The Coffeehouse Chronicles: The Oregon Incident(s)

Good morning, Chroniclers.

Yes, I said good morning with confidence—despite the fact that I had just survived what can only be described as the Great Western Region Rally Extravaganza, featuring equal parts camaraderie, chaos, and airborne pollen intent on personally ending me.

The regional rally shenanigans are, at long last, over. And like any respectable gathering of caffeinated enthusiasts, it had everything: announcements, mild disasters, suspicious pastry theft, and at least one person who treated group photos like they were part of an international witness protection program.

Let’s begin with the headline news: we have ourselves a brand-new director. Rick Lewis. That’s right. Fresh leadership for the Western Region, and we are all genuinely excited for him to take the wheel for the next two years. I even shook his hand with what I hoped looked like confidence, but was actually me trying not to sneeze directly into his soul. Oregon, you see, is made primarily of trees, grass, and microscopic particles of betrayal.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Day One: The Case of the Vanishing Earring

The very first day we arrived in Oregon, Yoko managed to lose her earring. Not misplace. Not “set it down somewhere safe.” No, this earring embarked on a solo spiritual journey somewhere along one of her walks (we located it 3 days later in her coach).

Now, Yoko walks a lot. I mean, a lot. One might even say she walks with purpose. She walks with intention. She walks so frequently that I’m convinced she’s personally inspecting every tree in Oregon for quality control. And yet, somehow, during one of these perfectly normal strolls, an earring made its escape.

We retraced steps. We scanned the ground. At one point, I considered interrogating a shrub. Nothing.

The search finally ended when she found it inside her motor home in the bedroom.

And honestly? Watching her power-walk through life while I struggle to keep up was exhausting enough. Losing jewelry felt like an unnecessary subplot, but here we were—living it.

It's like herding cats, I tell you.

The Photo That Almost Was (Twice)

Naturally, we tried to capture a club photo. This is tradition. You gather everyone, pretend you like each other just enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and then immortalize the moment.

Simple, right?

Wrong.

We tried once. Failed. People were missing.

We tried again. Still failed.

There was, shall we say, a particular individual who was notably absent from both attempts. I won’t name names… but her initials are basically a confession. Let’s just say if you rearranged her initials, you might get something like “Elizabeth Gertrude Hemingway” (née MacGilicuddy), yes, she has the same maiden name as Lucy’s character, a secret that I promised to go to my grave with, but she has skipped out on one photo op too many.

Camera shy? Possibly. Strategically avoiding documentation? Highly likely.

Meanwhile, My Lungs Resigned

Now, some of you may already know that your humble narrator suffers from allergies. And when I say allergies, I mean I am on a first-name basis with antihistamines and have considered bubble-wrapping myself during spring.

Oregon… is full of pollen.

Not “there’s a bit in the air” full. More like “the air is pollen, and we’re all just visiting” full.

At one point, I experienced what I can only describe as an aggressive disagreement with oxygen. Breathing became optional, then aspirational. We tried to locate some albuterol, but—plot twist—it requires a prescription. And my doctor, much like common sense, was not available on the weekend.

So I persevered. Heroically. Dramatically. With occasional wheezing sound effects.

Despair was evident on Aaron's and my face

The Donut Incident (A Tragedy in Several Acts)

Now we arrive at what history will undoubtedly record as The Donut Incident.

Aaron—bless him—had offered me a donut for dessert after our meal. A shining beacon of hope. A sugary promise. A reason to believe in humanity again.

I held onto that promise for 350 miles.

Three hundred. And. Fifty. Miles.

We finally arrived in Red Bluff, tired, hungry, emotionally fragile—and ready to claim the donuts.

They were gone.

Gone.

Not misplaced. Not hiding. Gone.

Someone had absconded with the donuts.

At this point, a confidential and highly placed reliable informant informed me that the suspect list was very short.

Now, naturally, I asked the important question:

“Do you mean the list is short… or the person on it is short?” A valid question, I thought. I had my old leatherbound field notebook at the ready, ballpoint pen poised for more details. If you're looking for physical descriptors of a suspect, you have to ask the pressing questions.

I was told that, either way, we could probably eliminate the need to search for the suspect on basketball courts.

“Hmmmmmm…” I thought to myself.

At that point, I stopped asking questions and began mourning chocolatety, doughy goodness.

The Long Drive South (Featuring Mild Abandonment)

Eventually, it was time to head home. Sunday had arrived, and the desert was calling my name—mostly because it contains significantly less pollen and far fewer emotional betrayals by pastries.

Yoko—yes, that Yoko—decided she was going to run off solo. Just like that. Off she went, like a spin-off series nobody was fully prepared for.

This left the Professor piloting southbound I-5 by himself. And I must say, he did a pretty solid job. Confident driving. Minimal panic. Only occasional existential sighing.

Meanwhile, I found myself ruling my mobile palace in the driver's seat… alone.

My so-called “passenger princess” has a remarkable talent for falling asleep immediately. Every. Single. Time.

I’d look over, ready to share a thought, a joke, a profound realization—and there she was. Gone. Dreamland. Completely unavailable for commentary.

It was just me, the road, and the distant memory of donuts.

Closing Thoughts

And so, Chroniclers, we survived. Barely.

We welcomed new leadership, lost an earring to the wilderness (actually, the wilderness of the motor home), failed spectacularly at group photos, endured airborne plant attacks, and uncovered what may be the greatest pastry heist of our time.

Would I do it all again?

You betcha. But next time, I’m guarding the donuts with my life.

Until next time, Chroniclers— do what you do best.

Drink ’em if you got ’em.

#coffeehousechronicles