, "You may use anything we've talked about in
your story. I don't think we need to talk again."
I handed him my shorthand notebook.
"No," I said, "We don't have a story yet."
At that point, he suddenly decided to confront me about the land story.
"I sent word to you that I would give you that story when it was ready," he said. "Did you not get that word?"
Our eyes were locked across the room. I was looking at an impassive face, experienced at concealing his feelings from patients.
"Yes, I did," I said. "In a secondhand kind of way."
Then I added softly, "You didn't trust me."
"No," he said evenly, "I didn't."
I leaned forward slightly in my chair, my eyes never leaving his. "And I was not quite sure I could trust you."
There was a sudden merry peal of laughter from the doorway. Both sets of eyes went to his wife Jean, standing there and
overhearing the conversation. Almost immediately our eyes were again locked on each other. I didn't know exactly what had
happened--but I knew something was different. He didn't discuss it then or ever. But abruptly he set up the time for another
interview. And so the evening ended and a 30-year friendship began. -- S.A. | 
