My three siblings and I lined up in the main hallway of our parents’ home for the last time. We stared with affection and amusement at “the infamous wall of fame.”

We had spent the week after Mom’s funeral emptying the house, and the only items left to decide on were the family pictures hanging in front of us. The images brought tears to our eyes, special memories to our consciousness and disbelief that we’d ever looked so young. My brother commented that it looked like a history of 50 years of hairdos.

As I reached for the only picture on the wall that I wanted, my brother said, “well, here it comes.” He was right, and I had to convince my younger sister that it was my picture, even though it was of her daughter. After checking the backside where Mom had written, “belongs to Melanie,” the painting came home to me and joined my family photos on my “wall of fame.”

The hand-painted portrait of my niece had haunted me for over 40 years. It is significant because the person who painted it was one of my very first students. I have always wondered what happened to her. Over the years, I’d checked Facebook and online sources but had never seen a hint of her existence.

When I graduated from Whitworth College in 1971, I accepted my first teaching job as a business education teacher at a small high school in Southwest Washington. Halfway through the first semester, a 15-year-old student named Jackie came into my classroom after school. She sat down and hesitantly told me that she was working in a local store for her room and board.

A closet at the back of the store was her bedroom. She explained that she was afraid because the store owner had recently made inappropriate advances toward her, and she didn’t know what to do. She said she couldn’t tell her father who lived in Texas because he couldn’t support her.

I had no idea how to help Jackie or what to say. In the 1970s, teacher training had not included spotting abuse and mandatory reporting. I reached out, took her hand, and said I’d find out how to help her. I told her to stay with a girlfriend that night and to see me the next day.

It was almost 5 p.m. when I left the school building. I walked across the street to the Methodist Church and talked to the minister about the situation. He listened and then called his wife, and we went to his house for dinner. After repeating the story to his wife, the three of us discussed some possible options. The minister said that he would get back to me the next day.

The minister and his wife came up with a surprising solution. They took Jackie into their home, where she lived for the next two years. She became an older sister to their young sons. I became a frequent guest at the minister’s dinner table, and we all became close friends. Jackie turned out to be a fantastic artist and sold her paintings to earn money. She painted the picture of my niece from a wallet size photo I had on my desk.

After high school, Jackie moved back to Texas, the minister and his wife moved to another church, and I took a job at a community college in another town. I lost track of Jackie; however, I’ve always wondered what happened to her. Each time I visited my parents, I’d pause in front of the “infamous wall of fame,” look at the portrait and wonder what had become of its painter.

Recently I made an astonishing discovery. The dental assistant at the dental office I’ve gone to for 40 years is one of my former high school students. She told me that her sister-in-law had maintained a friendship with another of my former high school students. When this student came to visit, she had asked about me. The student turned out to be Jackie.

I called Jackie, and when she came to visit her friend that Fall, we met for lunch in a local restaurant. Once we sat down to eat, Jackie explained that when she had moved back to Texas, she had gone back to using her given name, which explained why I could never find her. She also said that she’d given up painting and that her children had never seen any of the art she’d created and sold as a teenager. The copy of the picture of my niece was the first picture of hers that they had seen.

Jackie looked across the table in the restaurant and said, “My children and husband know your name and know how you saved me. You have always been part of my family’s story.” Her statement made me cry. Jackie told me that she had gone to college, married a successful engineer and had two lovely bright daughters. She had grandchildren. We now talk on Facebook and share stories.

Today when I walk through my own family room and see Jackie’s picture on my “wall of fame,” I’m no longer haunted by her painting because I know the rest of her story.

Nearly 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 Observer will be running, from time to time, stories from students who are in my writing class, which I’ve been teaching for the past 10 years in Portland.

I take great satisfaction in helping so-called nonwriters find and write stories from their lives and experiences. They walk into my room believing they don’t 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 are at our core.

Some of these stories have nothing to do with La Grande or Union County. They do, however, have everything to do with life.

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

Tom Hallman Jr.

tbhbook@aol.com

Tom Hallman Jr. is a Pulitzer Prize-winning feature writer for The Oregonian. He’s also a writing coach and has an affinity for Union County.