My brother and I in the Shaniko Jail in the 1970';s

Apparently, I’ve never been very impressed by men with power. If  I had been, my life may have changed forever when I was seven years old.

But I wasn’t, it didn’t and all I have to show for my brush with fame is yet another story about how headstrong I can be.

There are a lot of those stories, but only one about my brief encounter with Hollywood.

A television crew had arrived near the small town where I lived in Central Oregon.  At the time, my mother was an enthusiastic newspaper reporter who never missed an opportunity to combine her job with the opportunity to expose  her family to a world bigger than the one where we lived.

As I recall, I was already impressed with the world around me.  But then, my memory may be a bit biased. One of the advantages of living thousands of miles from your childhood home is that distance enhances the warm fuzzy glow of nostalgia.

And when it comes to my childhood, I am a completely nostalgic  for everything that isn’t part of my adult life:  sagebrush and juniper trees, cattle drives and rodeos and, most of all, ghost towns.

I loved visiting Shaniko, the ghost town near our home.  I loved the stagecoach. I loved the jail. And most of all, I loved the old hotel with the wooden Indian standing guard next to the front door.

Apparently Hollywood felt the same, because Shaniko was the site of an episode of the short-lived television show “Movin On.”

(Thanks to the internet, evidence of that event still exists at http://www.fredmiranda.com/forum/topic/875245. I’m even convinced my dad is

The Shaniko Stagecoach

in the third to last photo standing just to the left of  a sign that says ‘Home Style Cafe.)

At first, I was excited about the opportunity to be on the set of a national television show, but my interest was short-lived.  Watching the television shoot was tedious and boring.  The actors and crew just repeated the same short scene over and over and over again.

And while I was completely bored, my brother sensed opportunity and tried to seize the moment. Every time the cameras started rolling, he started coughing.  There was no doubt he was determined to get his voice heard on national television.

The director was just as determined that it would not be heard.

And the battle between the two became epic.  At one point, the frustrated director took a break to mingle with the crowd.

But he didn’t do much mingling.

Instead, he headed straight for my family.

I was hoping that he was going to ask us to leave or at least give my brother a muzzle. Instead, he focused all his attention on me and serenaded me with “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.”  He ended the song by kissing me on the forehead.

I should have been in awe. I should have been gracious. I should have seized the opportunity to suggest that I join Ron Howard’s brother, the kid from “Gentle Ben”, who was a cast member for that episode. Instead, I gave him what, in my adult life, has become known as “the Trina look.”

That look said it all: I didn’t want a song; I didn’t want a kiss; and most of all, I didn’t want to be watching this boring television show.

Our family left shortly after the incident.

Since then, I’ve often wondered if the director had recognized potential in me. I like to think so, although he probably just felt sorry for me because I had such an annoying brother.

Whatever the reason, he singled me out, and I didn’t provide the reaction he was most likely hoping for. Because, even back then, I didn’t like feeding the ego of people in positions of power. I still don’t.

But I’ve also come to recognize all the opportunities I’ve lost because of that.

Acknowledging their power, or perceived power, doesn’t mean I’m giving up mine.  When I’ve rushed to judge people who seek the limelight , I’m most likely the person who is losing something.  After all, the television director in Shaniko didn’t need to sing to me to build up his ego.  He probably just saw a little girl in a crowd and wanted to make her feel important too. And I didn’t give him that chance.

And I’ll never have that chance again.

But other opportunities may arise, and when they do, I’m hoping the memories I make don’t end with “what if.”

Because a life with “what ifs” is similar to a ghost town:  a shell of what could have been with few opportunities to make new memories.

I’m planning on making a lot more memories.