I just had a coincidental moment as I sat down to type, a bit of cosmic harmony. I was deciding where to sit because this week I’m writing on my tablet on the road. Sue and I are hanging out at our little Tahoe cabin.
Unable to settle on a topic by waiting, napping, strolling through the woods again, I decided to just get on with it and start typing. Ideas flow toward the mental magnets of necessity.
The warm afternoon sun was shining between the pines and through our back door onto one chair at the dining room table. I decided to sit there and bask a bit before I began. I turned off Sue’s political news while she was upstairs putting away some towels and turned on Pandora at the TV. I just wanted background music, something not too interruptive. At the top of my stations was Nina Simone, so I gave her a click.
While the first song entered its instrumental opening, I slid back into my sunny seat. Admiring beautiful Nina on my big screen, hearing the silk in her voice, feeling the warmth of the sun and blue sky, taking in the whole scene, realizing it was mid-week, mid-day, and I was freaking retired and at my leisure, all came together to give me a big old warm fuzzy. Horripilation. If I was headed toward some pinnacle in my life, this might be it.
Then came the moment. Nina was singing “Trouble in Mind” by Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and I heard her say this:
Trouble in mind, I’m blue
But I won’t be blue always,
‘Cause the sun’s gonna shine
In my back door someday.

And there I was, living the lyrics. I’d been down a pretty long road myself and felt the same way. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. It was no longer Wednesday, it was someday, and I was in it. I was empathetically engulfed.
You might think that because we are at South Shore and so euphoric, we must be out galavanting around whooping it up and letting it ride on black, but not so. We are finding our contentment doing the little things. Sue is cleaning every crack and corner of the cabin, and I’m repairing the side fence that fell over under the weight of massive snow.
We came up with our kids and their kids for the Memorial Day weekend, then stayed over after everyone went home. We are all alone. We work all day, but the work is easy. Sue supervises laundry with a book and stemmed goblet. I’m out in the backyard staining boards and waving at the endless stream of tourists rolling by on the bike trail out to Camp Richardson.
We do knock off early, as is our privilege. Then we go stepping out. There is some whooping involved. When we are alone, we explore new restaurants and night spots. We like to scout things out. We go by the old adage, “Never take a guest to a new restaurant. Take only friends.”
We ate at Primo’s Italian Bistro, finally. It’s a classy restaurant in a funky strip mall. I’ve been wanting to eat there for years, been hearing good things about it, but it’s difficult to redirect a carload of people with other destinations in mind, and I never pushed the idea because I’d never eaten there myself. I had the lasagna. That’s a true test of a chef’s ability. It was exceptional. I’m bringing the family.
Another night, we stopped for brick oven pizza and craft beer at the new concept tap house, Aleworx, at the Y. It’s unlike any other pub I’ve ever been to. All the beer and wine is self-serve. A wall of taps each with its own tablet screen hangs next to their massive copper plated pizza oven. The taps are open to the customers.
When we walked in, the greeter logged our credit card and gave us wristbands. Waving the band over a tap turned it on and it tracked our ounces. Each time we got a refill, our name would pop up over the logo screen with our running ounce totals. A lot of people I know could use the frequent reminders. Sue really liked it because she’s a sipper. She went for the 2-oz pours. On the patio out back were gas-lit fire places, comfortable rockers, and an amazing solo guitarist.
Now, about that free-floating topic. I was flummoxed because all along I had intended to continue writing about fishing this week. This was to be my virgin outing as a new-born fisherman. I brought my new pole and tackle. I’ve been chomping at the bit.
However, our kids arrived here a day before us and had already fished the Carson River. In my son-in-law Chad’s words, “Useless. Completely blown out. Chocolate milk. Don’t waste your time.” So, I put my pole in the closet and instead of fishing, I’m fence mending.
I realize now sitting here in the sun listening to Simone-style music that it doesn’t really matter if I’m fishing or digging post holes, as long as I’m digging the scene.

Steve Gibbs is a retired Benicia High School teacher who has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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