Nearly empty now, her mother’s storage unit only held two cardboard boxes and an old leather suitcase. But memories of her mother lingered, hanging in the air, almost visible.

“Not much to show for the life of a seamstress,” Julie sighs.

The boxes, like many of the others are full of cloth, odds-and-ends, bits-and-pieces, multi-colors, the smell of mothballs and little else. Finally, Julie opens the suitcase, finding a costume jewelry-layered dress.

Julie lifts the dress, allowing it to glitter in the light. She then recalls the wadded up newspaper used for packing — and the headline: ‘Diamonds Stolen, Police Baffled.’

Two months and still she couldn’t figure out how she wanted her new apartment to look. Table here – or over there; her couch in the only place it would fit.

“At least I know where I want my artwork,” she told herself as she sat on the floor looking around the room. It was her first real home in years and she became determined to make it reflect her personality.

As she sat there, she dreamed and day-dreamed until it did reflect her personality. Without noticing, she slowly dissolved into her surroundings until she altogether vanished into her new apartment.

Once again we’re hearing stories about Universities having safe-spaces and crying rooms. I didn’t go to college, no, I joined the military for my ‘higher learning.’

“To each his (or her) own,” is how I figured it.

We didn’t have safe-spaces. In fact, we really didn’t have any sort of space we could call our own – not with Drill Instructors emptying drawers, dumping out foot lockers, tossing mattresses and bedding around the bay and screaming in our ears.

We did, however have a crying room, though we never once dared call it that. We only used it twice, but believe you me, that was more than enough.

No, we called our ‘crying room’ the gas chamber. And I remember doing fine both times, not one tear shed, that is until ordered to remove my mask and suck in a lung-full of ‘2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile a cyanocarbon,’ commonly called CS or tear gas.

There’s a reason there’s a saying painted on the far wall that reads, “Even the Brave Cry Here.” Let the tears commence – followed by violent gagging and in some cases, projectile vomiting.

No one said the married life was an easy life. Especially when you marry a woman who becomes a beast on the eve of a full-moon and then again on the new moon.

The hairy legs and arm pits are easy enough to live with. And believe me, her howling isn’t as bad as her bite.

Admittedly, there’s a bit of hound in me when she gets in one of her moods. I’ve been known to take advantage of the situation, if you care to know what I mean.

But I wish she’d clip her damned toe nails before bed.

Nearly eight years ago I wrote a short history about how the statue of President William McKinley came to grace the town square of Arcata, California. This was long before the idea that removing statues and other symbols, because they were somehow offensive, became a political tool, weaponized to rewrite U.S. history, both small-scale and large.

Recently, I became aware of how the City of Arcata has voted to remove the statue from the town square. One prominent group says this is the proper thing to do, pointing that McKinley instigated a ‘genocide in the Philippines’ in 1899.

We were at war with Spain at the time, so there is more to the story.  Afterwards, the U.S. established posts and bases in the chain of islands and we’ve maintained a presence there ever since.

It’s true that the U.S. has not always acted in the best interest of those it offers to support. This goes for those foreign lands we so-call ‘occupy,’ as well as those who live within the borders of our own nation.

But here’s the problem with expunging history based on political correctness: the human genome goes back to Africa and the Middle East. This means a complete expungement will return us all (if not you and me — than our coming generations) to this same point of origin. No one escapes the rewrite.

Too simplify this idea — if you are not Asian and insist on wearing pants, you are stealing from the Asian culture — which is ‘cultural misappropriation,’ and thus are to be expunged from ‘our’ history, which I’m sure you’ll agree is total B.S. None of this makes sense unless one breaks it down to beyond the P/C culture and realizes it is about ‘power,’ which in of itself is a politically incorrect act.

Remember what ever weapon’s called for today to destroy history and culture can and will eventually be used again at a later date. After all, it happened to Native American’s and now its ugly head has returned.

“You know,” Tabby said, “I really don’t mind living with my Human after all.”

Mishka responded without taking her eyes off the bird sitting on the nearby outside window sill, “Yeah, why’s that?”

“To start with, they feed us and we don’t have to work for our food like that dumb Dog does,” Tabby answered.

“Well,” Mishka stated, “I miss the hunt and if they ever leave the door or a window open, I’m gonna split this scene. Get myself some fresh meat.”

“I hear ya,” Tabby replied. “I’d also miss the entertainment factor.”

“Yeah, what entertainment is that?” Mishka asked, tail wagging furiously as she watched the bird tease her through the window.

“I mean, look at her, Mish!” Tabby demanded. “Years of yoga and she still can’t lick her own ass.”

“Point taken, Tabs,” Mishka came back, “And think how surprised she’ll be when she finally does.”

If cats could laugh, their Human would have been seriously shock. As it is, all the felines could do were purr loudly.

And in return their Human stupidly smiled at them as she attempted the ‘Eka Pada Sirsasana’ one more time.

“So, dad,” the boy started.

“Yeah?” the father answered.

“How did man first figure out that a cow tasted good cooked?”

“That’s an odd question, kiddo.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Really? You couldn’t ask me about why the grass is green or the sky is blue?”

“Oh, Dad, those are easy questions with easy answers.”

“So, you know why grass is green?”

‘Chlor…um…uh…how do you say that word?

“Chlorophyll?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“I’m very impressed!”

“So how did man figure out how good cow meat tastes when cooked?”

“Well, you know that nursery rhyme I used to tell you about the ‘cow that jumped over the moon?’”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s based on a true story.”

“Really?”

“Yup. What the nursery rhyme doesn’t say is what happens after the cow jumps over the moon.”

“Why?”

“Because it was bad. The cow burned up reentering Earth’s atmosphere. It was Neanderthal’s that found the cow and they ate some of it. That’s how we know eating cooked beef is okay.”

“Wow, Dad. You sure are smart. I can’t wait to tell my teacher.”

Flying. It’s jus’ not my thing anymore — at least commercially.

The prices are too high. You have to get to the airport much too early for your flight. And crowds, crowds, crowds.

Then there’s the long lines leading up to and through security. Take-off your belt, take-off your shoes, get wanded, pat-down and a full-body x-ray.

And lord help you if you fail to follow the rules about how much liquid your allowed or you have an old fashioned-shaver with an old-fashioned straight-edged razor blade in it. So many rules!

Once beyond the security check point, the food is too pricey. Restroom smell like — well, you know… And the seats are uncomfortable and the floors is even worse if you get stuck overnight in the facility.

But I had to take the flight. It was the only way I could get back home in time for the funeral and my family was expecting me.

There are times I’ve found when I must set aside my personal phobias, bite the bullet and do what must be done. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit next to a crazy lady and her so-called emotional support animal.

Worse than flying commercial these days is my fear of Great White sharks. I’ve seen ‘Jaws,’ and it doesn’t end well — at least not for everyone.

The inlet of water was deeper than it was wide, creating a darkness that looked as foreboding as its name of ‘Deadman.’ But neither the name or the shadow deterred Mason from his goal.

The boat was almost too small for both Mason and his cello as he rowed to the center of the inlet and dropped anchor. He waited for the sun to silently slip beneath the distant waves before he stood the cello up and began to play.

Mason was in his own world and didn’t at first notice the dozens of eyes that stared at him from the water, heads bobbing in the gentle surf. His audience, mermaids and mermen, could feel the vibrations of the music resonating from the bottom of the boat through the salty brine of the sea.

The longer and with greater spirit Mason played, the larger his audience grew and the closer they came. In fact, to his amazement several of the mythical creatures clung to the sides of the row-boat, listening and cooing in soft tones between one another.

Mason’s heart filled with delight and he played until dawn, the sun bursting from the eastern hillside, upon the open water. Finished, he laid his cello aside, stood and took a deep bow, awaiting his sea-bound listeners to heap their praises upon him.

His cello was unscathed.

“Happiness is an inside job,” goes the old saw. We think we know what makes us happy and we make time for those activities we believe fill our lives with happiness.

Yet if you keep yourself open to it, you may find happiness in some very surprising places. For me, it was as I did the dishes.

The warm water, the soapy suds, the quiet time at the sink together, placed me in a meditative state. It left me thinking about that days events, leading to the satisfaction of seeing clean dishes, stacked and ready for the next days use.