Coos Bay Memorial and Celebration

I arrived 15 minutes early to Coos Bay’s Homeless Persons’ Memorial and Celebration and remained inside my vehicle to observe a small gathering outside the door to the basement of the Harmony United Methodist Church. Other such Memorial and Celebrations, billed as “An annual event near the longest night of the year, to recognize those who died unnecessarily as a consequence of homelessness,” were occurring all across the nation. I had never attended one before.

The Coos Bay event was serving a free meal, staging an open mic for music and poetry, giving away clothes, foodstuffs, toiletries, camping supplies, homemade alters, and holding a raffle and candlelight vigil.

I was there to pay my respects and to better understand what was happening in my community to address the crisis of homelessness.

Light rain fell and every minute I waited, another homeless man or woman walked or pedaled up on a bicycle, several accompanied by dogs, several towing makeshift trailers of ingenious invention piled high with possessions or returnable cans and bottles.

The person who intrigued me the most was a woman in her 20s, attired like Elmer Fudd on a winter hunt, who was carrying a classical guitar by the neck. I was dying to hear her play and possibly sing. What song would she play? What song meant the most to her? I felt certain if she could still play the guitar, let alone perform in public, there must be hope for her to get off the streets, or in the case of most of the homeless in Coos Bay, out of of the woods.

The appointed hour arrived and a volunteer opened the door. I waited a few more minutes and then went inside with my notebook.

I found a large circular table, sat down, and surveyed the basement. Homeless people and members of my community streamed in steadily. The room was filling up and the meal was being served: hot dogs, mac and cheese, iceberg lettuce salad. Americana comfort food that smelled pretty damn good.

An older man with a guitar strapped on was performing a sound check on a quality PA. I noticed a whiteboard that read OPEN MIC SIGN UP. Not a single person had signed up.

Was I going to have sign up and get things rolling? In a church basement with homeless people devouring hot dogs and mac and cheese? I’d gigged several hundred open mics in my Oregon literary lifetime, and once gigged a senior center where they served hot dogs with mac and cheese. You talk about a tough room to play!

I didn’t want to perform. I hadn’t played my guitar in months and find it personally unsettling to perform in connection to homelessness. I’d performed two such gigs in the past few years and swore I’d never do another one.

But someone had to get up there! I could rip through some of my originals or cover the greatest rock song about homelessness in America, “Rockin’ In the Free World,” by Neil Young. I’d belt out that anthem and seize the joint! Damn the hot dogs! Full speed ahead!

I continued my surveillance. A large reproduction of the Last Supper hung on one wall. The clothing and camping supplies give-away was going strong. Two elderly homeless woman emerged from the give-away holding stuffed animals. They’d be sleeping in the woods tonight, it would be cold and raining, and they’d be hugging stuffed animals.

I imagined this basement 30 or 40 years ago. The congregation probably held a Christmas pageant. Now the basement hosted events to help the homeless survive. That about sums up what’s happened to my country since Ronald Reagan ended his second term.

Guitar man ended his sound check. I noticed two names on the whiteboard. Thank God! No gigging for me.

I got up to walk around the room. I asked questions of a few volunteers. Apparently 12 people in Coos Bay died in 2025 of causes related to homelessness and their names were written on an colorful arch constructed of cardboard. The real number was probably triple that. At least these 12 had someone to take the initiative and remember them. I suspect many homeless people do not. Many might die totally nameless.

A fake Christmas tree twinkled. A few kids ran around with their eyes all aglow. More people entered the basement. I did a quick head count—close to 60.

I returned to my table and wrote a few notes. The two women holding stuffed animals passed by me. They were zigzagging around the basement.

A young homeless man sat down next to me. He was sorting through items snagged from the give-away. He seemed almost mute so I didn’t engage. His stench nearly knocked me over but I didn’t leave.

Guitar man announced the start of open mic. I could barely hear him over the din of the hot dog feast. He began playing a song, an original he called “Bears.” I tuned him in and listened. What a song! It contained various lines of wordplay on the bare/bear homophone and I was mesmerized by its cleverness and appeal to save wilderness for bears and bear down upon their behalf.

He played one song and then introduced a poet.

An elderly man emerged from the wings and went to the microphone. He was not homeless. He began reading an epic poem in a resounding voice about homelessness in American history. The poem concluded and then he began another, this one about volunteering at a sanctioned homeless encampment in Florence that was recently shut down.

The poet utterly commanded the room. He finished the second poem and was done. A true open mic pro. Always leave them wanting more, especially if hot dogs are being served.

I saw guitar woman roaming around but never saw her sign up to perform. I sat at the table for a half an hour, writing, thinking, watching the homeless interact with one another and exhibiting the unique camaraderie I’ve often overhead when they get together—a camaraderie I suspect originated from shared survival, being a refugee in your own country.