Sometimes You’ve Just Got to Do It

This time I was not going to sit alone and feel left out

I did something ballsy on Sunday. I pushed myself out the door to sing at an open mic. I was tempted to stay home. I was feeling achy again—anxiety, chemical imbalance, lousy sleep? I don’t know, but I had practiced, and I told myself I could not back out this time. In fact, instead of eating lunch at home and rushing to get to this coffee shop in Waldport, I decided I would eat there, too, even though I had no idea if they even had real food.

But that’s not the ballsy part. I have done oodles of open mics over the years. If you don’t know anyone, it doesn’t matter because you’re all facing the same challenge, getting up on that stage alone with a hot mic and shaky hands. It’s the waiting by yourself that gets nerve-wracking.

It wasn’t ordering a turkey sandwich and a “ginormous” iced tea either.

Having ordered at the counter, I looked around. It’s a nice place, expanded since I saw it a year or two ago on a quick caffeine run. Now there’s a real stage and another room filled with artwork.

I was early, but the regulars had already gathered. The only person I recognized was someone I don’t see much anymore. There was a blowup that never really healed. She was sitting with a group and did not invite me to join them. Fine.

I saw a man about my age sitting alone at a two-top just beyond their table. Here’s the ballsy part.

Normally, I would sit by myself and hope someone I knew would show up and join me. I’d feel like everybody was watching me sit alone, poor woman with no friends. This time I said to myself, F--- that.

I asked if I could join him. He said, “Sure.” I placed my plastic order number next to his. We ate and waited together to be called onto the stage. His name was Allen, and he had a Martin guitar, similar to mine. We talked about this and that and mostly just kept each other company. I learned he was married and worked as a respiratory therapist at the hospital. In other words, he was a regular guy with a guitar.

And I was a girl with a guitar that has some dust under the strings.

One other thing I don’t normally do is sit up front because I want to be able to escape if I get restless, but this table was within spitting distance of the performers. For once, I had a perfect view and was able to hear everything.

More and more people came in, many carrying guitars. I knew some of them. One woman looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know who she was until she introduced herself. It was Janey, one of the caregivers who took care of my husband during his Alzheimer’s days. She looked different. Hell, I look different after so many years. She hugged me hard.

Janey was a big help during that difficult time. She gave up caregiving, ran a secondhand clothing store for a few years, and now she works at a nursery, indulging her love of plants.

She seemed to know everyone at the open mic. She flitted from table to table, singing along with the music. She is a bright spirit, and I hope to see her again soon.

My tablemate was the second person on stage, juggling harmonica, guitar and vocals with trembling hands. He wasn’t bad, although it was hard to hear him over the loud conversations and the coffee shop noises.

My estranged friend was next, and she was fantastic. People finally hushed to listen to her rich, deep voice. Then it was my turn. As I launched into a slow, soulful song, the espresso machine whirred, and I smiled to myself. After all these years, here I was singing and playing at a coffee shop open mic again.

The acts that followed were varied, some professional, some painful to watch. We heard some Indian flute, bass and guitar, novelty songs with ukelele, a banjo-accordion duo, and lots of singer-guitar players. The crowd was supportive, often singing along, full of praise for every single performer.

I’m not really gigging anymore. I don’t have the energy to track down singing jobs or the patience to put up with noisy audiences and lug my gear by myself. But I do like to perform. So, I’ll go back. Maybe I’ll sit with Allen. Maybe I’ll introduce myself to someone else.

This is an aging crowd. Some have been performing since the 1960s while others have taken it up in retirement. It’s not like the open mics I attended in San Jose and San Francisco, full of young people hoping to be discovered. We know this is as far as it goes. Playing church music at St. Anthony’s fills my musical soul these days, but I do like to share my other songs.

Anyway, I did that. I returned home to my fourth load of laundry, a bed that needed sheets, and a ton of dirty dishes left from baking pumpkin bread. I let it all go and soaked in the hot tub, watching the clouds change formations and slowly fade from pink to gray to black on this first day of Pacific Standard Time. Nobody was waiting for me to make dinner, make the bed, finish the laundry, or even put my guitar away. I would get to it later.

Living alone isn’t all bad.

Café Chill, just north of Ray’s Market in Waldport, Oregon, hosts open mics every Sunday from 1-3 p.m. Just show up. The food is great.

For more about me and my guitars, read my 2024 poetry chapbook Blue Chip Stamp Guitar.

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Some women who live in my area have started a Facebook “friendship group” for women over 60 who want to meet new people and get together, not just online but in person. They have already scheduled a few events, including walks and lunches. I may not have time to be very active, but I signed up. I’ll let you know how it goes. Maybe it’s something you could do where you live. All it takes it one person saying, “Hey, want to get together?”

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It’s election day. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling tense. I don’t want to watch the results alone, even though we probably won’t know who wins for a few days. I pray that however it turns out, we Americans come together in peace and love.

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How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my new memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available now at your favorite bookseller. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.