Pamela Horner's Blog, page 3

A Teaser (Part 1)

Sometimes, people have a tendency to think they are stuck in a humdrum, ho hum, boring, never-changing existence. Well, I can relate. I truly can. People like us look at the lives of others and we think, “Wow. I would love to live their life, even for a few days.” Sometimes, we would like to be thrown a bone; to have even a snippet, if you will, of some else’s life. Let me demonstrate what I mean. Here is a random sampling from a few days of my life. Hold the yawns, please…

I have always liked dogs. Not just any dog, though, I was choosy. I searched and searched until I found the perfect dog…

Click for more: http://ow.ly/P10YE

Acts of Courage

Chapter One

“It was a dark and stormy night…,” Fen began.

“No! Shut up! Don’t do that same story again; it’s lame,” interrupted the listener, six-year old Max. The two brothers glared at each other, waiting for the other to break or to strike, and prepared for both.

Fen, older by four years, fell back on the classic response of brothers and sisters from the beginning of time. “You shut up!”

“No – YOU shut… Mom!” shrieked Max as he tumbled to the floor, a direct result of his being bounced from his bed by Fen’s cannonball.

Fen struggled to hide his grin. “Man, I’m so good,” he congratulated himself. Then he sighed, looking at his little brother curled in a heap at the side of the bed. “What a drama queen,” he mumbled to himself as he reached over to help heave Max to his feet. He had to hurry and smooth this over and do some damage control before his mother arrived on the scene.

“Come on, Maxwell-house,” Fen said with a grin as he pulled his brother up by the hand. “Let’s go eat breakfast, and I will tell you a real story when we get home from school, I promise. Look, I will even let you have the last Pop-Tart,” he added to sweeten the deal so that Max would not tell his mother that he had been ricocheted off the bed.

Fen watched his little brother run down the hall to the kitchen. Sniffing deeply, he could smell the pancakes that his mother was cooking for breakfast.

Mrs. Jacks already seemed frazzled, and breakfast hadn’t even been eaten yet. Several strands of hair had already escaped her ponytail and small splotches of pancake batter had flipped up onto her blouse. She hated cooking, and when forced to do it, she hurried through it as quickly as possible.

“Boys,” she began when Fen and Max entered the kitchen, “what was the yelling about? Did I hear a thump?”

“Mom, they say that with age the hearing is the first to go,” Fen replied with a serious face as he tore into his stack of pancakes.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” Mrs. Jacks snapped back with a playful swat at her son. “Oh, brother, I have to get started on those darn cupcakes for the PTO’s bake sale, and I can’t remember where I put that recipe.” She turned in a frantic circle, ending back over at the cabinets where the mixing bowl was still woefully empty.

“Is this it?” Fen picked up an index card from the kitchen table and waved it at her. “My guess is – yes, because it has globs of pancake batter on it that match the ones on your shirt.”

“Thanks, smart-aleck. Read to me what comes next after ‘two sticks of butter’, will you?”

Fen glanced quickly at the recipe card. He opened his mouth, and then closed it silently. Just then, Max, who had finished eating, got up from his chair and bent over to pick up his napkin which had dropped to the floor.

“Can’t, Mom. Gotta get to school. Atomic wedge!” Fen shouted, diving at his brother’s exposed Batman underpants’ waistband. His brother’s outraged roar almost matched his mother’s shrieking voice screaming his name, and he grinned as he sprinted out the door.

Unlikely Friendships

Unlikely Friendships

It is no secret that I enjoy both writing and reading. No, that is a gross understatement; I embrace both of those pursuits, for they are gifts to me. Reading has been my education, my hobby, my vacations, my companion, and my solace for as long as I can remember. Writing has been my voice, my counselor, my therapist, and my ticket to freedom since my early teenage years. They have been my constant.

When I read, I fall into the pages. I walk around in worlds different from my own. In the literature that I favor, I meet and greet the protagonists as the good friends that we become by the end (Oh, the bitter end which causes me to part with the companions I have grown to admire and respect!), just as I hide and slink around the antagonists that I dislike and distrust. I take a personal interest in the joys and sorrows that these characters experience and I feel it as if it were my own.

I can remember the first time I read The Scarlet Letter. When I finished, I came downstairs to make some tea and my mother stopped me and asked me if I were feeling okay. I replied that I was fine. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you are so flushed,” she said, peering at my red cheeks.

“Oh,” I remember saying, “that is because I just climbed out of the pages of The Scarlet Letter that I have been rolling around in.” See what I mean? I just cannot help myself.

Flash forward to the present. I am writing more now than I ever have. When I finished my first novel, the YA historical fiction Acts of Courage, I was blessed enough to have Helping Hands Press pick it up. While I was waiting for it to be released, the company encouraged me to write some short stories. “Oh, great,” I thought. “I have nothing going in that area apart from some quick things I had thrown together for school assignments and such.” But I took those scribblings and I worked. And I worked. And the more I worked the more involved I became with my characters. I grew to love their personalities, their quirks, the way they moved through life and the off-beat things they would say. It was as if they grew through my fingers, yet I had nothing to do with it because they were more and more real to me – on their own volition.

I have grown to love all of the alternate lives I have given the characters in my short stories, the fantasy series called “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”. The first is self-titled, the second is “The Spinner and the Beast”, the third is titled “A (Sort of) Fairy Tale”, and the fourth and final volume in the series is “So it Goes”. My favorite character by far, however, is Tommy. Tommy makes his debut appearance in volume I, “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”, but I could not just leave him there. I had to make sure he ventured forth in the second, and, well, now I think he needs to be present in this third volume, and wait! He must be in the final volume, as well.

Tommy is ‘everyman’. He looks brutishly large like a male sumo-beast, yet is tender and kind like a female elfin creature. He is strong and he is soft; he is simple yet wise. He is…well, ‘everyman’. He is the best of all of us, and I find that I desperately want him as my friend. He is the best kind of companion one could have, and I would so dearly love to be able to wander over to the next kingdom and have a visit. I even have begged my family for one of them to create a “Tommy Doll” for me. No takers. Yet. I have not given up the ship, though!

I dearly love the character-friends I have met through the years of visiting literature, true, but I find that the characters I have created by giving them their unique, alternative life story have wormed their way into my heart for good. I invite you to jump into my series, roll around the pages, and meet some of my characters, many of whom you have met before but never really understood until you have read “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”. Who knows, maybe you will fall in love with Tommy, too!

For the Love of Mothers

On the news tonight, I saw a two-month old baby gorilla, Arlene, wallowing all over her mother. The correspondent mentioned that baby Arlene always stayed very close to her mother. Even in the few seconds the camera stayed tight on the pair, it was clear that the baby felt that she could roll and climb all over her mother with the greatest of confidence and ease, innately knowing that she was safe; her net would be there should she fall.

Long after that fleeting segment melted off the screen and on to the usual unrest and toll of doom for the day, that scene stayed with me. I started thinking about the ‘roles’ we are given or choose to play in life. Sure, there will always be the mothers who eat their young (I am referring mostly to animals here), the mothers who neglect, mentally/physically harm, or ultimately abandon their offspring. Everyone gets that, tragic and unspeakable as it is, these acts occur in life. They pale by far, however, in number to the mothers who respect, nurture, and love. Notice that I did not specify that they can only extend the respect and love to their offspring because I think that would be inaccurate and short-sighted. There are countless women in the world who give these gifts to anyone who needs them, related or not.

Today is Mother’s Day. I have always loved this day. I love that a moment is taken to give a nod to the special women who have been given the role or chosen to take on the role of ‘mother’. Nothing is taken away from any other role played by others; children have their role, as do fathers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, teachers, etc. This is just a day to celebrate the gift of mothers. Like a stone tossed onto the smooth surface of water, it has the ripple effect.

Mother’s Day is a day to celebrate so many people. Honestly, I have always cringed when I would hear the often repeated phrase, “She is not my mother.” Personally, I find the word ‘mother’ on equal footing as ‘love’. To me, this day does not compartmentalize or use strictures. Rather, it embraces. It gives us a chance to celebrate women who love their children, others’ children, or just have that gift to make children feel safe and that they have ‘come  home’. So many of us have role models, women who have impacted our lives, women who have taken us by the hand to guide or taken the hand away to let us fly. These are qualities that should never go unacknowledged. If done correctly, or to the best of one’s ability, they can be life saving and life changing.

I am going to take this opportunity to honor my mother, Betty Horner. She is, without a doubt, the person who has had the single largest influence on my life. She is ‘everywoman’. Let me briefly explain.

My mother was born in 1929, right at the start of the Great Depression. Like most American families, they had next to nothing, monetarily. What they lacked in money and possessions, however, they more than made up with love. Mother’s family was very close, the siblings especially so, and that is how they remained until, one by one, they have been separated by death. She was born into a time of traditional family values and she has marched through each decade with its changing times and points of view with the knowledge that no matter what was popular or trending, she knew right from wrong. She raised my sister and me the same way. We may not have completely understood the reasons behind the rules, but we, too, knew right from wrong. That simplified things considerably.

Though that may make her appear black and white, that is far from the truth. She is quite the eclectic mix. While very strict, Mother always knew the right time to bend. While steadfast and steeped in her faith, she never comes off ‘preachy’ or judgmental. Without straying from the path of right, she can be somewhat irreverent and hilarious. Her sense of humor is legend, much to her chagrin (since I have a tendency to share her stories)!

She is the best of us. Here she is, eighty-six in June, and by golly, she has earned the right to rest easy! Our family, however, did not get that memo. One by one, we have brought our messes, our mistakes, our tragedies, home and laid them at her feet. Quite frankly, our hot mess of a family would have broken most octogenarians, but not my mother. She has placed her well-worn and tired hands on our faces, looked us into our eyes, and said, “God knows. He is aware of our mistakes. Take them to Him. Always, take them to Him and He will guide you.” She has never judged us; rather, she would always say that it was not her place to do so. Instead, she welcomed us back, warts and all, to be enveloped into her loving embrace. She is, indeed, the best of us.

My father had his special role in my life, as did my sister. But it was always my mother to whom I turned. Many of us wonder from time to time why things happen to us the way they do. We question ‘why?’ But this is how I look at life. We may not always understand, well, actually, we probably will not understand the rules of life. But God does. We have the gift of choice, certainly, but I believe God puts people in our lives who will cross our paths just when we need them most, if we will let them. I did not grow up having many friends, but I was given a mother who would love me and let me be me, whether it made me popular or not. She has always been so wise. I grew up knowing who I was and knowing that I could make it standing on my own, and she let me do that.

Mother is not just my rock; she is the foundation of this family. Each generation has known that he or she can confide in her and she will not always condone, but will always love. I look at her sometimes and I think, “How did one person manage to hold that bottomless well of love and forgiveness?” I am still trying to keep up, but I fall short. She is a tough act to follow, folks, but I am trying.

Happy Mother’s Day, my precious mother. I love you without end and admire you without limits. I will always believe that God looked down and said to Himself that this girl will need A LOT, so I will give her Betty Martin Horner. I am forever grateful that He did.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who, on some level, have children in your lives. Bless you. Please know that as long as you lead with love, you will do someone a great deal of good. Whether you know it or not, you are appreciated.

Good Night, Baloo

Today, I had to part with my very best friend, my beloved dog, Baloo. I say that he was ‘my dog’, and in truth, he was, but he also belonged to almost everyone who entered his life. I have never seen an animal cuddle his way into so many hearts. I can count on one hand the people who met him and did not fall a little in love with this gentle, loving being.

Baloo was part chow and part malamute, and all fluff and love. He had the most beautiful markings on his face and the fur- oh my, he had mounds and mounds of it, as you can imagine with the breeds he had flowing through his veins. He would stand so naturally in this stance that looked as though he had been trained to do so, with his back legs slightly back, his spine straight, head high, and all of it punctuated with the question mark curve of the fan that was his tail, touching the middle of his back.

But this is what he looked like on the outside. That is easy to describe, even though it is slightly frustrating because mere description does not do him justice. Oh, but it was his character and his soul that made him the animal that people loved to be around. He was as silent as snow, and as gentle as dandelion fluff. He went through three grandchildren and one nephew with all of the dignity and grace one can have with kids patting your massive amounts of fur with sticky hands, putting their happy, loving faces in yours, and trying to ride you because you looked somewhat like a very hairy pony. He bore all of this and more, uncomplaining, even as he began to grow older and didn’t feel like playing quite so much anymore.

I feel like Billy Coleman in Where the Red Fern Grows, you know, the scene when Billy and his beloved dogs are out hunting in the mountains and the ‘devil of the Ozarks’, the dreaded mountain lion, attacks and tries to kill Billy. Clearly outlined in the moonlight is the air born form of the bigger of the two dogs, Old Dan, as he sails into the fight of his life – to protect Billy. It is a fight that ends badly for Old Dan, but being the type of dog he was, he would not have had it any other way and he would do it again.

Baloo protected me, along with any family member in the house, if he felt that were any hint of danger. Remember earlier when I mentioned that he was as silent as the snow? That was absolutely true, unless he felt the first inkling of a threat and then – POW! He would revert into an animal that I didn’t know.

One night, I was jerked awake by sounds I had never heard from him before. I ran into the living room and saw Baloo on the couch plastered against the picture window. The barking and deep, rolling growls were deafening and I was dumbstruck. I had no idea what to think or how to assess the situation; I had never seen this side of him before. In one long dive, he leapt from the couch to the door to force himself between it and me. He tried to tear the door down. Two men, who, I found out later from the police, were wired from drugs, were trying to break into the house. They did not make it. I assume they still wake up screaming in the middle of the night, dreaming that the hounds of hell are nipping at their heels from that night. I know that I never forgot it, and I was on the protected side!

This is just one instance; there are so many others. Any time I would be outside with him and someone would pass by or step into the yard, he would race over to me and place himself between me and the stranger, shifting his body with each step so he could face them until ‘danger’ passed. Never barking, just…watching. Often, that was enough.

He was my constant. We traveled all over town together, he and I. He would get treats from the bank tellers sometimes, and he would get an extra hamburger (on really good days!) at drive through restaurants. He attracted attention; he was just that kind of dog.

He could sense when I was upset, and he would come over and plop his huge bottom on my lap or just lay on the floor at my feet, his liquid brown eyes telling more without saying a word. I understood completely. I could come home from work or just a tiring day and there he would be – never snarky, never critical, never judging, no. But he would, unfailingly, love. On the other hand, if I was ever sharp, he would turn those soulful brown eyes on me and I knew, I knew without a doubt, that he had forgiven me. Every time.

Baloo had renal failure. He was in quite a bit of pain, the vet told me today. I was with him when she gave him the shot to calm him, but it didn’t, at first. He tried so hard to sit up, but his legs kept sliding out from under him and would not hold him up. They were failing him, him, who had dragged himself up many times to do a last minute tour of duty when he was becoming so tired and so sick. He was not quite ready to give up. I slid to the floor and wrapped my arms around him. His heart raced under my arm.

I put my head on his back and whispered to him, “It’s okay, my prince. I will be okay. You can rest now.” And with that, he laid his head down on his beautiful paws. They were so chubby and childlike; I never tired of watching his great head lay between those beautiful paws. This time, though, he would not be getting back up. I stayed with him, my arms wrapped around him, as I felt his heartbeat slow. I only moved when the final shot was administered, and then I stayed with him, that beautiful, magnificent animal who had been my friend, my companion, my protector, long after he slid away from me.

I watched the moon tonight; it is full and gorgeous, my favorite. The stars are looking down at us as they are wont to do. I am afraid that I am not reveling in this gift like I normally do, I am ashamed to say, because I cannot seem to be comforted. I am pretty certain, however, the last time I peeked at the night sky that I usually love so dearly, that I could tell that Baloo was among the stars, still watching over me, still forgiving me, still loving me, just as he did here.

I will never, ever be ready to say good-bye; my time with you would always have been too short. So, Good night, my beloved Baloo. You were so tired. Sleep with the greats and rest; your job here is done. I love you.

Unlikely Friendships

It is no secret that I enjoy both writing and reading. No, that is a gross understatement; I embrace both of those pursuits, for they are gifts to me. Reading has been my education, my hobby, my vacations, my companion, and my solace for as long as I can remember. Writing has been my voice, my counselor, my therapist, and my ticket to freedom since my early teenage years. They have been my constant.

When I read, I fall into the pages. I walk around in worlds different from my own. In the literature that I favor, I meet and greet the protagonists as the good friends that we become by the end (Oh, the bitter end which causes me to part with the companions I have grown to admire and respect!), just as I hide and slink around the antagonists that I dislike and distrust. I take a personal interest in the joys and sorrows that these characters experience and I feel it as if it were my own.

I can remember the first time I read The Scarlet Letter. When I finished, I came downstairs to make some tea and my mother stopped me and asked me if I were feeling okay. I replied that I was fine. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you are so flushed,” she said, peering at my red cheeks.

“Oh,” I remember saying, “that is because I just climbed out of the pages of The Scarlet Letter that I have been rolling around in.” See what I mean? I just cannot help myself.

Flash forward to the present. I am writing more now than I ever have. When I finished my first novel, the YA historical fiction Acts of Courage, I was blessed enough to have Helping Hands Press pick it up. While I was waiting for it to be released, the company encouraged me to write some short stories. “Oh, great,” I thought. “I have nothing going in that area apart from some quick things I had thrown together for school assignments and such.” But I took those scribblings and I worked. And I worked. And the more I worked the more involved I became with my characters. I grew to love their personalities, their quirks, the way they moved through life and the off-beat things they would say. It was as if they grew through my fingers, yet I had nothing to do with it because they were more and more real to me – on their own volition.

I have grown to love all of the alternate lives I have given the characters in my short stories, the fantasy series called “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”. The first is self-titled, the second is “The Spinner and the Beast”, the third is titled “A (Sort of) Fairy Tale”, and the fourth and final volume in the series, soon to come out, is “So it Goes”. My favorite character by far, however, is Tommy. Tommy makes his debut appearance in volume I, “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”, but I could not just leave him there. I had to make sure he ventured forth in the second, and, well, now I think he needs to be present in this third volume, and wait! He must be in the final volume, as well.

Tommy is ‘everyman’. He looks brutishly large like a male sumo-beast, yet is tender and kind like a female elfin creature. He is strong and he is soft; he is simple yet wise. He is…well, ‘everyman’. He is the best of all of us, and I find that I desperately want him as my friend. He is the best kind of companion one could have, and I would so dearly love to be able to wander over to the next kingdom and have a visit. I even have begged my family for one of them to create a “Tommy Doll” for me. No takers. Yet. I have not given up the ship, though!

I dearly love the character-friends I have met through the years of visiting literature, true, but I find that the characters I have created by giving them their unique, alternative life story have wormed their way into my heart for good. I invite you to jump into my series, roll around the pages, and meet some of my characters, many of whom you have met before but never really understood until you have read “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”. Who knows, maybe you will fall in love with Tommy, too!

Overwhelmed By Muchness

Overwhelmed by ‘Muchness’?

I want to extend my wish to all of you that you enter this spring season with all of the hope and renewal that it promises. I read a wonderful quote this morning shared by a friend of mine. It is from David Avocado Wolfe. It reads,

“Promote what you love instead of bashing what you hate.”

Thank you for that. What a gift that thought is.

I stood outside this morning and looked. Just…looked. The thought that the beauty of what I was seeing was a gift, came before the realization that the ability to see it and experience it was the true gift. That realization is too often overlooked.

When we get into the business of the day we often become overwhelmed by the sheer “muchness” (to borrow from Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland) of what is going on. We think that there is no way that we can take the time out of what needs to be done to take a moment to just be. Look at all of the ‘stuff’ that needs done! Don’t you see all of the people who are relying on me? How will the world continue if I don’t bust it and attend to all of this ‘muchness’?

I am guilty. I woke up this morning already overwhelmed, burdened by the ‘muchness’ of what I needed to accomplish today.  Tomorrow is Easter! There is a major amount of cooking that needs cooked. There are eggs to stuff. There are stuffed eggs to hide. The floor needs swept. Cinderelly, Cinderelly!! and it goes on and on. If I let it.

OR…I can promote what I love. I love Easter. I love this time of year. I love that spring heralds in the hope of new beginnings. Fresh starts. Renewal. The grass knows it. The buds on the trees know it. The birds know it. When will we?

The meaning behind the celebration of Easter, spring, whatever it is that you believe in and want to celebrate…do. Do it now. You have no promise that you can celebrate this gift when the ‘muchness’ is done. I chose today to promote what I love, and it is the gift of sight, life, freedom, Christianity, family, friends, and so much more. (Don’t panic, guys, I really am going to cook today; I am just going to frolic first!!)

So, Happy Easter, happy spring, happy thoughts of life to all of you. Let go of the ‘muchness’ and celebrate the gifts.

Overwhelmed by ‘Muchness’?I want to extend my wish to al...

Overwhelmed by ‘Muchness’?

I want to extend my wish to all of you that you enter this spring season with all of the hope and renewal that it promises. I read a wonderful quote this morning shared by a friend of mine. It is from David Avocado Wolfe. It reads,

“Promote what you love instead of bashing what you hate.”

Thank you for that. What a gift that thought is.

I stood outside this morning and looked. Just…looked. The thought that the beauty of what I was seeing was a gift, came before the realization that the ability to see it and experience it was the true gift. That realization is too often overlooked.

When we get into the business of the day we often become overwhelmed by the sheer “muchness” (to borrow from Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland) of what is going on. We think that there is no way that we can take the time out of what needs to be done to take a moment to just be. Look at all of the ‘stuff’ that needs done! Don’t you see all of the people who are relying on me? How will the world continue if I don’t bust it and attend to all of this ‘muchness’?

I am guilty. I woke up this morning already overwhelmed, burdened by the ‘muchness’ of what I needed to accomplish today.  Tomorrow is Easter! There is a major amount of cooking that needs cooked. There are eggs to stuff. There are stuffed eggs to hide. The floor needs swept. Cinderelly, Cinderelly!! and it goes on and on. If I let it.

OR…I can promote what I love. I love Easter. I love this time of year. I love that spring heralds in the hope of new beginnings. Fresh starts. Renewal. The grass knows it. The buds on the trees know it. The birds know it. When will we?

The meaning behind the celebration of Easter, spring, whatever it is that you believe in and want to celebrate…do. Do it now. You have no promise that you can celebrate this gift when the ‘muchness’ is done. I chose today to promote what I love, and it is the gift of sight, life, freedom, Christianity, family, friends, and so much more. (Don’t panic, guys, I really am going to cook today; I am just going to frolic first!!)

So, Happy Easter, happy spring, happy thoughts of life to all of you. Let go of the ‘muchness’ and celebrate the gifts.

If You are Between the Ages of 1 and 99…

Huzzah! I am excited to announce…build up going on here…my second short story, “The Spinner and the Beast” is out and available for purchase! It was published on March 18, 2015. This is the second of a four-part series. The first volume, “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”, was published February 3, 2015.

The premise is that the well-known characters in some of the most beloved, tried and true fairy tales are, um, gee…how can I say it delicately?…really NOT so well-known. In this series, beginning with volume I “Rats, Pumpkins, and Other Rumors”, you get the scoop behind characters such as Cinderella, Rumplestilskin, Little Red Cap, aka Little Red Riding Hood, and then, sliding right into volume II “The Spinner and the Beast”, the tales continue to unfold with the truth behind the Beast, Snow White, and more.

Thank you for the encouragement you have shown me. There is no way that I would have had the courage to continue without your support; it warms my soul and fuels my imagination. So sit back and enjoy the ride; more stories are coming down the pike!  Here are the links where you can quickly find the stories:

http://goo.gl/OfkUqx

http://goo.gl/qmmjrn

Can We “…Boldly Go…”?

On February 27, 2015, the entertainment world lost an icon, Leonard Nimoy. For the younger set who may not be in the know, or for those who did not watch a great deal of television in the 60’s and beyond or pretty much have resided under the proverbial rock for the last several years, Leonard Nimoy portrayed the character ‘Spock’ on the televised series Star Trek, which ran from 1966 – 1969.

Star Trek became a pop cultural favorite. Decades later people may imitate the split-fingered salute and most everyone can readily identify it as the iconic gesture of the popular Vulcan. Only last week I heard his treasured line from the series quoted, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”

Nimoy, himself, was a wonderful person, not just a talented actor playing the part of an interesting, quirky, long-remembered character. He was generous and well-rounded, with many other talents besides his obvious gift of acting. Not everyone can own or deserve that sentiment.

However. And this is the reason that I find myself sitting here tonight at the computer, this ‘however’. It’s a huge point in a tiny, yet pivotal word. Leonard Nimoy was a memorable man, both on and off camera. But to the millions of viewers who knew him as the brilliant, pointed-eared Vulcan, he was Spock, the one who could take any galactic problem and pulverize it with his scientific logic. It was Spock we imitated, Spock we quoted and related to. A character.

As I was thinking of Spock tonight, that was what struck me. We are in each other’s lives, in each other’s faces on a more regular basis than the once weekly visits of our favorite characters on our television screens. We have the opportunities to have a greater impact, but I think we leave that to the ‘experts’, the characters that someone else has created.

We do not need to have someone else write our lines. We do not need to rely on someone to create a situation for us. Every day we are given our own blank canvases, and what we choose to do with it is our call. We could choose to say something wise and meaningful that will stay with someone, and who knows who it could affect? Dry humor or witty gestures that make someone grin as they walk away or smile as they think about it a few days later…we do not need to rely on television or movie characters to do all of our work for us.

When I do take my final bow, my final ‘curtain call’, I want to know that, or, I should say that I hope that I have walked a path that helped pave a way for someone else, whether I ever know it or not. I hope that maybe I have written a word or so that eased someone’s heart, even if that someone is a person I will never meet. That script would be a keeper.

Every single one of us has the daily opportunity to make a mark on his or her world. Become your own writer. Become your own character. Make your words memorable and wise and your actions so that they meet “…the needs of the many…” But, let’s face it; no one else could ever pull off wearing a pair of ears like that ever again!

Rest peacefully, Mr. Spock.