I experienced an early defining moment when I was a young twenty something reporter at The Rafu Shimpo in 1986.
I was familiar with the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena. It was where my ex, Stewart, taught some art classes in a conference room which overlooked a courtyard and a Chinese garden. I was amazed when Stewart first took me there. In the middle of a large boulevard in Pasadena …
I stood in front of the open storage unit, my hands on my hips. I felt like I was an Olympic athlete who had accomplished a marathon or swim relay race. All I had done was clear out a full container at EZ Storage. Well, almost cleared it out. There …
I found the e-mail for my client, Ryan Stone, and began typing him a message.
“Mom, we need to make some hurricane popcorn.”
I couldn’t believe it, but we could now see the back of the storage unit. Well, at least one corner. We had only five days to go before I had to completely empty it out.
“Do you think this Ryan Stone is a real person?” my daughter Sycamore asked me as we took a break from her Zoom class to make some no-knead bread. This was our fourth attempt at baking bread during the pandemic. So far our previous baking adventures were failures. I miscalculated …
My ten-year-old daughter, Sycamore, had officially become my wing woman. Or should I say wing girl. She was definitely my top—and well, only—assistant in terms of my cleaning business, Souji RS.
I only had seven days to get rid of everything in my client’s storage locker. So far, I had disposed of—no, preserved—some historic family photographs from World War II as well as given away vintage car parts to life-long friends who like to restore old vehicles. Next were dark green …
Now that all the miscellaneous orange packages were out of my client’s storage container, I saw something large wrapped in blue. I removed some red packages that were resting on top of it and place them in one corner of the container. The blue package was long and felt metallic.
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