HELLO. I AM A RETIRED SCHOOL TEACHER. I hung up my red pen as of Friday. This is my first weekend as a free agent. I guess the term “weekend” is now passé as Tuesday is as good as Saturday.

I began this weekly column 30 years ago when I started teaching here in Benicia. I figured it would give me a creative outlet, connect me to the community, and keep my writing sharp so when I taught it I would know of what I spoke. If you’ve been a long-time reader, you’ve followed me through my entire teaching career from back in the days of Editor Bob Silva and Principal Laura Stevenson.

Stay with me going forward and you’ll find out what sort of mischief I get into now that I’m no longer a role model.

I still have my first column under plastic, in a book, under a pile of other memorabilia, in a box, in the garage, on a top shelf, behind a battery charger. The 300-word column is called “First-step-o-phobia,” and it is about beginning long endeavors like a weekly newspaper column and becoming a school teacher at the age of 30. I offered up the standard solution, the one I got as a wee lad: hold your nose, close your eyes, and jump.

In my career I have got to know quite well about 3,500 teenagers, having spent as much as 180 hours with each and every one of them. That equates to almost eight 24-hour days together. Now that I think of it, while I was running the Backpacking Club for 15 years, each spring I did spend eight additional 24-hour days with dozens of kids, the equivalent of an entire school year.

Roughly double the number of kids and you get the number of parents I’ve had the opportunity to meet over the years. Add them all together and I know 10,000 people. Wow. Retirement is going to be quiet in comparison.

Susan’s down the hall taking an afternoon nap. She too is a retired school teacher. We went out together, her after 25 years. If you add in the number of students, parents, and political compatriots Susan has interacted with over the years and combine them with mine, you can understand why we have never made it to the city Christmas tree in time for the lighting. Instead, we stop to say hello every few feet. The lights come on in the distance. We like it like that.

Now, each Christmas, slowly, year after year, fewer and fewer young folks will be yelling, “Hello, Mr. Gibbs! Hi, Mrs. Gibbs!” Gradually, subtly, we will drift into obscurity. Then the day will come where we will be standing right in front of the big tree when the lights come on. That will be an odd and melancholy benchmark, but it’s as it should be. If you see us standing there, please say hello.

A hundred people have asked me this spring, “So, what are your plans?” A hundred times I had no answer beyond a shrug, and an “I don’t know, travel, read, rest” reply. However, now that it’s upon me, an interest is materializing out of the haze. I shall learn to cook.

What better use of my time can there be than feeding myself? Why should I remain dependent on restaurants for fine dining? I can cook at home and make sure all my ingredients are glyphosate free. I may take a class. Sauces are calling me. I will most assuredly be going to every barbecue and chili cook-off I can find, and perhaps I will even compete. I hanker to pit my ribs in a pit.

If I begin cooking, I will create another problem that will be a joy to solve. Who will eat all my cooking? Susan? Just the two of us? Hmm. How can I experiment with a plethora of recipes with only two eaters? The solution is of course to remain a social animal and throw more dinner parties. I plan to do that as well.

Today I entered my cluttered garage for the first time as a retired man. It was the classic confrontation — man versus garage — except now, for once, the mess did not elicit a sigh, but rather a grin. I stretched my arms in a gesture of embrace.

At last, hallelujah, at long last, I have the time for minute tinkering. I spent an enjoyable hour sorting through my junk drawers, extricating, organizing, categorizing, relocating, and chucking. I sorted washers, nuts, bolts, screws, and nails while listening to Van Morrison’s new “Duets” album. When I was finished, there was no obvious evidence of my accomplishments. The garage was still a mess. Only I saw the oasis. On some future day I shall return to the garage and tidy up another corner, listening to another album.

Tomorrow I plan to drive to the store and buy some tinfoil. Then I’ll be done for the day.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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