Tales from Midwest Memories: The Soap Opera Scandal of '88

*All names have been changed to protect the guilty and innocent, but mostly, the guilty.

As I sat in Mr. Johnson’s office and waited on my mom to arrive, I chewed on my cuticles and wondered how this got so out of control. The situation began innocently enough – a joke made among friends during study hall.

Monday study hall dragged on with no end in sight. Gina, Rene, Chrissy, and I had been friends since elementary school. Our freshmen year, we found ourselves outcasts in a school containing less than two hundred students, so we adopted the motto: “us against the world.” We sat together at the table nearest the window and shared the weekend’s gossip in whispers and giggles, shaking our heads and rolling our eyes at the deceit and debauchery engaged in by our classmates.

“Ya know, this place is like a soap opera,” Gina muttered.

I laughed at the idea, pulled out a piece of paper, jotted down the words “As Valley High Turns,” and sketched out a crudely rendered picture of the earth at the bottom of the page.

“Just think, what a soap opera we could write. These stories would be just as good as anything on tv,” I whispered, showing the girls the page.

The girls nodded in agreement, and in that moment, we conceived a monumental idea. By the time the bell rang, we had drawn up our cast of “characters.” We included students, faculty, staff, and administrators because how realistic would it be to write a show set in a school with no adults? We discussed plot lines, love triangles, and all matters of degenerate behavior based on our classmates’ actual lives. I gathered up all the notes, and we headed our separate ways. I hurried to Mrs. Deeley’s history class to work on the script.

On Tuesday, I shared my work with the girls during study hall. They “oohed” and “aahed” at all the proper places, then grabbed their pencils and began making notes on the script, snickering as they worked. After class, I took the piece and began making the changes and additions suggested along with some of my own invention as well.

The rest of the week flew by in the same manner. The girls read during study hall and made their notes. I took their input and revised, reworked, and added as necessary. By Friday, the script had grown from a teasing suggestion to a substantial piece of writing that filled a two-pocket folder. The girls made their notes for the day, and I took it home with me.

Over the weekend, I neatly rewrote the entire script. I created an official looking cover from two pieces of cardboard and assembled it using brass-headed brads. The final copy of our “story” occupied the front and back of fifty college-ruled loose-leaf pages, detailing every piece of information the four of us knew or observed at Valley High School filled in with constructions of logical interactions and reactions dreamt up in our teenage minds.

I carried the manuscript to school on Monday morning and passed it to the girls. Chrissy took it first, then Rene, and finally Gina. We discussed the story at lunch. Each of us identified our favorite parts, and we declared the project a success.

After lunch, Gina ran to my locker. Out of breath with wide eyes, she panted, “It’s gone!”

“Whadda ya mean ‘it’s gone’?” I asked.

“The story. Someone took it outta my locker. IT is gone!”

“Who?”

Gina shook her head, “No idea.”

While I considered the possibility that there would be some turmoil over the story, I did not bother deliberating over it for long. I went on with my day as if nothing happened. Miss Bonnie came to get me at the beginning of eighth hour, and as soon as I saw her pursed lips and narrowed eyes, I realized the manuscript was going to cause more trouble than I thought.

Mr. Johnson frowned at me from behind his large wooden desk with his arms crossed over his chest. A photocopy of the manuscript sat in the center of his desk, taunting me. I guess he did not appreciate his bumbling, but charmingly clueless, portrayal.

“Are you responsible for this?” he asked, pointing at the stack of paper.

I frowned and nodded.

“Your mother has been called. She is on her way,” he stated, and then he stood and left the room, tripping over the edge of the bookshelf on his way out the door.

I could not help but smile.

Miss Bonnie glared at me from her perch by the front counter, involuntarily pulling at her tight purple sweater and running her lavender lacquered nails through her perfectly coiffed hair. I guess she did not appreciate her role as the aging prom queen making desperate advances on senior boys while trying to cling to her youth.

Through the front office window, I spied “Princess” Jennifer storm by with “Prince” Jonathon just a few steps behind her. She paused long enough to stare daggers at me through the glass. Her mascara ran down her cheeks. When John caught up to her and reached out to touch her shoulder, she jerked away from him and continued down the hall. He followed with his arms out and palms up, his mouth running a mile a minute trying to make it right. I am certain neither of them appreciated the exposure of the first-hand accounts of “Prince” John’s late night exploits.

Mom finally arrived. She sat straight and tall in the seat beside me with her hands folded in her lap and nodded at all the appropriate times, while Mr. Johnson explained my offenses and my punishment. She signed my referral sheet, folded her copy in half, and slipped it into her purse. She cleared her throat at the office door, and I jumped up from my seat and followed her out of the building.

The consequences surrounding the uproar were substantial. The senior and junior girls threatened to “give me an ass-whoopin’” for the next month. My mom grounded me for two weeks for “being disrespectful to my elders.” Mr. Johnson sentenced me to a week in the broom closet that also served as the school’s in-school-suspension room for writing “lewd and lascivious materials, better-suited for adults than proper young ladies.”

At the tender age of fourteen, I learned an important lesson about the power of words, and it was all worth it.

What's in a Name?

Do our names really influence who we will become?

I mean, we don't get to choose them, that honor is left up to our well-meaning, but occasionally clueless, parents. And for the most part, we live with whatever moniker has been foisted upon us by emotionally-compromised fathers or mothers who may or may not have had a little too much pain medication prior to completing our birth certificate. It is not a typical matter for deep philosophical reflection. Unless you were the victim of an extremely malicious parent like that unfortunate boy named Sue, then you probably suffered no lasting trauma associated with your name.

Not long ago, I was asked, "Do you love your name? Or hate it?" The question itself implies that people fall in one of two very distinct camps. But after a great deal of reflection, I decided there are too many gray areas involved to give a definitive answer. Over the course of my life, there have been many times I didn't particularly care for my name, but for better or worse, it is mine. So, here is my answer to that well-meaning, but poorly phrased, question.

It Could Have Been Worse

Before I came to live in this world, my mom and dad engaged in a typical debate held between couples readying themselves for the arrival of a new family member. They could not agree on a name. Although they each produced solid arguments for their choices and tenaciously defended their positions, my mom emerged the winner. Victorious, she named me Carey – but it could have been worse.

People have always struggled with the proper spelling of my name. In an attempt to make a common name less ordinary, Mom decided a change in spelling was necessary.  Businesses, employers, friends, and even family have frequently misspelled my name over the course of my life. My own grandpa never learned to spell my name accurately, which led to the receipt of yearly handwritten birthday greetings addressed to C-a-r-r-y, C-a-r-r-i-e, C-a-r-y, and even K-e-r-r-y. Of course, it could have been worse. Even though the name is misspelled, I still know they are talking to me. They could have gotten the name completely wrong. Can you imagine being referred to as Terry or Sherry or even as Mary. Misspelling doesn’t seem quite so bad when compared to misidentification.

Elementary school was no picnic either. Do you know how many words rhyme with Carey? A lot, that’s how many. Fairy Carey, Merry Carey, Scary Carey, Hairy Carey. Small children love to speak in verse, and when you have a name custom-made for rhyming, that is exactly what you get. However, it could have been worse. These monikers could have followed me into adolescence. Can you imagine being saddled with ‘Hairy Carey’ throughout puberty? That could have been truly devastating.

In high school, I discovered another problem with my given name. It was boring. While my friends possessed beautiful, interesting names – Yvonne, Gwendolyn, Katrina – I held on to plain, old Carey. I was the third Ingall’s sister, the one that never had any exciting adventures or whirlwind love affairs. The clumsy sister that fell down trying to run through the field during the opening credits – yep, that was me. During these years, I sampled new names. I became Talia for several months, and then adopted Meike for nearly a year. Ultimately, I returned to Carey because it could have been worse. My mom could have chosen an old family name like Gladys, Agnes, Gertrude, or Mildred. Can you imagine trying to live with one of those unusual names around other teenagers? Talk about character building! No thank you, I will just stick with simple, traditional, awkward Carey.

In the end, I decided to embrace the name my mom fought to bestow upon me. It is my identifier, and I cannot imagine having any other appellation. I am Carey. Carey is me. Besides, it could have been worse. My dad could have won. Then, I would have been Cadence. Can you imagine being named after a military march song? Yeah, me neither.

Lessons Learned: Tales from Midwest Memories

A current collection-in-progress - Lessons Learned: Tales from Midwest Memories is a collection of personal essays tracing the long, often humorous, occasionally angry, and sometimes emotional journey of my life growing up in the rural Midwest.

Today's offering is a decidedly emotional essay from this collection. 

How I Learned Moments Matter

Humanity measures the progress of life through a series of signposts. Graduations, marriages, births, moves, jobs, and deaths pave the pathways we each travel during our time on this plane of existence. These milestones, although important, are not what truly shape us into the people we will become. That honor is reserved for less consequential incidents. Seemingly insignificant experiences profoundly influence our interaction with the world around us, but only after time and reflection reveal their fundamental importance.

Tuesday, July 13, 1999 began with an argument. My grandpa was in the hospital for a minor cardiac event – the most recent health issue in a long line of difficulties that stretched back nearly six years. This episode only landed him on his back for three days, which was no more than a hiccup compared to some of his previous illnesses. Although he was due to be released the next day, my husband kept insisting we go visit him. I was twenty-five years old, four and a half months pregnant with my second child, and in no mood to be told what to do. I argued vehemently against making the forty-five minute trip to the hospital.

My protests stemmed from a combination of practicality, experience, and all-day morning sickness. I spent the entirety of my twenties traveling back and forth to my grandparent’s home to help care for them during my grandpa’s many infirmities. I kept house, ran errands, set meds, and prodded Grandpa through his various therapies. It became a quietly running routine. I knew what to expect and what was expected from me. “They’re releasing him tomorrow, and I’m going out on Friday to spend the weekend. Make sure he’s all settled in and that he and Grandma have everything they need. I feel like crap today. I was just there yesterday and spoke to his doctor. He doesn’t even have any physical therapy orders this time. Of course, I’ll stay longer if they need me.” Today, I was wasting my breath.

My husband ignored both my objections and explanations. He would not take “no” for an answer. He headed to the car, declaring that we were going, and I followed reluctantly. I pouted the entire trip and continued to mutter my arguments while staring out the passenger side window.

When we arrived at the hospital, Grandpa was in good spirits. He smiled broadly at me, reached out, and grabbed my hand tightly, “They’re springin’ me first thing in the morning, Sis.”

We sat, holding hands, and visited for nearly two hours. We talked about my son, the light of his life, and the pending arrival of his great-granddaughter. When I told him about the never-ending ‘morning’ sickness, he laughed and commented, “Yep, that’s a girl for ya.” We reminisced about my childhood, discussed his current medical condition, commiserated over the inedibility of hospital food, and negotiated my upcoming visit. At 2:30, we said our good-byes. I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and received my kiss in return. I told him I loved him and would see him Friday. He was smiling as I waved from the door.

The doctor released him from the hospital the next morning as planned. He and Grandma headed off to bed about 10:30 p.m., as usual. Sometime between midnight and 3 a.m. on July 15^th, Grandpa went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. An aneurism burst in his brain. Grandma rushed to him when she heard him fall, but it was too late. He was already gone. He died on the kitchen floor in the home he built for his family with his own two hands with his wife of fifty-one years by his side. After all the heart attacks and strokes, this hidden weakness took him from us. None of us saw it coming.

On July 13, 1999, I spoke to my grandpa for the last time. Of course, at the time I did not know it would be our final visit, and it almost did not happen at all. If not for my husband, I would have missed the opportunity to sit and talk with him. I would have lost the chance to hold his hand and kiss him good-bye one last time. I would have regretted the decision not to go see him for the rest of my life. Instead, I learned a valuable lesson that has influenced how I live and love the people in my life. I discovered every single moment we have with our loved ones matters because life guarantees nothing more than the present.