We all have stories.
On June 14, for the final meeting of our JN217 Feature Writing class, we got to meet the incomparable Tom Hallman, Jr. We had been reading his book “Dispatches from 1320,” a collection of feature articles he had written during his time with the Oregonian. Meeting him “in person” (Zoom) was the cherry on top of my favorite sundae. (I laugh as I write this as one of the first things he asked was we not put him on a pedestal. But when meeting someone who has won every award that can be won in the journalism world, it’s hard not to be awe struck.)
Hallman is a man in his 60s. He still writes for the Oregonian. He still tells magnificent stories that have the power to melt the hardest of hearts. Yet he doesn’t take himself too seriously. He’s wise enough to see that the CEO and the janitor have the same value and that their stories are not only equally important to listen to, but equally important to share as well.
I came away from that hour thinking about all the stories I’ve heard and experienced in my lifetime. In that moment, I began to see the lessons in the stories, and realized that in the sharing of them we become teachers. That someone, somewhere will hear the story and it will move them. It will give them the opportunity to see things differently. If they allow it, it will change them.
The words of Norman Maclean in one of my favorite books “A River Runs through It,” came to my mind:
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.”
I sat and looked out my kitchen window.
We live at the end of a very quiet cul-de-sac. Our neighbors look out for us and we for them. Like in many neighborhoods, we talk over the fence or out on the front walk. We share stories and get to know each other. Often, we are amazed by what we learn from those chats.
In 2019, I planted my first garden. The neighbors to our right had just moved in six months prior. Debby had planted a garden as well. As we were both out watering our prized vegetables, we began to talk for the first time. Fifteen years my senior, she was jealous of how well my garden was growing. We talked about the soil and how well my yard was lit.
As is typical, I began to ask questions. Having a love-hate relationship with people, I am always curious to know their story and try to make a connection with them.
With Debby, it was much easier than I anticipated. Not because she liked to talk, which she did, but because in the end, I learned that she considered her step-dad her real dad and that he was the first cousin of my dad. (My dad’s mom, Nana, came from a family of 10 kids. You can only imagine how many of us in the Gill family there are, and why some of us have never met each other.)
The story became even more ironic when my first cousin from my mom’s side moved in three houses down. I found it humorous that I personified the running joke that everyone in Sweet Home was related to everyone else. Having two cousins, one from each side of my family, living on the same small cul-de-sac as I struck my funny bone.
Sadly, not all the stories are funny.
Our neighbors to the left are such a special couple. Their story, while life changing, is one of loss and love.
Kent and Judy Cherry were like many other couples. They had three young children when they moved into their house in our, then fledgling, neighborhood. They hadn’t been living here long before Judy became extremely ill.
She was an impressive woman.
With four degrees to her name, she was just getting into her dream job as an engineer at Hewlett Packard when she contracted acute disseminated encephalitis, a neurological disorder indicated by brief but widespread attacks of inflammation in the brain and spinal cord that damages myelin, the whitish protective coating over nerves that helps with electrical nerve signaling.
Many with ADEM do not survive.
Judy did.
Unfortunately, she is not, nor will she ever be, the same again.
Now a permanent 8 year old needing constant care, the ADEM caused neurocognitive issues that created difficulties with attention, short-term memory, decision making and processing speed that made returning to her prior levels of functioning impossible.
Kent did the only thing he could do. He retired early to become the full-time caretaker of the love of his life. Financially, it was devastating, but Kent has found a way to make it work. With her mother and sister taking her for a day or two each week, and his now grown children also help out as their lives allow, he gets the breaks he needs to continue the hard work of looking after her and her needs.
He wouldn't have it any other way. It's impossible for him to imagine.
The loss of cognitive function and stature in life often make those who learn the story feel sorry for the Cherrys.
Our perspective, however, is different.
Each day that she is home, she walks her dog to the park and back. She sings and dances all the way, in between giving her puppy and all the neighborhood puppies the rundown of her schedule for the evening and sometimes for the next few days.
Judy's joy, laughter and smile are infectious. Not to mention that we now gauge the arrival of spring by hearing her sing Beatles songs while on her treadmill with her window wide open.
She brings joy to all in her life. She doesn’t remember her life before her illness, more than what she’s told. What she does know, however, she doesn’t allow to keep her down. Her love for her life more than exceeds the most successful of us. The lessons of her story are boundless.
The Cherry’s story isn’t the last on our block.
Clint and Kelly Hess live just on the other side of the Cherrys. Two years ago, their 23 year old daughter, Vanessa, was getting her life together. She had some trouble with Oxycontin due to an accident she had in years previous, and she was coming out the other side.
Nessa, as she is loving called, had made it through the six month probationary period at one of the local mills, earning her orange hat and had started to look for a place of her own.
After one particularly hard day, she came home from work extremely sore. The pain was more than she could handle so she made a pit stop on the way to purchase an Oxy pill. She only bought one, most likely thinking that just one wouldn’t throw her into a relapse.
Unfortunately, no one will ever know. The pill she bought wasn’t Oxycontin after all, but instead it was pure Fentynal. She took the pill and slipped into a warm bath.
Kelly and Clint found her.
They tried to revive her.
They couldn’t.
Twelve days before turning 24, Vanessa lost her life to the Fentyal crisis gripping our nation.
As a mom, the story that unfolded outside my window triggered my very soul. Watching it unfold left me panicked, even though it wasn’t happening to me.
I think about her everyday. I think about Kelly and wonder how she goes on day after day. She has a strength I do not fully understand. What an inspiration!
After an hour with Tom, I realized that Vanessa, Kelly, Judy, Kent, Debby…they all had stories to tell. Alive or not, they still have lessons to teach. Some may be as simple as to open yourself to just talk to people, others are to never take life for granted and be joyful in everything you do.
Some of the harder lessons still aren’t fully clear on what they are teaching us, but they are teaching us just the same.
May we all heed Tom Hallman’s philosophy – the CEO and the janitor have just as much value as the other, and both have a story to tell.
Listen to the stories and heed the lessons!
As I stand at the doorway staring at the abandoned space, I remember my little girl who loved to pose for the camera. Her feet facing me, knees and hips turned slightly to the left and her head aimed up and to the right. She was headed for stardom and she owned it.
