Hallman's Voices

In an effort to further our role as a community voice and teacher, the Shelton-Mason County Journal is partnering with Tom Hallman Jr., a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author who writes for The Oregonian in Portland, with a series of community voice stories that will occasionally appear in the Journal. Our first few stories will be from Hallman’s students, but it it’s our hope that as your read these stories, it will inspire our readers to write about their own life and submit those stories to the paper that we might print them and give rise to the many voices of area. Please feel to reach out to Journal Editor Justin Johnson, [email protected], or Tom Hallman, [email protected], any time with questions and to learn more.

Meet Tom Hallman Jr.

More than 40 years in the business have taught me that readers are bombarded and overwhelmed with facts. What we long for, though, is meaning and a connection at a deeper and more universal level. And that’s why the Shelton-Mason County Journal will be running, from time to time, stories from students who are in my writing classes, which I’ve been teaching for the past 20 years in Portland, Oregon.

I take great satisfaction in helping so-called nonwriters find and write stories from their lives and experiences. Most people don’t believe they have what it takes to be a writer. I remind them if they follow their hearts, they will discover they are storytellers, as we all at our core.

These stories have nothing to do with the news of the day. They do, however, have everything to do with life.

If you are interested in telling your story, I’d like to hear from you.

Tom Hallman Jr.

[email protected]

A grandmother’s gift given in love causes a stink

Fish stories are well-known as vessels for exaggeration. The subject is usually the size of the fish: it is always bigger in the telling than it was in the catching.

Maybe every family has a fish story. Ours happened more than 50 years ago. It can still elicit a suppressed snorty giggle from me or my sister, who lived it with me.

Kathryn and I were both college students in Madison, WI when we were invited, well actually, ordered, to attend a family celebration in Philadelphia. All my parents’ Philadelphia friends were invited to a giant party, as well as all the second and third cousins who were able to get to Philly from various cities on the East Coast.

Celebration in my family meant food. A lot of food.

At that time, Grandma Polly, our father’s mother, was still alive. Much of the food was ordered from various caterers, but Polly took charge of the biggest, most beautiful item on the buffet: a giant salmon, served cold.

The fish was beautiful to behold, but there was a great deal of it. My parents’ guests were more interested in drinks (alcoholic) and sweets (abundant) than in cold salmon. There was a lot left over.

My sister and I had limited time to spend in Philadelphia. A couple of days after the party, we packed up to head back to college.

I thought our packing was complete and we were ready to head for the airport when Grandma Polly appeared with a very large, wrapped box tied up with string. Polly stood 4 foot 9 inches, but she had a commanding presence.

“You need to take with you on the plane,” said Polly in her accented English. “You don’t get good food at that college.”

“What is this, Grandma?”

“It’s from the party. The fish. I made the leftovers into fish cakes for you. You share with your sister.”

I demurred. We were late. We didn’t have room. Grandma Polly insisted. “Enough is enough,” she said. “Take the package!”

We had just enough time to head for the airport to catch our flight. There was no time to argue with Polly, and arguing with Polly was usually futile in any case. I grabbed the package, kissed the remaining relatives, gave Polly a goodbye hug and left.

These were the good old days before there was much if any airport security. No one cared about our well-wrapped carry-on package as we headed for our gate and boarded the flight to O’Hare.

The flight was not long, maybe an hour and a half. We were to change in Chicago to a small propeller flight to Madison, but there was a nice big comfortable jet from Philly to Chicago.

We had been flying for about an hour when Kathryn nudged me.

“I smell fish,” she said. “It smells STRONG! What did you do with Grandma’s salmon?”

“It’s under the seat in front of me,” I whispered. We looked around to see if anyone else was noticing a peculiar odor. The other passengers appeared to be relaxed. I didn’t see anyone looking at us.

“Don’t worry about it,” I reassured my younger sister. “No one else can smell it.”

Just then I heard a ping: someone was calling the stewardess.

The stewardess stopped by the seat in front of us and had a conversation with another passenger. We couldn’t hear what it was about. But we had certain suspicions.

The stewardess gave our row a hard look. But just then, the fasten seatbelt light came on and the captain began announcing our descent into Chicago. The stewardess headed up the aisle. Kathryn and I looked at each other and grinned a few surreptitious grins. Saved.

We got off the plane at O’Hare and navigated our way to the gate for the small plane flight for Madison. A mob of people milled around. The flight was significantly delayed.

I parked the fish package under a seat in the waiting area. Kathryn and I wandered around the terminal a bit. When we returned to the gate, a further delay was announced. There were thunderstorms in the area.

I surveyed the waiting area. A mass of travelers, many of them returning students like us, were crowding around the boarding gate. There was only one place without a lot of passengers: the area around the chair under which I had stashed the salmon. That was empty. As we approached it, the reason was no mystery.

Kathryn and I discussed whether we could dispose of the package in a nearby garbage can. Although she would never know what we had done, something about dumping our grandmother’s cooking in an airport did not sit well with us. We didn’t want to throw out the salmon cakes. And we were worried that the airport authorities would not take kindly to our very large smelly package being left to them.

Were this a Victorian novel, there would have been clear guidance on what must be done with our smelly salmon cakes. It was clear. We needed to make full confession to the authorities and ask them for a proper place to dispose of stinky fish.

But it was not obvious to us. Instead, when boarding for our little prop plane was finally called and the empty area around the chair with our package underneath was significantly large, we scooped up the package and raced to the front of the line.

I am sorry to say that we took the most cowardly way out: we put the package underneath a middle seat. Not in our row. And we moved ourselves quickly and without being noticed by others, to a distant row.

For the entire 40 minutes of the flight, Kathryn and I heard the discussion as it moved from row to row:

“What IS that smell?”

“Where is the STINK coming from?”

“That is really disgusting!”

“Some people NEVER bathe…”

And so it went. I’m ashamed to say that we joined in. “Tsk tsk”, we said, “ some people!”

We were last off the plane. I scooped up the package. I was not about to put it in a taxi from the airport to my apartment. Grandma’s fish cakes ended in a trash can at Madison’s then-tiny airport.

Grandma Polly, I know you meant only the best for us. But as you would have said, enough is enough.

Tom Hallman Jr. is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author. He’s been on staff at The Oregonian for more than 35 years and has published several books. His journalism and nonfiction narrative stories explore the significance of big moments and small and their impact on a life.