The Green Purse
Wind had wedged a tattered black and white umbrella under a huge piece of charred driftwood covered with graffiti, that upon previous readings, proved uninteresting.
Elmer and I were cruising our regular stretch of Coos Bay beach at 6:30 in the morning. Low tide exposed acres of mud flats and the clam hounds would be digging soon.
The umbrella spooked Elmer so we gave it a wide berth. On our return leg, we approached the piece of driftwood from the other side and I noticed something resting near it, at precisely where high tide had reached six hours ago.
I investigated. I picked up a green zippered purse in excellent condition and opened it.
Everything dry and neatly arranged. I inventoried the contents without any extrication: toiletries, cosmetics, Leatherman tool, phone charger, drug delivery devices, plastic bag of cannabis, pens, a folded piece of paper with writing, and an Oregon ID. I observed only the face on the ID and vaguely recognized it as a homeless woman seen frequently around Empire the last six months. Much had happened to that face since the ID was issued, if indeed this was the same woman.
I could have removed the ID and learned the woman’s name and age, but did not. I zippered the purse and placed it atop the piece of driftwood. Maybe she would come searching for it. It also occurred to me that she purposely left the purse behind at high tide, right around midnight, and walked into Coos Bay for a private euthanasia of hypothermia. At least her family, if she had any, might know how her life ended.
A few months ago, I would have taken the purse with me, examined its contents thoroughly, and tried to find the owner. I had made three previous (unsuccessful) such attempts, two in Portland, the other Coos Bay.
Elmer and I walked away. Clam hounds were gearing up. The smell of cannabis drifted on the air. An osprey flew overhead with a writhing eel clutched in its beak.
Something has left me concerning the crisis of homelessness and the absence worries me.
The next morning, Elmer and I descended to the same bay beach. It was enveloped in fog—visibility less than a hundred yards. The osprey was feeding her chirping chicks in a nest constructed in a channel marker.
We approached the piece of the driftwood. The umbrella had disappeared. The purse had not. I picked it up, stuffed it inside a coat pocket, and Elmer and I performed our sandy shtick.
A couple hundred yards later down the beach, I sat down at a picnic table that had miraculously appeared here a month ago. Elmer sniffed around while I opened the purse and began a thorough inspection of the contents.
The woman’s name is Shannon Adair. (I use Shannon’s real name here in case someone searching for her online might happen across this newsletter/blog post. Perhaps they will contact me.)
Born October 7th, 1981. 5’3,” 123 pounds. Roseburg address. Anatomical donor. Issued October 2006. Expired 2014. Not a driver’s license.
I unfolded the piece of paper. The undated letter read:
Shannon
Good morning. Didn’t know it was so bad to answer the door. Not trying to harass you. Just need to talk. Shenna and Cynde have both been trying to get a hold of you. I have no way of getting a hold of you. I’ve called 20 times in the last few days to relay a message. He must really have something on you. The dope has won again. You are with another piece of shit.
I’m leaving today. Not sure where I’m going. The woman I’ve adored forever and loved so much is gone. I won’t bother calling or looking for you. Gone for good. Out of this shithole. Away from these reckless people.
Your daughters love you very much. Reach out to them. They need you. Don’t bring another man to Lilly’s graduation. It would hurt her bad.
I will always remember our great times together and our wonderful family. Oh how I miss it so so much.
You will always be on my mind. Love you forever and ever. You will always mean so much to me. We’ve gone through so much. I wish you could have loved me like I loved you.
Take care my love.
Be happy and keep smiling.
Love always Sean
Questions about Shannon and the purse fell like an avalanche on my mind, far too many to list here. Doubtless, the reader has many of the same questions.
Back home, I spent 15 minutes searching on the internet—nothing except advertisements to pay for public records and a possible presence on Facebook. I couldn’t probe the latter because I don’t belong.
Perhaps I will run into Shannon Adair and reunite her with the letter. She hung onto it for some reason, and to me that portends hope.
So, I guess I’m not done yet.