For several months I have been puzzled when driving past a derelict shack in Charleston on the Cape Arago Highway to the ocean beach. Why?

Because of the unusual nature of firewood resting on a strip of gravel in front of the shack, which has a narrow overgrown, somewhat lengthy set of crumbling stairs leading up to the domicile. There is no driveway to the shack.

One morning there will be rounds ready for splitting. A day later the rounds are gone, presumably split into firewood for the shack’s occupant. Another morning, pallets stacked and ready for breaking up. A day later, pallets gone. And yet another morning, split firewood and busted pallets strewn about.

I have never seen anyone drop off rounds or pallets. I have never seen anyone splitting rounds or breaking up the pallets. I have never seen anyone transporting the firewood to the shack, although there is a rusted wheelbarrow present that someone presumably uses to bring the firewood inside the shack or to store in a wood bin. Near the wheelbarrow rests an ancient metal pail but it’s being used in some capacity because it is never in the same place but always upright. There is never an ax or splitting maul around.

Many houses situated on Cape Arago Highway sell firewood to the thousands of visitors to the various campgrounds in the area. This Charleston shack is not one of them because the split firewood is never bundled or advertised.

It all made no sense until the other day when it made perfect sense.

Elmer and I were returning from a windy outing at the beach and as we drove past the place of firewood mystery, I saw an obviously homeless woman accompanied by her small dog near a woodpile that had significantly decreased in size since we’d driven past it an hour ago. The woman had the unmistakable appearance of someone who had performed physical labor, like hauling firewood. The wheelbarrow was nowhere to be seen.

Then I got it.

Someone drops off rounds and pallets in front of the shack. The occupant of the shack is unable to split the rounds or break up the pallets for some reason, probably extreme old age combined with some infirmity. The occupant has entered into an arrangement with the homeless of Charleston (and there are about a dozen regulars who routinely walk or ride bicycles past the shack) to turn the donations into firewood and transport it up the stairs in the wheelbarrow to the shack, either inside or to a wood bin. The occupant pays the homeless for their service.

A far fetched hypothesis? Hardly.

One of the most intriguing aspects of the crisis of homelessness I have observed are the long-term relationships formed between homeless people and housed residents who regularly interact with each other. I’ve seen it all around the state and have routinely witnessed it in my Coos Bay neighborhood. What I am talking about goes a lot further than handing out bottled water or energy bars.

For example, several blocks from my house, a homeowner lets a homeless man service/repair his ancient school bus in a detached outbuilding stocked with tools. Another homeowner allows several homeless people to pitch a tent in a side yard.

I knew of a homeowner in Portland who allowed a homeless man in a truck camper to run an extension cord to the rig so he could have power and charge his tools for handyman work. I also heard a story from a homeless man in Portland how one homeowner set up an old video game console on his front porch and invited homeless people to play for a couple hours each afternoon.

In some of the cases, the generosity of the homeowner was abused by the homeless and the generosity in that situation ended.

As for myself, readers of my writing about homelessness know I established a book club for the homeless men and women in my Portland neighborhood and it turned into one the most rewarding and enlightening experiences of my life. (See The Old Crow Book Club.) Moreover, I hired members of this club to help me stage a garage sale and move to Coos Bay. There were also paid to deliver the book to street libraries all over southeast Portland.

I just published a collection of Christmas tales about the homeless in Oregon, Gift of the Oregon Magi, that contains many stories where housed people help the homeless and vice versa. You can support that book by purchasing a copy directly from Nestucca Spit Press at www.nestuccaspitpress.com or via Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FR4TDMFR

The title tale is based on a homeless couple I met in Gold Beach when I lived there that performed a series of services, landscaping, cleaning gutters, and yes, splitting firewood, for elderly shut-ins.

A lot more needs to be written on this subject. There is a unique and possibly great book in it. If you have stories of this nature, either personal or anecdotal, please reach out to me. I want to start collecting them.

At sunrise on what would have been my dad’s 94^th birthday, I saw a rainbow over Coos Bay. One normally thinks of rainbow as bright, lithe, curving. Not this rainbow. It was blunted, fat and misshapen, which made it right at home in Coos Bay.

Elmer and I stood on the bay beach, the water a sheen of orange and purple, when the rainbow materialized like out of a corny magic show. The tide was rippling in, making soft sounds. Three pelicans, mostly white, put in an appearance. They were the first of their species I’d seen on Coos Bay and had no reason to be there this time of year.

I had never seen a rainbow at sunrise, Has anyone? I’d never read of such a phenomenon in poetry or prose. Do they actually exist and especially when no rain whatsoever had fallen when Elmer and I walked the mile from our home to the beach. So not only was the rainbow weirdly formed, it shouldn’t have even existed at all.

No, I didn’t take a picture of it with my phone. I never carry the phone on our morning walks.

As more light rose from the east, the rainbow began to fade into the horizon.

What was this all about?