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I never had the honor to meet Leonard Nimoy, and I am greatly saddened to know that now I never will. I have been a Star Trek fan for over two decades, thanks to my Oma and Opa. I would sit on their couch or living room floor with a bowl of ice cream and watch The Next Generation episodes with them (Oma loved Data, and even had an action figure of him).

I remember very few specific episodes, but I recall very clearly the sense of wonder I felt every time I heard that theme song. TNG was the Star Trek I grew up with. I was only a few months old when it premiered, and it aired its finale just after my seventh birthday. It was a massive part of my childhood. While TNG was my first Trek, it was by no means my last. I watched every episode of every series I could find (including a happy discovery of the first three season of Deep Space Nine on VHS at my local library’s book sale one day). I learned as much as I could about the different characters, and even bought a Klingon dictionary for me and another for my best friend. I have continued to return to The Original Series over the years, due mostly to a long-ago viewing of The Wrath of Khan on some almost forgotten Saturday. I didn’t know who Khan was at the time, but the death of Spock was incredibly poignant, even if it was a foregone conclusion that Nimoy would be returning in the next movie (the TV guide said so, and the TV guide was never wrong).

Netflix and DVD releases have allowed me to maintain access to Star Trek whenever I feel the desire. I’ve seen more of Spock’s adventures in the last two years than I ever did as a kid. I’ve come to know more and more of Leonard Nimoy’s work, Trek and non. I have to say that the man was admirable, on-screen and in real life. Spock told us the “Live long and prosper,” and Leonard Nimoy did. I’m going to do my best.

A great man has left this world, and I need to take a moment to talk about him. His name was Theodore Jerry Baum, and he was my English teacher in my junior year of high school. Mr. Baum died almost a month ago. I’ve been trying to figure out how to memorialize him in a better way than the sadly lackluster obituary our local newspaper provided.

Like most of the kids my age, I met Mr. Baum long before I took a class with him. When you live in a small town, everyone knows everybody else. He taught English and Television Production at Holyoke High School. My first (and sadly only) class with Mr. Baum was my junior year of high school, and I’d been terrified of him. The man was a sort of urban legend, and he had a reputation, at least in my head, of teaching the hardest English class around. No nonsense. Strict, straitlaced. Or so it seemed.

After a while, though, I got to know him a little better. I learned that he loved German food, and that he delighted in playing practical jokes. When my independent study German group decided to have a German meal at school, I made brats and sauerkraut, brought a crock pot full, and let it simmer in my classroom all day. Mrs. Ortner’s room was right across the hall, and she made it quickly known that she HATED the smell of sauerkraut. Naturally, after sharing lunch with us, Mr. Baum took a cup full of sauerkraut and left it hidden in one of Mrs. O’s trashcans for the rest of the day.

He could move far faster than I ever would have thought possible for a man his age. One of his best pranks involved sneaking up on then-counselor Mrs. Vieselmeyer with an air horn, letting it off right next to her head. She spun around and would’ve likely knocked Mr. Baum into the next semester if he hadn’t jumped away.

On another day, I was walking through the library when a book fell from one of the shelves. As I bent to pick it up, another fell. I glanced up in time to see Mr. Baum hiding on the other side of the shelf, chuckling to himself as he pushed the books through onto my side.

As a junior, I participated in the district academic bowl. He was one of our moderators, and at one point in the evening, a question required the phrasing of a line from Oliver. Cue Mr. Baum singing “Consider yourself at home, consider yourself one of the family.”

No tribute to Mr. Baum would be complete without mentioning his cat, Brutus. There were several cats that he owned throughout the years I knew him, and each one, regardless of gender, was named Brutus. I never knew how many of them there were altogether, just that there was always one at a time, a constant companion for him.

He loved to garden during his retirement. He moved into a house down the street from my parents, one that had a lovely garden in the back that had been carefully tended for years by the previous resident. Many afternoons I could go for a walk and find him there, Huskers cap on his head, trowel in hand, continuing the work of maintaining the flowers and vegetables that were growing there.

I’ll never forget him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I knew him better than most. That would be doing a great disservice to the many people whose lives he touched. I knew him. That was enough.

 

“Farewell”
Trifecta.
A wager once,
Now a confluence,
Defined by writers who
Gather to share their stories
With like-minded others and learn
To express themselves, leaving each one
Vulnerable, but stronger. Thanks, and farewell.

 

This piece is my entry for the final Trifecta Writing Challenge, and as per our prompt, is a 33-word free write. I would like to thank everyone who has come to visit my blog since I started the Trifecta entries exactly one year ago today. It’s been a hell of a year. You are all absolutely incredible people, and I hope that we manage to keep in touch with each other even after our weekly writing assignments are no more. Particular thanks must, as almost always, go to V. Without her, I never would’ve discovered the joys of these challenges. It’s a very bittersweet day indeed. I like to think that I’ve grown a great deal as a writer since I started participating in Trifecta, and it’s all thanks to you, dear readers, fellow Trifectans. Thank you. I’ll see you around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Mr. Bradbury,

I never had the opportunity (as some lucky individuals did) to meet you in person. I will not have the chance to shake your hand and say thank you for Fahrenheit 451 and the Martian Chronicles, and so I’m afraid that this will have to suffice. Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. I’ll never forget the worlds you showed me.