LOCAL
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2021
THE OBSERVER — A9
VOICES
Going
away to
college
By DIANE LUND
Special to The Observer
In my mind I knew it
was inevitable. That didn’t
stop me from feeling pan-
icky. My daughter was
going to college.
“Mom, hurry up, what’s
taking you so long?” said
Elissa, who stood by the
front door, her suitcase in
hand.
Tinker kept licking her
face. As if he knew she
was leaving.
On her 10th birthday,
Elissa had woken up to fi nd
this brown fl uff y-haired
dog lying on her bed. They
became constant compan-
ions. Tinker would get so
excited when she came
home from school, he’d
jump up and down beg-
ging for a treat. A neighbor
promised to take care of
Tinker until I came back.
Dousing my coff ee in the
sink, I reluctantly grabbed
the car keys. Two heavy
boxes, nearly everything
Elissa owned, were in the
back seat. I took the wheel.
Neither of us spoke for
the longest time. Finally, I
broke the silence.
“I’m going to miss you
terribly,” I said.
“Mom, you’ll be fi ne,”
she replied. “You have so
many friends. Maybe you’ll
meet someone special.”
I shrugged. Those
weren’t the words I wanted
to hear.
When we reached the
Mount Shasta Viewpoint,
Elissa climbed into the
driver’s seat.
“Don’t take those curves
too fast,” I warned her.
She sped off . Tightening
my seat belt, I knew it was
useless to say anything.
Elissa had a mind of her
ANYONE CAN WRITE
Make Time.
Get your
Mammogram.
Nearly 40 years in the business have taught me that readers are bom-
barded 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 fi nd and write sto-
ries 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
newspaper. He’s also a writing coach and has an affi nity for Union County.
own, an eloquent mind like
her father.
Elissa had been the
center of my life since
the day she was born. I
adored her. Every time she
did something new, like
learning to tie her tennis
shoes, I’d buy something
special, a book or a doll.
Now our time together
was drifting away like the
sand on the beach. In a few
short days, she’d be on her
own. And unfortunately,
so would I.
I had urged Elissa to
choose a college outside
of Oregon. Not wanting
to inhibit her life the way
my mother had. Always
checking up on me.
Wanting to know where
I’d been, who my friends
were. Never trusting me to
make my own decisions.
Questioning me all the
time. Until I couldn’t take
it any longer and moved
out.
Elissa deserved her
freedom, unencumbered
by me who wanted to con-
trol her life.
We had done the college
circuit tour the year before.
Visiting the campuses of
Pomona, Scripps, Occi-
dental and Santa Clara.
She chose Santa Clara.
A Catholic school. In
northern California. As I
pulled into the parking lot,
we looked at each other.
She looked glorious. A
cold sweat ran down my
face. I helped her unload,
carrying the boxes to her
dorm room.
I drove home the next
morning. Expecting to
hear my daughter’s voice
on my answering machine.
But there were no mes-
sages. My heart ached.
Walking into her bed-
room, I opened the blinds.
Everything was gone. Her
clothes, all her makeup,
her boom box.
Then, out of the corner
of my eye, I saw her teddy
bear. Lying on her bed, its
beady eyes smiling at me.
I cuddled it in my arms,
crying softly. The yellow
and white fur around its
nose had long ago worn
away.
The phone rang. “Mom,
are you OK? I haven’t
heard from you and was
worried something might
have happened.”
“I thought you were too
busy to call,” I said.
“Mom, you’ll always be
in my life. I love you,” she
replied.
When Elissa came home
the following summer, I
was thrilled. We spent sev-
eral hours sorting through
her old clothes and books
in the garage. Tucked
underneath her Sunset
High School yearbook was
the teddy bear.
“Remember this?” I
said, dusting it off . “It’s
yours now. A token of my
love.”
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